Morgan’s skepticism weighed heavily as she parked her car. Hypnotherapy? It’s all nonsense, she thought. Just suggestion, nothing real. It couldn’t actually work for her. 

 

She shifted her car into park, letting out a deep sigh. But what choice did she have? Her mind was a mess—constant existential dread, no clear direction, no motivation to change anything. By 25, she had imagined she'd have it figured out, or at least be doing something meaningful. I'm so tired of working at that stupid clothing store, she thought. She didn’t even like fashion for that matter, but a job was a job.

 

She had stumbled across the hypnotherapist’s profile during a late-night scroll, the glowing testimonials practically jumping off the screen. People raved about how much their lives had changed—confidence restored, anxiety diminished, and a renewed sense of purpose. It sounded like a miracle, though Morgan wasn’t easily swayed. Still, what did she have to lose? Everything in her life felt stagnant, a dull monotony she couldn’t shake. Maybe this was the nudge she needed.

 

Her mother had suggested hypnotherapy more than once, slipping it casually into conversations. “You know, it could really help you, Morgan. Some people say it’s life-changing,” she’d say, often after Morgan vented about her dissatisfaction or how lost she felt. At the time, Morgan had brushed it off, dismissing it as just another one of her mother’s suggestions she was never in the mood to entertain.

 

With a deep breath, she stepped out of her car, the metallic click of the silver door shutting behind her punctuating the quiet afternoon. The air was warm, a gentle breeze sweeping through the parking lot as she paused to gather her thoughts. She smoothed her flowing brown hair, which had been whipped into her face, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. The building in front of her was modest, unassuming, almost like any other doctor’s office.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a gold plaque mounted beside the entrance:   Dr. Olivia Avery, Registered Hypnotherapist. A smirk tugged at her lips. They have a registration board for kooks? she mused, stifling a quiet laugh. The thought lightened her mood, if only for a moment, as she reached for the door handle.

 

She stepped inside, immediately greeted by a sterile, all-white reception area. The walls, the chairs, all an unbroken expanse of white. A large, gleaming desk dominated the space, with a narrow corridor extending off to the side. It felt more like a lab than a place for healing. Have they heard of colour? she thought dryly, her eyes scanning the bare walls for even a hint of colour. The atmosphere was almost too pristine.

 

Morgan frowned as she took in the empty reception area. Strange, she thought, glancing around the room. Where is everyone? The stillness of the place only heightened her unease. She hesitated for a moment, then made her way to the large reception desk.

 

There was a small gold bell perched on the desk, looking out of place against the smooth white surface. She tapped it lightly, the soft ring cutting through the quiet,  her eyes darting toward the empty corridor as she waited.

 

She waited, but nothing happened. The silence stretched, and with a sigh of frustration, Morgan turned on her heels, ready to leave. As she reached for the door, the sound of stilettos clicking against the wooden floor echoed down the hallway. She froze, her hand hovering over the handle.

 

Finally, she thought, relief mixed with curiosity. The clacking grew louder, rhythmic and precise, as if each step was carefully measured. Morgan turned back toward the corridor, her gaze fixed on the direction of the approaching footsteps, unsure of what—or who—to expect.

 

Around the corner appeared a woman who seemed like a vision straight from a male fantasy. She wore a loose, long-sleeve white satin shirt that flowed effortlessly with her movements, the lustrous fabric catching the light and casting a soft, shimmering glow. The shirt hung relaxed and draped, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of a delicate black lace bra beneath. With each step, the sheer fabric parted slightly, offering tantalising glimpses that caught Morgan’s attention.

 

Around the woman’s waist, a black leather pleated skirt swayed alluringly with each step. At her neck, a black leather choker, its bold, BDSM-inspired design tightly fastened around her throat.

 

This is ridiculous, Morgan thought, barely suppressing a smirk. Who shows up to work dressed like that? It’s as if I’ve walked into some male fantasy where all the secretaries wear miniskirts and heels just to impress their boss. It’s like the feminist movement never reached here. Morgan cringed at the idea, I’d never be caught dead wearing something like that—at work or anywhere else. And that choker? Just thinking about wearing a tight piece of leather around my neck makes me ill.

 

While caught in her thought bubble, the woman flashed a bright, almost overly enthusiastic smile as she approached Morgan. Her voice was upbeat, with a tone that bordered on the overly cheerful. "Are you here for an appointment with Dr. Avery?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with an air of practiced friendliness. The woman’s smile and voice felt rehearsed, as if she had been meticulously trained to present this overly cheerful persona. Yes, Morgan responded hesitantly. The woman smiled again, and asked for her name. Morgan responded, and the woman responded, “Oh yes, Morgan, we’ve been expecting you”. Please take a seat while I let Doctor Avery know you have arrived. She robotically smiled at Morgan before turning and walking down the hallway.

 

Morgan watched the woman glide down the hallway, unable to look away from the way her skirt moved with each step. The pleats of the black skirt swayed rhythmically, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next. 

 

The woman returned after a short while, a plastic cup in her hands. With a polished smile, she announced, "Dr. Avery will see you soon. First, she would like you to enjoy this relaxing beverage before the session to help you unwind."

 

She extended the cup toward Morgan, who noticed that it contained a pale, slightly opaque liquid that looked like some sort of juice. The woman’s smile remained as she waited for Morgan to take the cup. Morgan took the cup, and as she sipped the drink, and she did, she couldn’t help but observe the woman’s posture—standing with her hands clasped behind her back, chest subtly thrust forward. The sheer fabric of her shirt left little to the imagination, revealing the black bra beneath.

 

Strange, Morgan thought.

 

The drink itself was surprisingly nourishing and quite tasty, a subtle sweetness that eased some of her initial tension. After Morgan finished, the woman took the cup from her, disposing of it with practiced efficiency before sitting down behind the reception desk. As the minutes ticked by, Morgan began to feel an overwhelming sense of drowsiness. The room seemed to blur around the edges, and she found herself fighting the urge to succumb to a deep, almost irresistible sleep. “Control yourself”, she told herself sternly, her mind struggling to stay alert.

 

Morgan glanced over at the woman behind the desk, who now watched her with an unnervingly calm gaze. The woman’s eyes were steady, devoid of any warmth, creating an eerie sense of unease. She stood up and moved to sit beside Morgan. As she placed a hand provocatively on Morgan's inner thigh, Morgan felt the warmth of her palm through the fabric of her jeans, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine. “You’re feeling quite relaxed now, aren’t you, Morgan?” she said, her voice smooth and soothing but carrying an undercurrent of something more sinister.

 

Morgan, struggling to keep her eyes open, nodded weakly, her head feeling heavy and her thoughts becoming increasingly muddled. The woman’s tone was gentle yet firm. “I think it’s best you sleep now,” she said softly. The command felt like it was wrapping around Morgan’s mind, making it harder for her to resist.

 

With an effortless ease, the woman guided Morgan down onto the plush, white waiting couch, her grip firm yet gentle as she subtly asserted control. The plush surface felt oddly comforting beneath her, even as her senses dulled. “Shhh, soon you’ll be happy just like the rest of us,” the woman cooed, her voice laced with a false sweetness. The words seemed to float in and out of Morgan’s consciousness, her struggle to remain awake fading with each passing moment. 

 

Despite her growing drowsiness, Morgan tried to resist, her mind fogged but still fighting against the encroaching haze. She attempted to shift her limbs, to pull away from the comfortable but confining couch. The woman, moving with calm authority, produced a set of black leather cuffs. As she fastened them around Morgan’s wrists and ankles, the leather felt cool and unyielding against Morgan’s skin. Each buckle clicked into place with a finality that sent a jolt of fear through her. She tried to tug against the cuffs, her efforts weak and ineffective, her limbs restrained firmly. 

 

As Morgan's vision wavered and her consciousness drifted into a foggy haze, she caught a glimpse of a striking figure making her way down the hallway. The woman approaching was dressed in a sleek, red dress that hugged her curves with an almost predatory grace. The dress was cut to accentuate her silhouette, and her stiletto heels clicked sharply on the polished wooden floor, each step resonating with an air of command that sharply contrasted with the sterile, clinical environment of the office. When she reached the receptionist, her posture subtly shifted, becoming even more submissive. Her shoulders pulled back, thrusting her chest out as if to present herself in a way that reflected her compliance and submission. 

 

As Morgan's mind struggled to clear the fog, she realised that the striking woman in red was Dr. Avery. Leaning in, Dr. Avery delicately yet possessively traced the leather collar around the receptionist's neck. The touch was a blend of softness and authority, conveying a sense of control wrapped in a twisted affection. “Such a good girl for me Taylor, so obedient,” she murmured, her voice silky and laced with a mix of praise and command.

 

She then turned her gaze to Morgan, a dark satisfaction in her eyes. “Remember when you were like her?” she said genusting towards Morgan.]. As she caressed the collar around the desk attendant’s neck, she continued, “And now look at you. You’re mine now, collared, submissive and docile for me".

 

With a practiced, almost ritualistic grace, the woman reached into the Taylor’s seductively unbuttoned satin shirt. Her fingers slid into the lace of the black bra, making contact with her breast. The touch was deliberate and tender, a blend of assertiveness and intimacy that conveyed a commanding presence. Taylor’s reaction was immediate. She leaned into the contact, her posture becoming even more pliant and yielding. A soft moan escaped her lips.

 

With an assertive hand, the woman dominantly lifted her pleated skirt, exposing her further. The black fabric, with its sharp pleats, swished upward with a fluid motion, revealing her soaked lace underwear. 

 

“Recite your mantra and I’ll let you cum, slave” the woman said, her voice a blend of command and expectation.

 

Immediately, the Taylor began chanting her mantra of obedience. Her voice was soft yet rhythmic, intoning the words with an almost trance-like repetition:

 

“I am submissive and obedient to my Mistress. Mistress Avery owns me completely.”

 

The mantra flowed from her lips with a hypnotic cadence, each repetition reinforcing her compliance and surrender.

 

“Good slave. Cum for your Mistress”.

 

As Morgan's consciousness faded, the sounds of ecstasy reached her ears. Moans and gasps filled the air. The noises grew louder as she slipped into darkness.