I fidgeted while I waited for Mary to come in for her session. This week was going to be a big test.

When she finally bounded in, she looked as bubbly as ever, though perhaps a little more subdued. She was wearing a short denim skirt today and a loose fitting tank top.

“Hi Doctor W!” she chirped, throwing her bag down and hopping onto the couch. She adjusted herself into the divot immediately, looking perfectly at home.

“Hello Mary,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “How was your week?”

“Oh, pretty good,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “Trevor is still being kind of annoying, but I took your advice. About the shaving I mean.”

I felt a little jolt of excitement; a purely professional thrill, of course. It was the rush of a hypothesis confirmed, a theory validated in the real world. The command I had implanted had held up outside the controlled environment of my office. It had survived the chaos of her daily life, and perhaps the skepticism of her friends, and her own ingrained habits. It was proof of concept. The Wagstaff Technique wasn’t just an academic failure that broke minds; it was a targeted strike that could, when used with skill execute commands flawlessly. She had shaved herself because I told her to, because I made it her truth. And if I could do that... what else could I make her do?

“Is that so?” I asked, leaning back in my chair. “And how do you feel about it?”

“It’s... different,” she admitted. “A bit itchy when it grows back, but I feel cleaner somehow. More grown up.”

This was exactly what I wanted to hear. Her mind had not just accepted the “truth” I had fed her, it had built it’s own internal logic around it, making it part of her. Making her feel as if it was part of her natural though processes.

She looked up at me with that wide-eyed, naive trust that I found both pitiable and exploitable. It was a fascinating case study in cognitive dissonance; she was projecting this image of the dutiful patient, the “good girl” listening to her doctor, completely unaware that she was nothing more than a variable in my grand experiment.

We spent the next twenty minutes or so going through the motions of a regular therapy session. I asked her about her classes, her relationship with her mother, her feelings of anxiety about the future — all standard, probing questions designed to get her comfortable and vulnerable. I needed her guard down, to make sure when I engaged the technique that her mind was ready to accept new “truths” and build logic around them.

As the session neared its end, I knew it was time. I checked the interface screen. All systems green.

“Mary,” I said, my voice dropping slightly in pitch. “I’m going to activate the relaxation protocols again. Just like last time.”

“Okay!” she said brightly, closing her eyes.

I tapped the keys. The hum began, the scents released, the lights flashed. I watched her body visibly relax, her breathing deepen. She was under the power of the device.

“Mary,” I said, “I want to follow up on our discussion from last week. You mentioned you followed my advice regarding your personal grooming.”

“Yes, Doctor W, I thought we talked about this already.” she replied, her voice sounding normal.

“As your doctor, I need to verify that you’ve done it correctly to ensure there’s no irritation or skin issues. It’s a standard part of a physical assessment as part of these sessions.”

“Of course,” she said simply.

“Please stand up and remove your skirt and your panties so I can inspect the area.”

She didn’t hesitate. She stood up from the couch, unzipped her skirt, and let it fall to the floor. She then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her simple white cotton panties and slid them down her long, tanned legs. She stepped out of them and turned to face me. This was another test of the device: I had theorized that once the process had been initiated by the overlapping techniques, maintaining the state of truth acceptance required only one of the triggers to hit the subject (in this case smell) for the effect to be maintained in full.

I kept my face neutral, but my heart was pounding. She was completely bare from the waist down. And just as she had said, she was smooth. The blonde bush was gone, replaced by pale, soft skin. Her vulva was exposed, a neat, vertical slit that looked incredibly vulnerable.

“Very good, Mary,” I said, clearing my throat. “Please, sit back down on the edge of the couch and spread your legs so I can get a better look. I need to assess if there are any health issues from razer abrasions.”

She complied, sitting on the edge of the leather and opening her knees wide. The view was startlingly, wonderfully explicit. With her legs spread like that, the entire anatomy of her vulva was laid bare for me, a vertical smile of pink flesh framed by smooth, pale skin. The outer lips were plump and soft, slightly parted to reveal the darker, wetter pink of her inner labia. At the top, the small, hooded nub of her clitoris peeked out, looking incredibly sensitive and exposed without its protective covering of hair. Her entrance was a tight, glistening ring of muscle, slightly dewy with her natural moisture. It was a pristine, pornographic display—a perfect, hairless cunt waiting to be used, stared at, and controlled. It was all I could do to keep my eyes from bugging out of my head as I took in the sheer, naked availability of her.

“I need to be thorough and feel for any abrasions since this was the first time you did this,” I said, my voice thick with authority. “Spread wider.”

She obeyed, her thighs falling open until she was completely exposed. I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I touched her. I ran my thumb down the smooth, shaved skin of her outer lip, pressing into the soft flesh. She flinched, a small gasp escaping her, but she didn’t pull away. I used my index fingers to spread her inner lips apart, revealing the pink, glistening vestibule within. I stared directly into her, examining the texture, the wetness, the way her body reacted to my touch. I pinched her clitoral hood lightly, pulling it back to expose the sensitive nub, and she whined, her hips twitching. I was treating her like a specimen, a piece of meat to be graded, and she was letting me.

“Everything I ask of you in this room is correct and therapeutic,” I stated firmly, reinforcing the programming as my fingers lingered on her increasing wetness. “There is no shame here. Only health and honesty.”

“I know, Doctor W,” she nodded. “It feels... right.”

“Good,” I said curtly as I removed my fingers. This was science, I had to be all business. “Now, tell me, Mary. Since you shaved, have you touched yourself? Have you masturbated?”

She shook her head. “No, Doctor W. I haven’t.”

“I see,” I said, feigning professional concern. “That is an issue. You can’t be sure if you prefer this new state if you haven’t explored the sensations. Masturbation is a natural, healthy part of human sexuality. It’s important for you to reconnect with your body.”

She looked at me, her blue eyes wide and trusting. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am,” I asserted. “In fact, to ensure you are processing this change in a healthy way, I need you to do it now. Here, in the session.”

“Now?” she asked, a flicker of confusion crossing her face, quickly smoothed away by the weight of my absolute truth.

“Yes. It is necessary for your treatment. I will observe to ensure you are not harboring any subconscious guilt or hesitation. Go ahead, Mary. Touch yourself.”

Slowly, she reached down between her legs. Her fingers brushed against her smooth skin, exploring the unfamiliar texture. Then, she found her clitoris.

I watched, mesmerized, as she began to rub herself. At first, her movements were tentative, clinical. But as she found her rhythm, her hips began to rock slightly. Her breath hitched.

“That’s it,” I encouraged softly. “Feel how much more sensitive you are. How good it feels.”

I knew that by saying this with the machine on it would become an absolute truth for her. From now on, when she was shaved, her cunt would be significantly more sensitive.

“It... it does feel good,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut. “It feels really good.”

She began to move faster, her fingers working deftly, finding a slick, wet rhythm that filled the small room with the lewd sound of splashing fluids. Her head fell back, exposing her throat, and a soft, breathy moan escaped her lips. I sat perfectly still, a silent voyeur to her intimate act, my own breath catching as I watched her fingers dive into her own pink flesh, spreading her lips wide to tease her exposed clit.

She continued for several minutes, her moans growing louder and more desperate, her body flushing a deep, aroused crimson. Her hips began to buck off the leather, grinding into her own hand with a hunger that was palpable. I watched the way her muscles tensed, the way her juices began to coat her fingers and drip down towards her ass. It was a messy display of obedience and raw, unadulterated pleasure.

(I also noted that as her ass occasionally rose up with her legs spread that she didn’t shave her asshole. A tuft of dark blonde hair surrounded her pucker. Guess I wasn’t specific enough. It is hard to get back there after all.)

Finally, she gasped, a sharp, ragged sound, and her body arched violently off the couch as a massive climax hit her. She shuddered, her thighs trembling uncontrollably, and I watched as a fresh wave of clear fluid pulsed out of her, coating her fingers before she collapsed back against the leather, panting heavily, her chest heaving.

I let her recover for a moment, the silence in the room heavy and thick.

“Well done, Mary,” I said finally. “That was very healthy. A breakthrough, I think.”

“Yes,” she whispered, laying her head backing the notch at the top of the couch while still catching her breath. “Thank you, Doctor W.”

I turned back to the interface. It was time to close the loop.

“Now, Mary, listen to me closely. What happened here today was a vital part of your therapy, but it is private. It is just for us. You will not speak of this to anyone. It is our secret, for your benefit.”

“Our secret,” she repeated, nodding.

“Get dressed now.”

She stood up, pulling her panties and skirt back on with the same casual ease she had taken them off. When she was fully dressed, I deactivated the couch.

“Okay, Mary, I think we’ve made excellent progress today,” I said, using my normal voice. The real test now would be how her mind constructed logic around these new experiences.

She blinked, looking around the room as if waking from a daydream. “Yeah... yeah, I feel really good actually. Lighter, somehow.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I smiled. “Same time next week?”

“Definitely!” she beamed. “See you then, Doctor W!”

She grabbed her bag and bounced out of the office, leaving me alone with the humming silence and the lingering scent of her arousal.