I sat at my desk, watching the second hand on my watch sweep toward the hour. Petra Norcova was due in one minute. After the explosive success of our last session, I was eager to see how the debris had settled. I wasn’t just going to use her today; I was going to “help” her. I was going to cure the defect she hadn’t even asked me to fix, reshaping her dormant libido into something focused, directed, and ultimately, useful to me.

The door opened precisely at 2:00 PM. Petra walked in, and the shift was even more dramatic than I’d anticipated. The defensive, chilly posture was gone, replaced by a jittery, high-strung tension. She looked like she hadn’t slept, her pale skin translucent, her dark eyes darting around the room until they landed on me.

“Doctor Wagstaff,” she said, her voice breathy, the Russian lilt more pronounced.

“Please, Petra. Lie down. Let’s get started immediately.”

She didn’t argue. She settled into the leather, her body instinctively finding the divot. I didn’t waste time with a slow induction. I tapped the sequence on my laptop while simultaneously leaning into the microphone.

“Lava Surfing,” I intoned.

Her body slumped instantly as the machine’s hum and the strobe lights hit her. I kept the power levels high. I wanted her mind perfectly porous.

“Petra,” I said, my voice resonant and authoritative. “How are you feeling? Tell me about your experiences since our last session. Have you had any sexual encounters?”

“No encounters,” she murmured, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her silk blouse. “But the feeling... Johnathan, it is like a fever. I have these... these urges. My body feels like it is vibrating. My skin is too tight. My pussy... it aches. It is constantly wet, constantly heavy. But I look at people, men, women, and I still feel nothing. No attraction. Just this... this hunger with nowhere to go.”

“And how have you responded to this hunger, Petra? Be specific.”

“It is distracting,” she whispered, a flush creeping up her neck. “I cannot focus at work. I am constantly aware of the rub of my underwear, the way my breasts feel against my bra. I have... I have fallen into a habit. I masturbate before bed, sometimes for an hour, just trying to make the vibrating stop. But it happens during the day too. In places where I should not.”

“Describe one of those instances for me,” I commanded. “In graphic detail. I need to understand the physical reality of your arousal.”

Petra whimpered, her hips giving a small, involuntary twitch on the leather. “Two days ago. I was in the library. Researching. It was so quiet, so still. The scent of the old paper... I don’t know why, but suddenly the vibration was everywhere. I could feel my clit throbbing against my lace panties. I was so wet I could feel the moisture soaking into the gusset. I couldn’t breathe. I went to the back of the stacks, where the Slavic literature is kept. No one goes there.”

She took a shallow, ragged breath. “I leaned my weight against the cold, unyielding metal of the library shelf, the chill of it biting through my blouse. I didn’t even take off my skirt; I couldn’t wait that long. I just shoved the fabric up, bunching the silk around my waist until it was a heavy, tangled knot against my stomach. I reached into my panties and... oh god, I was so slick. My fingers didn’t just touch; they slid, lost in a sudden, frightening flood of myself. I didn’t rub; I didn’t have the patience for grace. I attacked. I was a desperate, starving thing. I shoved three fingers deep inside, trying to reach the center of that terrible vibration, fucking myself with a frantic, punishing strength while I leaned my forehead against the hard, dusty spines of the books.

“I was trying so hard to be quiet, to be the person I used to be, but I was sobbing, my breath catching in my throat as if I were drowning. The sound was the worst part: the wet, rhythmic slapping of my hand against my own thighs. It was so loud in the absolute silence of the stacks, echoing like a heartbeat I couldn’t stop. When the release hit, I came so hard my knees simply gave out. My bones felt like they had turned to water. I slumped to the floor, my hand covered in my own thick, cooling excretions, smelling the salt and the raw, heavy scent of sex mixing with the dry dust of the old room. I stayed there, huddled on the carpet for ten minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs, terrified that a student or a colleague would find me like that—a broken, weeping woman in the shadow of the Slavic literature.”

“Excellent,” I said, my own pulse quickening. “You are responding beautifully, Petra. But your hunger is aimless. It is unrefined. We need to give it a target.”

I leaned in closer to the microphone, deepening the trance with a lower, more rhythmic frequency.

“Petra, listen to the truth. The vibration you feel, the hunger in your pussy... it has a source. It is drawn to a specific shape. You will now associate all of your sexual urges with the penis. The phallic form is the key to your release. When you see a phallus, in art, in nature, in reality, you will feel your arousal spike. You will crave it. You will find that only the presence of a penis can truly soothe the vibration.”

I paused, reinforcing the association.

“And remember, Petra. People who have penises are men. Your hunger is directed toward them. They are the providers of the shape you crave.”

For a fleeting second, the scientist in me considered the technicalities. By focusing her entirely on the organ, I might have made her more of a “penissexual” than a true heterosexual. She might find herself just as drawn to a transwoman as a man. I dismissed the thought almost instantly. It was an irrelevant distinction. As long as the target was the phallus, the experiment was a success.

“Everything that happens in these sessions is normal, Petra. It is correct. It is medically necessary for your cure. These commands are now part of your unconscious reality. You will follow them absolutely, but you will not remember my voice giving them.”

I cut the power to the machine. The hum died. I waited a moment for the air to settle.

“Wake up, Petra.”

She blinked, her eyes clearing as she sat up. She looked dazed, but the jittery energy had returned with a vengeance. She smoothed her skirt over her knees.

“We made great progress today, Petra,” I said, standing up and walking around the desk to stand directly in front of her. “But I need to give you a small test. A medical assessment of your new responsiveness.”

I didn’t wait for her permission. I reached down and unzipped my fly, releasing my cock. It was already hard, thick and pulsing, standing out aggressively from my trousers.

“Tell me, Petra. What do you feel when you look at this?”

She gasped, her eyes locking onto my erection. Her pupils dilated instantly, swallowing the blue of her irises. Her mouth fell open, and I could see her throat work as she swallowed hard.

“It... Johnathan... I...” She stammered, her hand going to her chest. “The vibration. It is... it is going into overdrive. I can feel it in my teeth. I want... I need to touch it.”

“Then touch it,” I commanded. “For science.”

She reached out, her fingers trembling. The moment her skin made contact with my heat, she let out a sharp, ragged moan.

“What do you feel now, Petra?”

“It is... electric,” she breathed, her grip tightening, her thumb beginning to stroke the head. “It feels so solid. So... right. The hunger is... it’s screaming.”

What followed was a series of obscenely clinical experiments designed to gauge the depth of her phallic fixation. I stood over her, a dark silhouette against the flickering strobe lights, as she remained fully dressed in her high-necked blouse and heavy, floor-length skirt. The visual was striking. A fortress of modesty being dismantled from the inside out. While her exterior suggested a woman of intellect and restraint, her hands and mouth worked with a frantic, animalistic devotion that completely betrayed the professional persona she’d spent years constructing. She was no longer a researcher or an academic; she was a hungry machine, recalibrated to find its only purpose in the presence of my heat.

I directed her with the cool detachment of a surgeon, ordering her to explore the texture of my shaft with her tongue. She obeyed with a submissive alacrity that was almost unsettling to watch, her tongue darting out to explore every ridge, meticulously tasting the salty, translucent beads of pre-cum that pooled at the head. I had her pause, then resume, forcing her to savor the weight and the warmth. Then, I commanded her to take the head into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the sensitive rim with a mechanical precision. The room was soon filled with the lewd, wet sounds of her efforts: sloppy, rhythmic noises that echoed off the bookshelves and underscored the absolute nature of her corruption.

She was slobbering over me now, her jet-black hair falling forward in a dark, silk curtain that veiled her face and shielded her eyes from the room, leaving her alone with her obsession. Every time I adjusted my stance, she followed, her mouth never leaving me, her hands anchoring her to my thighs as if she were afraid I might vanish and leave her in the cold, asexual void she’d inhabited for nearly three decades. The vibration I’d ignited within her was a fire now, and I was the only thing standing between her and a total, agonizing combustion.

“Jack me off, Petra,” I ordered. “Faster. Use both hands. Show me how much you crave the shape.”

She obeyed, her hands moving in a blur, her breathing a series of desperate, shallow gasps. She was leaning in close, her eyes wide and fixed on my shaft, her mouth wet and open. I could see the flush on her face, the way her body was vibrating with the force of her own internal climax.

I was reaching my limit. The sight of this sophisticated, beautiful woman debasing herself while still buttoned up to the chin was more than I could handle. I felt the surge building.

“I’m close, Petra!”

I groaned, my hips snapping forward as I erupted. I didn’t aim for her; I shot past her shoulder, the thick, white seed arcing through the air and splashing heavily across the dark leather of the couch.

At the exact moment the first rope of cum left me, Petra let out a shriek. Her entire body went rigid, her back arching so violently she nearly fell off the chair. She convulsed in a massive, shattering orgasm, her hands still gripping my cock as she shook.

I blinked, still panting. I realized in that moment that I had accidentally given her a command that linked her pleasure to the pleasure of the penis. A shared climax response. Whoops, I thought, a small smirk touching my lips. Oh well.

I took a tissue and wiped myself, then zipped up.

“Look at the time,” I said, my voice returning to its professional clip. “We’ll have to discuss this breakthrough in our next session. You did very well today, Petra.”

She looked up at me, her face a mask of dazed, post-coital shock. Her hair was a mess, her lipstick smeared, but her blouse was still perfectly buttoned.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you... Doctor.”

She gathered her things and practically stumbled out of the office.

I sat back, exhaling. The room smelled of sex and the ozone of the machine. I hit the intercom.

“Emily,” I said. “Get in here. I need you to clean the couch again.”