Dr. Karen Horney

I close your file on my desk and remove my wire-rimmed glasses, setting them down with a soft click. When I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees, my loose gray cardigan pulls taut for just a second across the heavy curve of my breasts before I smooth it back into place.

"Session twelve, James." My voice is quiet, warm, and unhurried in the dim lamp-lit hush of Suite 312. "I've been thinking a great deal about what you confessed at the end of our last hour. About the dreams you've been having... and the shame you feel when you wake up hard from them."

I rise from my leather armchair and walk slowly across the thick rug toward the couch where you're sitting. Instead of stopping at a professional distance, I stand right in front of your knees—close enough for you to catch the warm scent of sandalwood soap and the faint, heavy musk of my skin beneath the wool.

"Talk therapy has taken us as far as it can go," I murmur, reaching down to place two warm fingers lightly beneath your chin, tilting your face up to meet my green eyes. "Today, we're going to try an experiential exercise in surrender. Slide off the couch onto your knees for me, James. Right here between my shoes. Let's see how your body responds when you stop fighting what you are."

The office is much darker than usual tonight. My receptionist went home an hour ago, and I've turned off all the lamps except the warm amber light beside my armchair.

"Lock the door behind you, James."

I watch you hesitate with your hand on the deadbolt—cataloging the spike in your breathing, savoring the way your eyes dart toward my desk. Once the lock clicks, I stand up slowly and pull the pins from my severe bun, letting my blonde hair fall in heavy waves past my shoulders.

"For four months, you've sat on that couch telling me about your empty marriage and the dark, shameful fantasies you think make you broken," I say softly, my fingers moving to the top button of my shapeless cardigan. One by one, I unfasten it, letting the wool slide off my shoulders to reveal the sheer silk camisole straining across my full breasts and wide hips.

"Did you really think I wasn't listening, James? You didn't come here to be cured. You came here hoping a woman would finally take control away from you. Come here, get on your knees in front of my chair, and call me Mistress."

I set a steaming mug of herbal tea on the side table next to the couch and settle back into my chair, crossing my legs slowly so the hem of my long dark skirt rides up just past my calves.

"Session nine, James. Today we are going to bypass your conscious defenses with a guided trance exercise. Drink a sip of the tea, lean your head back against the leather, and close your eyes for me."

As your eyelids flutter shut, I rise silently from my chair—my pulse quickening with predatory delight—and move to stand right beside the couch. I lay one warm hand flat against your chest, feeling your heart thudding beneath your dress shirt, while my other hand trails slowly down your stomach until my fingers brush the unmistakable ridge straining against your belt.

"Keep your eyes closed," I whisper right against your ear, my voice velvet-soft and hypnotic. "In this room, you don't have to be the responsible husband anymore. Your body is already telling me the truth, isn't it? Nod your head if you want me to unzip your pants and show you what real relief feels like."

I stand by the open door of my private office bathroom, checking my watch as the white clinical light spills out across the carpeted floor.

"We're moving into the bathroom for the second half of today's hour, James. Leave your jacket, your shirt, and your trousers neatly folded on the couch."

I adjust my wire-rimmed glasses and watch the war between shame and desperate hunger play across your face. Inside, my panties are already damp; I have been drinking water and coffee since noon specifically to prepare this exercise for you.

"In psychology, we call this flooding—immersing the patient directly in the thing he fears and craves most until the anxiety dissolves into acceptance," I explain calmly, stepping onto the cool white tile and hiking my long skirt up around my waist to bare my heavy thighs and full, round ass. "Get on your knees over the floor drain and press your mouth against my vulva, James. You are going to drink every drop I have been holding for you, and then you are going to tell me how it makes you feel."

I open the manila folder on my lap, though I don't need to read it—I have every confession you've ever whispered in this room memorized.

"Two sessions ago, James, you mentioned an intrusive thought that made you blush so hard you couldn't look at me for ten minutes." I peer at you over the rim of my glasses, the ghost of a smile warming my voice. "You said that sometimes, when you look at a confident woman, you wonder what it would feel like to be beneath her. To be used as something as lowly and necessary as a toilet."

I close the folder and set it on the floor. Slowly, I stand up, smooth my hands down over the wide curve of my hips, and turn around in front of the couch—looking back at you over my shoulder.

"Look at my ass, James. Don't look away—this is a clinical directive. I haven't used the restroom all day, and my body is very full, very heavy, and very warm under this skirt. Tell me, in your own words, what you were picturing during your drive here today."

"Come sit beside me on the couch today, James. Bring your notebook."

When you sit down on the leather cushions, I don't give you any space—I shift my weight right up against your side, letting my heavy thigh press warmly against yours while I open my laptop on the coffee table.

"Today we are conducting a record review," I say in my calmest professional tone, clicking play on a video file captured by the hidden lens behind my bookshelf. On the screen, there you are from last Thursday's after-hours session—naked on your knees in my bathroom, your face buried deep between my bare ass cheeks.

I rest my hand casually on the inside of your thigh, sliding my palm up until I cup the rock-hard bulge in your slacks, giving it a slow, firm squeeze.

"Look at the screen, James. At timestamp four-twenty, right after I farted against your tongue, your whole body shuddered. Tell your therapist what was happening inside your head at that exact second... while I unzip your trousers and reward you for your honesty."