k in her head. Her chin hit her chest. She slumped into the leather like a puppet with cut strings.

My god. It was that easy.

“Stand up,” I commanded.

She stood.

“Take off your clothes. All of them.”

She stripped with mechanical efficiency. Sweater, jeans, bra, panties. Pile on the floor.

She was exactly as Mary had described, but seeing it in person was a different animal entirely. She was pale, almost milky, with a softness to her flesh that looked like it would bruise under a firm grip. Her body was untoned, slightly doughy in a way that screamed of long nights in libraries and dormant sensuality. But the feral quality Mary had mentioned? It was undeniable. Her breasts were heavy, pendulous sacks of fat that sagged delightfully against her ribcage, tipped with nipples the size of saucers. Through each expansive areola, a thick silver barbell glinted in the dim light.

And then there was the hair. God, the hair. It wasn’t just a bush; it was an infestation. Thick, dark, curling tendrils sprouted aggressively from her armpits, matting together with sweat. Her legs were covered in a coarse, black pelt that looked like she hadn’t seen a razor in years. But her crotch was the main event. A dense, tangled forest of black wire exploded from between her legs, so thick it seemed to swallow her thighs. It grew wild and unchecked, creeping up her belly in a happy trail that reached her navel and spreading down her inner thighs like a dark stain.

“Turn around. Bend over. Spread your cheeks.”

She complied. She bent at the waist, grabbing her ankles. She reached back and hauled her ass cheeks apart.

Her asshole was framed by hair, dark and matted. But the hole itself... clean. Pink. Tight.

I couldn’t help myself. I knelt behind her. I buried my face in her ass. She smelled of sweat and musk, but beneath it, soap. I licked. I dragged my tongue from the bottom of her hairy slit, over her taint, and right into her pucker.

She moaned, a low, animal sound.

“Tell me,” I murmured, my breath hot against the sweaty skin of her buttocks. I needed to peel back the layers of this frumpy librarian facade and see the animal underneath. “What is the filthiest, most degrading thing you have ever done? The secret you keep buried deep.”

She whimpered, her ass clenching against my face. “I...”

“Speak,” I commanded.

“I... I went to a party last semester,” she whispered, her voice tight, stuttering slightly but gaining momentum as the words tumbled out. “I... I don’t usually go to parties. I felt... invisible. But then I saw this guy. A jock. A football player. Stupid. Big. Total opposite of me. He looked at me, and I just... I wanted him to take me. I followed him upstairs. I knew what I was doing. I knew what kind of guy he was.”

She took a shaky breath, her confession hanging heavy in the air.

“When we got to the bedroom... his friends came in. Three of them. They started joking, asking if he was gonna fuck the librarian. I should have been scared. I should have run. But I didn’t. I... I told them to lock the door. I took off my glasses and my skirt and I lay down on that pile of coats. I told them... I told them I could take all of them. I didn’t just let it happen, Doctor. I asked for it. I spread my legs and I begged them to fill me up. I wanted to be used. I wanted to be nothing but a warm, wet hole for them to empty themselves into. I sucked them off while they fucked me. I let them degrade me. And I loved it. I loved being their slut.”

Christ.

“That’s a good start,” I said, standing up. My erection was painful against my zipper. I freed it, letting it spring out, heavy and pulsing. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a ceramic cereal bowl—remnants of a late lunch still faintly visible on the rim. “But we can do better. We can be filthier.”

I placed the bowl on the expensive Persian rug.

“Squat,” I commanded. “Position your cunt over this bowl. Fill it. Piss in it while you finger that hairy cunt. Show me what a dirty animal you really are.”

She didn’t even blink. The programming was absolute. She spread her legs, her thick thighs trembling slightly as she lowered herself. Her massive bush hovered inches above the ceramic. With one hand, she reached down, parting the dark, matted hair to find her clit. She began to rub, staring up at me with glassy, obedient eyes.

Then, the sound. A sharp, loud hiss as a stream of hot, yellow urine exploded from her. It hit the porcelain with force, splashing against her own hand as she frantically worked her bean. The smell of ammonia and musk filled the small room instantly, hot and biting.

I picked up the bowl, now brimming with her warm, frothy waste, and held it out to her. It was heavy, radiating heat against my palms.

“Drink,” I commanded, my voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Take it all back inside. Every drop.”

She looked at the bowl, her eyes wide, but her hand was already moving. The programming overrode every instinct, every societal norm. She took the bowl with trembling hands, her fingers dipping into the warm liquid. She raised it to her lips.

Without a moment of hesitation, she tilted her head back and began to chug. Her throat worked rhythmically as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of her own piss. Some of it spilled down her chin, dripping onto her breasts and disappearing into the thicket of hair on her belly, but she didn’t stop. She drank with a desperate, animalistic hunger, emptying the bowl until only foam remained at the bottom. She lowered the ceramic, panting, a thin trail of yellow saliva connecting her lip to the rim. She licked it clean.

“Stop,” I commanded.“Stand up. Get dressed.”

She stood, dripping, and pulled her clothes back on over her wet body.

“You will remember none of this,” I said. “You will forget the trance. But you will remember the phrase ‘Avalon Avalanche’ makes you feel safe. You will remember that you want to be hypnotized again. You will agree to become my patient. When you encounter any surprising residue on youself later, you will not question it, but you will get a little sexual thrill.”

“Yes. Doctor Wagstaff.”

“Wake up.”

She snapped her head up. She looked at me, then down at the wet spot on the rug where she missed the bowl.

“Oh god! I’m so sorry! I... I don’t know what happened!”

“It’s quite alright, Amy,” I said smoothly. “The relaxation can sometimes release... tension. It means it’s working.”

“It... it does?” She looked relieved. “I... I really want to come back. I think... I think you can help me.”

“I’m sure I can,” I smiled. “I’m sure I can.”