I stood in the parking lot, the late afternoon sun casting long, clinical shadows across the asphalt. Emily stood before me, her usual professional mask slightly cracked. She had just received a call from the police reporting a break-in at her condo. She needed to leave immediately. I felt a strange, paternal affection for her. She had become the perfect disciple of my experiment.

“Go, Emily,” I told her, my voice gentle but firm. “Do anything you need to do. I am sad you will miss the crowning achievement with Mary, but your security is paramount.”

She thanked me and hurried to her car. I watched her drive away, then turned and headed back inside. The office felt remarkably still. Today was the day I would finally sample the fruit I had spent weeks cultivating.

I sat at my desk and pulled up Mary’s file. I thought back to our very first session. I remembered the rush of triumph I felt when I convinced her to lift her skirt and show me her pussy for the first time. It was a simple, base victory, yet it was the foundation for everything that followed.

I praised myself for my restraint. I had used all my other subjects for my own release, but Mary remained my untouchable masterpiece. I had layered embedded trances and trigger phrases onto the others, but Mary was different. She had been sculpted into a slut solely through the direct, imprinted truths of the machine. Her reality was my design.

A knock at the door signaled her arrival. Mary walked in and my pulse quickened. She wore a tiny, loose crop top that stopped well above her navel, revealing a generous amount of underboob. She wore no bra. Beneath the shirt, the outlines of her silver nipple barbells were sharp and distinct. Her cycling shorts were ultra-tight, leaving nothing to the imagination and making it clear she was not wearing panties. The silver stud in her clitoral hood was imprinted through the fabric.

“Hi, Doctor W,” she chirped, settling into the guest chair.

“Hello, Mary. Give me an update. How have things been with Amy?”

Mary grinned, a wicked, playful look. “Oh, we had the best playdate a few days ago. I made her live as a planter. I had her sit upside down against the wall, totally exposed. I inserted heavy water glasses into her pussy and her ass.

“I put fresh lilies and water in them, turning her into a living centerpiece. She had to stay perfectly still to keep the water from spilling. Her muscles strained to balance the weight while the flowers tickled her skin. If she tilted even an inch, the water would soak the rug and she would fail her task.”

I leaned back, fascinated by the evolution of her creativity.

“I spent the evening trying to distract her,” Mary continued. “First, I ate a very ripe, messy peach right over her face. I let the sticky juice drip down onto her nose and lips while she struggled not to move. I made sure the thick pulp brushed against her cheeks, watching the syrup pool in her collarbone. She was terrified of getting a drop on the floor, and her eyes followed the fruit with a desperate, wide-eyed focus.

“Then, I took some ice cubes and slowly traced them along the sensitive skin of her hairy inner thighs, right where the cold would make her muscles twitch. The water ran in cold rivulets toward her crotch, making her shiver as she fought to maintain her balance. I watched her teeth chatter while her whole body vibrated with the effort to remain a rigid object.

“After that, I used a peacock feather to tickle the soles of her feet. She was whimpering and shaking, trying so hard to be a good piece of furniture. The involuntary jerks of her toes made the water in the glasses slosh close to the rim. I kept whispering that if she spilled a single drop, she would have to start her training from the beginning and that if she spilled she wasn’t good fuckmeat.”

As Mary began to describe a fourth method of torment, I held up a hand. “That is enough for the update, Mary. I want to get on with our business. I want to put you in the relaxation machine to begin.”

I gestured toward the couch. As I stood up, Mary’s eyes dropped to my crotch. A slow, flirtatious smile spread across her face.

“Is that a medical emergency in your pants, Doctor W?” she teased. “It looks like you’re under a lot of pressure.”

She stood up and walked toward me before I could respond. She reached out and unzipped my slacks with a practiced flick of her wrist.

“Do you want to use this slut mouth for some relief?” she asked, her voice dropping into a husky, submissive purr.

I felt a flash of alarm. The persona I had cultivated in her had grown far beyond my specific directives. She was innovating her own depravity. Yet, as she knelt before me, I could bring myself to turn her down. I felt a surge of pride. She was my creation and she was perfect.

Mary sank to her knees with a predatory grace, her eyes never leaving mine as she took me into her mouth. The heat was immediate and overwhelming, a sudden, wet envelope of friction. She didn’t hold back on the lubrication. She seemed to be producing an impossible volume of saliva, letting it pool in her mouth before slathering it over the head and down the length of my shaft. Her hands reached up, her fingers digging into the meat of my thighs for leverage, her knuckles white as she anchored herself to me and pulled me deeper into her awaiting heat.

She began a frantic, rhythmic devotion, her tongue swirling around my sensitive glans with an obsessive focus. She was incredibly messy, letting the ropy strands of her spit coat my entire shaft until it glistened under the office lights. The fluid dripped onto her own chin and chest. I watched her blonde head move back and forth in a blurring cadence. The heavy silver barbells in her nipples dancing and swinging under her loose crop top with every vigorous movement. The sound in the quiet office was vulgar, a series of sloppy, unapologetic slurps and wet pops that underscored the total absence of shame I had cultivated in her.

She wasn’t content with just the head. She worked her way down, taking me into the depths of her throat. I felt her muscles clamp around me in a tight, pulsing vice. The sensation was so intense it forced me to grip the edge of my mahogany desk to keep my knees from buckling. The pleasure was a sharp, electric throb that threatened to shatter my control instantly. Pulling back, she used her hands to stroke the base while her mouth worked the top, a dual assault of heat and pressure. Just as I felt the first undeniable surge of my climax beginning to boil over, I reached down, grabbed her by the hair, and firmly pulled her away.

“Not yet,” I panted.

I commanded her to stand and strip. She obeyed without a second of hesitation. Her movements were fluid and efficient as she discarded the remnants of her modesty. She reached back to pull the crop top over her head. The fabric caught for a moment on her silver barbells before falling to the floor. She stepped out of the tight cycling shorts with a practiced grace, tossing them onto my leather chair where they landed with a soft rustle.

Standing before me now, she was a magnificent specimen of physical discipline. Her shoulders were broad, her stomach was flat and corded with muscle, and her long, volleyball-honed legs were powerful pillars that held her in a state of absolute, unblinking submission.

I stepped closer to her, realizing with a start that she was exactly as tall as I was. Our eyes were level, a rare occurrence that made the intensity of her gaze even more striking. I reached out and pulled her against me, feeling the heat of her skin radiating through my thin shirt. Her heavy, pierced nipples scraped against my chest. The cold silver of the bars providing a sharp, stinging contrast to the warmth of our bodies. I leaned down and bit into one of the silver bars, the metallic taste mixing with the scent of her arousal. Mary let out a low, melodic coo of pleasure, her back arching instinctively as she pressed her hips into mine. Her entire body vibrated with a conditioned hunger for more.

I hauled her toward the center of the room, my fingers digging into the firm meat of her hips as I slammed her back against the mahogany desk. I hoisted her upward with a sharp grunt of effort. Her powerful, athletic legs snapped around my waist to lock us into a single, straining unit. I drove into her with a sudden, uncompromising surge. The heavy wood of the desk shuddered under our combined weight as I established a brutal, rhythmic assault. Her silver nipple barbells bounced and danced with every heavy impact, glinting under the office lights as she arched her back, her breath hitching in a ragged, involuntary time with my relentless cadence.

I hauled her from the desk and steered her toward the guest chair, shoving her down into the soft, deep leather. I stood over her, forcing my entire length deep into her throat with an uncompromising drive. She gripped my thighs with white-knuckled intensity. Her fingers dug into my skin as I established a brutal, rhythmic cadence that left her gasping for air. The act was obscely messy. Her mouth produced an incredible volume of hot saliva that flooded over me, coating my shaft in a thick, frothy glaze that dripped onto the leather cushions in ropy strands. I watched the tears well in her eyes as she fought to accommodate the depth. The room filled with the heavy, liquid squelch of her effort and the wet, slapping sound of my cock sliding against her tongue and teeth with a cold, surgical intensity.

Finally, I threw her onto the couch. Her long limbs sprawled across the leather cushions already slick with the lubricants of our marathon. I flipped her onto her stomach and entered her pussy from behind, my hands locking onto her pelvic bones to anchor her against my punishing drive. The air in the office was thick with the scent of our combined fluids. Every heavy thrust produced a sloppy, rhythmic squelch that echoed against the walls. I worked her with a feral intensity, watching the sweat pool in the small of her back and the frothy juices from her pussy run in ropy strands down her inner thighs.

I pulled out with a loud, liquid pop and immediately drove myself into her ass. The tight ring of her sphincter yielded to my mess-slicked cock with a heavy, visceral thud. As I hammered into her rectum, the sound of our bodies colliding became a series of wet, meaty slaps. I reached around to find the silver stud in her clit, catching it between my fingers and tugging sharply.

Mary let out a raw, tearing scream of absolute release as she convulsed in a massive orgasm, her body bucking as she sprayed a fresh wave of pussy juice across the dark leather. I followed her instantly, erupting deep inside her bowels with a violent, prolonged release that filled her with hot, thick ropes of seed, leaving us both shivering in a sprawling pool of our combined fluids.

As I withdrew, the tight, overextended ring of her anus remained slightly agape. It was unable to immediately reclaim its shape after the trauma of my release. Slowly, a thick, pearlescent stream of my cooling seed began to seep from the opening, tracing a slow path down the curve of her inner cheek. It pooled on the dark leather of the couch, mixing with the sweat and the frothy juices she had already produced until the entire section of the sofa was a shimmering, sticky mess.

The sight of my essence leaking out of her used frame and onto the expensive upholstery was the perfect visual of her total surrender. Mary made a soft, wet sound as her body settled deeper into the mess, her skin glistening under the strobe lights like a fresh kill. I guess I was going to have to get Emily to clean this up.

I collapsed on top of her, my breath ragged, savoring the post-coital bliss. Everything was perfect. My kingdom was complete.

A sudden, heavy weight crushed the base of my skull. A sickening crack reverberated through my jaw, followed by a blinding, jagged flash of white light that seared my retinas. Then, the world simply ceased to exist, replaced by a cold and absolute black.

I awakened with a throbbing pain at the base of my skull. I was laying on the couch. My head was in the machine’s niche, but I couldn’t move. My wrists and ankles were tied firmly to the frame. A thick cloth gag was tied across my mouth, tasting of old cotton.

Mary was sitting behind my desk, leaning back in my chair with her feet up. She was still nude and her eyeliner was a mess, but she seemed calm, like this was all normal. She was casually scrolling through my laptop. Amy was standing next to her, dressed and looking composed. Beside the couch stood a large, bear-like man with shoulder-length shaggy hair. He looked like a linebacker, muscled but with a noticeable belly and not abs. On the floor nearby lay the remains of a smashed ceramic flower pot. I assumed the linebacker had used it on me.

I looked at Amy and tried to grunt out her trigger phrase. The gag turned the words into a muffled, useless noise.

“None of that now, Johnathan,” Mary said, not looking up from the screen.

She reached over and flipped the switches on the machine. The strobe lights began to flicker and the binaural hum filled the room. This time, I was the one in the seat.

“Doctor,” Mary said, her voice amplified by the microphone. She used the tone of absolute truth. “Until I tell you otherwise, you cannot get up from that couch. You cannot yell or scream. You cannot use any trigger phrase you implanted in any of us. You cannot do anything to help yourself. You will only tell us the unvarnished and unredacted truth.”

I heard the words and I felt the weight of them settle into my brain. I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. But the ability to do so was simply gone. It was a medical fact. I was trapped by my own technique.

Mary nodded to the large man. “Marcus, take the gag out.”

Marcus reached down and untied the cloth. My jaw ached. I looked at Mary, my mind racing.

“How?” I croaked.

“It started with my mom,” Mary said, finally looking at me. “After her first session, we had lunch. She was so open and talked to me like an adult for the first time. She told me the session was just a hookup between old friends. But after her second session, she acted like it never happened. Like she didn’t even remember telling me about the first one. When I tried to talk to her about my own sessions, I realized I couldn’t. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was like the words were physically stuck.”

She leaned forward, her expression cold.

“I followed her to her next appointment. The one she denied booking. I saw how she looked when she came out. I started researching you, Johnathan. I looked up every paper you ever published about this machine. I know exactly how you built it.”

I looked at Mary. She looked back at me with a calm, steady gaze.

“For Amy’s last session, I snuck in while you and Emily were at lunch,” Mary continued. “I was the one who called the front desk to keep Emily busy so I could peep from the bathroom.

“And the funny thing was when I saw what you were doing to Amy, I didn’t care. I knew that I should care, but I didn’t. I realized it was because you had implanted something in me that made me think of Amy as fuckmeat when she was having sex. And you were certainly using her as fuckmeat.

“I had to change my perspective on it. I had to remember that even though Amy was fuckmeat, she was my fuckmeat goddamnit.”

“Ahh, babe,” Amy murmured softly.

“Not the time, Amy,” Mary said lovingly.

Mary turned back to me. “I texted Marcus the prearranged code to pull the fire alarm. I needed to get her out of here before you could plant more commands. When I caught up to her, I found out the trigger phrase that I overheard works when anyone uses it. That was stupid by the way. I used it to unwind a lot of what you did, but I couldn’t turn the trigger off. Why?”

“The commands are part of the hypnotic state,” I answered, the truth forced out of me by the machine. “They are fragile. But the trigger itself was embedded as an absolute truth by the machine. It’s permanent.”

“I see,” Mary said, nodding solemnly.

“But how?” I croaked, the machine pulling the question from my throat. “How were you able to break my control? I told you that you trusted me. I embedded that in you with the machine.”

“You said ‘You trust me,’” Mary corrected. “That is present tense, Johnathan. It wasn’t a permanent, future-facing command. At any point in the future, I could stop trusting you. And I did. Once I stopped trusting you, the psychological framework you built around the idea that ‘everything in this room is alright’ collapsed. It was a house of cards, all contingent on that one fragile, linguistic statement. Sloppy.”

She looked at the laptop again. “Do I have a trigger phrase?”

“No,” I said. “You were the only one. I wanted you to be pure.”

“And the sluttiness?”

“It was always in you,” I confessed. “I just nudged it a little. Well, a lot. Same with Amy. Her being a submissive who got off on objectification was always there. I just hypercharged it.”

Mary stood up and walked toward the machine. “Can I use this to undo what you’ve done to us?”

“No,” I said, the words forced from my throat by the machine. “It only implants truths. It cannot erase them. The Technique is additive and it carves permanent pathways in the neural landscape that cannot be un-carved.

“If you try to implant a contradictory truth, you force the mind to hold two mutually exclusive realities as absolute facts. It causes a total cognitive rupture. The resulting friction effectively incinerates the subject’s sanity and leads to immediate psychosis.”

“I watched it happen to my old research partner,” I continued, my eyes fixed on the flickering strobe. “He was a brilliant man but he ended up screaming in the corner of our lab because he could not reconcile two contradictory absolute truths.”

Mary sighed. “Well, I guess it isn’t so bad that I really like masturbating and having sex games with my girlfriend. Or, at least, if we want to change something we have to be really careful the change is clever and not directly contradictory.”

I was flabergasted. None of this made any sense.

“Wait,” I gasped. “Then why did you come to today’s session? Why did you have sex with me?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Well, the plan was to tell that long story about using Amy as a planter…” Amy interrupted with a quiet, “It was pretty hot when we did that, babe,” before Mary could continue. “…until Marcus and Amy were able to return from sending the police to Emily’s condo to get her out of here. But you kept wanting to get me in the machine, so I had to think of a stall tactic that would keep your attention. Also, you seemed to be pretty good at fucking and, honestly, I wanted some of that D. Regardless, it’s time to deal with you.”

She leaned into the microphone, her voice resonating with power.

“Johnathan Wagstaff, listen to the truth. You will remember that you once knew your research, but right now and forevermore you will forget every specific detail of how the works. You will never be able to build another one. If you see plans for one, they will look like gibberish.

“Furthermore, for the rest of your life, you will feel deep empathy for every person you meet. You will be unable to interact with anyone without trying to be the best, most moral person you can be. You will help them in the way they want to be helped.”

“That might fuck me over,” I said, the realization of a moral life hitting me like a weight.

“It might,” Mary agreed. “You are leaving this town tonight. You will never return. And the moment you walk out that door, you will forget every detail about us and every patient you ever had.”

Marcus stepped forward and began untying my ropes. My head was spinning.

“How did you find my papers?” I asked as the last cord fell away. “They were buried.”

Mary looked at me with a touch of pity. “I am an honors biology-psychology double major, with access to my mother’s university administrator laptop, and a mind keen on investigating and detective work Johnathan. You would have known that if you had ever bothered to ask me a single question about my life.”

I stood up, my legs shaking. I didn’t look back. I walked out of the office and into the cool night air. By the time I reached my car, the names and faces were already dissolving. I felt a strange, overwhelming urge to find someone to help. As I drove toward the highway, the kingdom I had built vanished into the dark, leaving behind only a quiet, insistent need to be good.