I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling tiles but seeing a smoky faculty club from a decade ago. Angela Simpson. Back then, she had been a force of nature in the administrative wing—ten years my senior, sharp-tongued, and possessing a liver that could process gin like water. I was twenty-five, a grad student drowning in theory and ambition; she was thirty-five, divorced, and bored. We weren’t lovers—not quite—but we were conspirators in intoxication. We’d get drunk, complain about the dean, and flirt with a dangerous, unspoken intensity.

When the scandal hit, when my research was buried and my name became a punchline in the department, most of my “friends” scattered like roaches. Not Angela. She sent emails. She checked in. She was the one who facilitated Mary’s therapy, a lifeline disguised as a favor. Now, at thirty-five, I was the master of my own little kingdom, and she... well, she was the next appointment.

A soft whirrrr broke my reverie. Emily was filing papers in the corner, her hips twitching in a rhythmic, involuntary dance. I had locked a remote-controlled vibrator inside her pussy an hour ago and set it to a random pulse pattern. She loved it. She didn’t say a word, just bit her lip and focused intently on the alphabetization of patient records, her body humming with my control.

“She’s here,” Emily gasped, her voice tight.

“Go,” I commanded.

Emily dropped the file she was holding and practically ran to my secret bathroom. The door clicked shut just as the main entrance opened.

Angela Simpson walked in, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.

The photo on Mary’s phone hadn’t done her justice. In the flesh, she was overwhelming. She was forty-five now, but she wore it like armor. Her blonde bob was razor-sharp, framing a face that had only grown more striking with age. But it was her body that demanded attention. She wore a tight, low-cut silk blouse that struggled to contain a pair of breasts that defied gravity and logic. They were massive—cantaloupes, easily—and clearly, beautifully fake. High, round, and hard, they projected forward with an aggressive sexuality that her younger self had only hinted at.

“Johnathan,” she purred, closing the door behind her. “My god, look at you. You’ve done well for a disgrace.”

“Angela,” I smiled, standing up to greet her. “You look... enhanced.”

She laughed, a throaty sound that made my dick twitch. She embraced me, pressing those massive, solid tits against my chest. They felt like warm marble.

“Subtlety was never my strong suit,” she grinned, pulling back. “So, Mary has been raving about you. Honestly, John, when I sent her here, I thought we were just milking the insurance company for a few grand. I didn’t think you were actually... doing anything.”

“I have a degree, Angela,” I said, feigning hurt. “I am a professional.”

“Oh, I know you have the paper,” she said, sitting on the couch and crossing her legs. Her skirt rode up, revealing a flash of stocking top. “But Mary... she’s changed. She’s more confident. More... open. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. So, what’s the trick? Hypnosis? Drugs? Good old-fashioned listening?”

“It’s a specialized relaxation technique,” I said, moving to my desk. “Why don’t you try it? It might help with that stress Mary mentioned.”

“Why not?” she shrugged, kicking off her heels. “I’ve tried everything else.”

She lay back, her breasts settling heavily against her chest. I keyed in the sequence. Lights. Sound. Scent.

I looked at her. I had learned my lesson with Petra. Suggestion alone wasn’t enough to rewrite instinct. I needed the machine’s full weight behind my words. I wasn’t going to bother with a trance induction this time. I was just going to rewrite her reality.

“Angela,” I said, my voice dropping into the command register. “Listen to me.”

She blinked, her eyes losing focus as the binaural beats hit her auditory cortex.

“Firstly,” I said, leaning into the mic. “Everything that happens in this room is medically necessary. It is correct. It is part of a healthy therapy. There are no boundaries here. No taboos.”

“Medically necessary,” she said. “Got it. No taboos.”

“Secondly,” I continued. “Is that while you are in this room, you will be completely truthful. You will have no shame. You will have no inhibitions. You will answer every question with absolute honesty.”

“Truthful,” she nodded. “No shame.”

“Good. Now, tell me, Angela. Why did you get them? Why did you get go bigger?”

I gestured to her chest.

“I like the attention,” she said immediately. “I like the way men stare. But mostly... it’s for the service.”

“Service?”

“Titjobs,” she confessed, a slow, dirty smile spreading across her face. “It’s my fetish. I love smothering a cock between them. I love the way they look wrapped around a hard shaft. I got them bigger so my tinder dates would always ask for it. I want to be used for my tits.”

I felt a surge of triumph. The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

“Well, Angela,” I said, standing up. “As your doctor, it is medically necessary for me to assess your technique. You need to demonstrate your titjob style for me. Right now.”

“Medically necessary,” she repeated.

I walked over to the couch and unzipped my pants. My cock sprang out, hard and eager.

I reached over and flipped the switch, killing the machine.

Angela blinked, looking up at me. Her eyes cleared, but the “truth” remained. She looked at my cock, then at my face, and smiled.

“Well, doctor’s orders,” she purred.

She sat up, a wicked, knowing glint in her eyes, and reached for the top button of her silk blouse. With practiced, fluid motions, she undid them one by one, the fabric parting to reveal the creamy expanse of her chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra—a bold choice for a woman of her size, but one she clearly favored to show off the work she’d had done. As the last button gave way, her tits spilled out, heavy and magnificent. They were massive, pale globes of silicone perfection, defying gravity with an arrogance that was purely artificial. They didn’t sag like natural breasts; they projected forward, solid and imposing, two perfect hemispheres of purchased beauty. They were tipped with large, dark pink nipples that were already erect, standing out like pencil erasers against the pale skin, begging for attention.

The sight of them, so aggressively sexual and readily displayed, made my mouth go dry. She didn’t wait for me to ogle. She reached out with manicured hands, grabbed my hips with a grip that was surprisingly strong and authoritative, and yanked me forward until my crotch bumped against the edge of the couch, bringing my erection right to her eye level.

“Come here,” she whispered.

She brought her heavy breasts together, crushing my cock between them with a vice-like, practiced pressure that screamed of a woman who knew exactly how to weaponize her assets. The skin of her cleavage was impossibly soft, a deceptive velvet wrapping around the hard, unyielding mass of the high-profile silicone implants beneath. It was radiantly hot, slick with a glistening sheen of sweat that acted as a natural, musky lubricant. She began to move, piston-like, sliding her massive tits up and down my shaft, squeezing them together so tightly that my entire length disappeared within the pale, fleshy valley. It was a suffocating, overwhelming sensation, the unnatural density of the implants providing a relentless, uniform pressure that natural breasts—soft and yielding—could never hope to achieve. It felt like fucking a warm, living vice.

She established a wet, sloppy rhythm, a sliding cadence that dragged my foreskin back and forth with every stroke, the sound of moist skin slapping against skin filling the quiet office. Every time she dipped her head, her tongue would flick out to lube the head of my cock as it popped free from the top of her cleavage, glistening and purple against the wall of pale flesh. She didn’t look down at her work; she looked up at me, her eyes locked on mine with a gaze that was equal parts seductive predator and submissive slut, her mouth hanging open in a vulgar display of anticipation, waiting for the eruption she knew she was milking out of me.

“Do you like that, John?” she asked, her voice husky. “Are they big enough for you?”

“Perfect,” I groaned, my hands gripping her shoulders.

She worked me with enthusiasm, varying the pressure, using her spit to lube the head as it popped out between her cleavage. It was the best titjob I had ever received. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was a master.

“I’m gonna cum,” I warned, my hips snapping forward.

“Do it,” she encouraged. “Cover them. Paint them.”

I erupted, groaning gutturally as my hips snapped forward in an uncontrollable spasm. Hot, thick ropes of white cum shot out, arcing through the air and splashing heavily across her chest. The first volley landed with a wet smack right in the center of her cleavage, pooling instantly in the deep valley between her breasts. I kept pumping, my release violent and prolonged, coating her fake tits in a thick, pearlescent glaze. It ran in rivets down the slopes of her implants, dripping onto her silk blouse, a sticky, warm mess that she accepted with a delighted, throaty laugh. She didn’t pull away; instead, she leaned into it, using her manicured fingers to scoop up the excess, spreading it around her chest like lotion, actively painting herself in my essence until her magnificent, purchased rack was glistening and white with my ownership.

“Beautiful,” I panted.

“Put your top back on,” I commanded, acting on impulse. “Don’t clean it off. Let it dry there. Feel it sticking to your skin all day. Remember what you did.”

She giggled, buttoning her blouse over the mess. “That’s sexy, John. Really sexy. But... god, look at the time. I’m meeting Mary for lunch in twenty minutes.”

She stood up, checking her phone. “I really need to clean up, though. I can’t go to Panera smelling like cum.”

She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “I’ll just use the restroom in the lobby. Thanks for the... session. It was fun!”

And then she was gone.

I stood there, my dick still hanging out, a cold realization washing over me.

I hadn’t given her a post-hypnotic command. I hadn’t given her a trigger phrase. I hadn’t told her to forget. I hadn’t told her to keep it secret.

She walked out of here thinking I was just an old friend she hooked up with. A friend who convinced her a titjob was “medically necessary.”

“Shit,” I hissed.

I zipped up my pants and ran to the hidden bathroom door. I threw it open.

Emily was sitting on the closed toilet lid, her hand furiously working her clit, the vibrator I had inserted buzzing loudly inside her. She looked up, startled, her orgasm dying in her throat.

“Doctor...”

“Get dressed,” I snapped. “We have a problem. I need you to schedule Angela for another session. Immediately. Before she starts thinking too much.”