I sat in my office, staring at the calendar. December 19th. The year was winding down, and the holidays were looming like a threat. Since my fall from grace at the university, my social circle had evaporated. No family to speak of, and, with a handful of exceptions like Mary’s mother, my “friends” were all fair-weather academics who wouldn’t be caught dead associating with a disgrace like me. I was alone. But I wasn’t lonely. The silence of the phone was a small price to pay for the kingdom I was building in this windowless room. They could have their faculty parties and their sherry; I had absolute control.

But then, I wasn’t really alone, was I? I had my work. I had my subjects.

A knock at the door signaled Amy’s arrival. She walked in, looking exactly the same as the first time I saw her. Same oversized sweater, same shapeless skirt, same thick glasses sliding down her nose. She looked like a frightened mouse, but I knew better. I knew the filth that lived under that wool blend.

“Hello, Amy,” I said, my voice smooth. “Please, take a seat.”

She sat on the edge of the couch, clutching her knees. “Hi, Doctor Wagstaff.”

I didn’t turn on the machine. Not yet. I wanted to play. I had the safety net of ‘Avalon Avalanche’ if things went south, so I decided to push. I wanted to see how much she would give me willingly before I took the rest.

“Today, Amy, before we begin the relaxation therapy, I want to establish a baseline for your... history. I need a complete sexual inventory. I want you to describe your three most memorable sexual experiences.”

She blinked, her face flushing a deep, splotchy red. “I... what? Why?”

“It helps me understand your subconscious triggers,” I lied effortlessly. “If you want the therapy to work, you need to be open with me.”

If she had a backbone, she would have walked out right then. But Amy was meek. Amy was a follower. She looked at the door, then back at me, and surrendered.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I... okay.”

“Go on. Number one.”

“Well,” she started, her voice barely audible. “When I was eighteen... my high school boyfriend, Mark. We were... we were in the back of his van. It wasn’t romantic. It was dirty. There were old tools and greasy rags everywhere. He told me to strip.”

“And?” I prompted. “What made it memorable? Was it vanilla?”

“No,” she admitted, staring at the floor, picking at a loose thread on her sweater. “He... he had this thing. He wanted me to wear... a tail. A butt plug with a real fox tail attached to it. He made me wear it to school for a whole week leading up to that night. I had to sit in AP English, feeling it stretch me, terrified someone would see the bulge or the fur poking out of my jeans. Every time I sat down, it pushed deeper. Every time I walked, the tail rubbed me inside my pants. I was constantly wet, constantly on edge. And then, in the van... he didn’t take it out. He pushed me down onto the floor and fucked me around it. He used my pussy while my ass was plugged full. It hurt... but it felt... full. I felt like an animal.”

“Good,” I said, leaning forward. “Number two.”

“College,” she stammered, wringing her hands in her lap as the memory took hold. “Freshman year. My roommate, Sarah. She was... aggressive. Beautiful. I was terrified of her. One morning, I was in the shower. The communal showers were empty, but I didn’t lock the stall. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I wanted it. The curtain ripped open. She didn’t ask. She didn’t even say hello. She was already naked, her body perfect and intimidating. She just... stepped in. The stall was so small, our wet skin immediately stuck together. She took the bar of soap from my hand. She started washing me like I was a dirty child. She scrubbed my back, her nails digging in. Then she turned me around. She washed my breasts, squeezing them hard, staring right into my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. Then... she dropped the soap. She didn’t pick it up. Her hand slid down my slick stomach and went right between my legs. She found my clit instantly. She rubbed it until I was shaking, and then she shoved two fingers inside me. Hard. Deep. She fucked me right there against the wet tiles, the water pounding on us, the steam choking me. I just stared at the ceiling and let her do it. I spread my legs wider for her. I didn’t say stop. I prayed she wouldn’t stop.”

“And the third?”

She hesitated the longest on this one. She chewed on her lower lip, worrying the skin raw, and shifted uncomfortably on the leather, her thighs pressing tight together as if to physically hold the story in. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a thick, suffocating silence that I refused to break. I just watched her, letting the pressure build, letting her stew in her own shame. I could see the memory flickering behind her thick glasses, a reel of degradation playing on a loop that she was desperate to keep private, yet aching to share. Her breathing quickened, shallow little gasps that made her heavy chest rise and fall. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, focusing instead on a scuff mark on her boot, her fingers white-knuckled in her lap. It was a delicious struggle to witness—the war between her social conditioning and her innate, overwhelming need to submit. I could almost smell the fear coming off her.

“Professor Miller,” she said finally, her voice a brittle whisper that cracked on the name. “I only had a B in his history class and I needed an A to be able to major in history in junior year. I went to his office to beg for extra credit. He... he locked the door. He told me there was only one way to get an A.”

“You fucked him for a grade?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely a tremor in the still room. “He was... he wasn’t attractive. Not in the way you’re supposed to want. He was fifty, maybe older. Balding, with this ring of greasy hair. He was fat, too—heavy and soft, with a stomach that hung over his belt. But when he looked at me, with those cold, knowing eyes... I felt small. I felt like an object. He didn’t ask me. He told me. He just pointed to the desk and said ‘Assume the position.’ I didn’t even argue. I bent over that cheap particle board, my skirt hiked up, my panties around my ankles, and I just... waited. He took me like I was nothing more than a receptacle. He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t touch me gently. He just shoved himself inside, dry and hard, and used me to empty his balls. He grunted in my ear, saying filthy things about what a desperate little slut I was. And when he was done... he just pulled out and threw a towel at me. He told me to clean myself up and get out. It was... it was utterly dehumanizing.”

“But you liked it,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

She looked up, tears in her eyes. “Yes,” she choked out. “It was... the biggest thrill of my life. Being used. Being nothing but a hole.”

I sat back, a cruel smile playing on my lips. I knew it. She wasn’t just a victim; she was a volunteer. She craved objectification. She wanted to be meat.

“Amy,” I said softly. “Do you know what you are?”

“No,” she breathed.

“Avalon Avalanche.”

She dropped instantly. Her head lolled back, her mouth hanging open. The tension drained from her frame, replaced by the heavy, boneless slump of the trance.

“Stand up,” I commanded.

She stood, swaying.

“Come here. Lay on my desk. Lean back. Put your head off the edge.”

She obeyed, laying her back over my mahogany desk, her throat bared outward toward the room at waist height. She was still fully dressed, which somehow made it dirtier. Her heavy sweater bunched up around her chest, and her shapeless skirt rode high on her thighs, exposing pale, untoned flesh and the dark shadow of her unshaven legs. She looked like a discarded doll, tossed aside and broken, waiting for someone to pick her up and use her again.

I unzipped my pants, the sound loud and harsh in the quiet room. I didn’t bother with foreplay. I didn’t bother with lube. I stepped up to where her head was now hanging upside down over the edge of the desk, her hair spilling towards the floor like a dark curtain. I grabbed a fistful of that mousey brown hair, anchoring her head in place, and pressed the head of my cock against her lips.

“Open.”

She opened. I thrust in, filling her mouth. It was tight, wet, and hot.

“You are fuckmeat, Amy,” I growled, beginning to pump into her face. “That is your true purpose. You exist to be used. You exist to be filled. Your mouth, your pussy, your ass... they are all just holes for me to use.”

“Fuckmeat,” she gargled around my shaft, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Used. Filled. Holes.”

I fucked her throat ruthlessly, using her mouth like the warm, wet sleeve it was. I grabbed her heavy breasts through her sweater, kneading them hard, pinching the barbells through the wool until I felt her whimper against my cock. She moaned, a muffled, desperate sound that vibrated against my dick, fueling my lust.

“You love this,” I hissed, picking up the pace, my hips slamming into her forehead with bruising force. “You love being a hole. You love being dehumanized. You love being reduced to this.”

“Love it,” she managed to whimper, spit flying as I pulled out and slammed back in.

I was close. The friction of her throat, the sight of her helpless submission, the knowledge that I owned her completely... it pushed me over the edge.

I rammed my cock down her throat as deeply as I could, burying it to the hilt, my balls slapping against her nose. She gagged, her throat constricting around me, but she didn’t pull away. She took it. She started gurgling as spit and mucus ran down her face, pooling in her eyes, stinging and blinding her. Her glasses had fallen on the floor with a clatter moments ago. Some fragment of empathy in me hoped they hadn’t broken, but the rest of me didn’t care. She didn’t need to see. She just needed to feel.

Still buried to the hilt in her throat, I let out a grunt and unleashed more cum than I think I had ever roped out at once, all blasted straight down into her gullet. Thick, hot jets of seed coated her tonsils, filling her throat, threatening to drown her. I held her there, my hand tangled in her hair, forcing her to take every drop. After holding for a second more, savoring the pulsing release, I pulled out with a wet pop, leaving her gasping and coughing. Spit, mucus, and my cum ran down her upside-down face, a viscous mask of her degradation. She tried to swallow, to breathe, but instead, she half-burped, half-threw up most of my cum, the white fluid cascading down her forehead and into her own eyes, blinding her further.

I zipped up, adjusting myself, watching her struggle to clear her airway. It was a beautiful sight.

“Clean yourself up,” I said, tossing her a tissue, my voice as casual as if I were offering her a mint after lunch rather than dismissing her after using her mouth as a fleshlight. She scrambled off the desk, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, her hands fumbling blindly for the tissue box as she tried to wipe the drying, sticky mess from her face. Her sweater was rumpled, her skirt twisted around her hips, and her face was a map of my dominance—red, wet, and smeared with white. I pointed her toward the bathroom, watching with detached amusement as she stumbled towards the door, bumping her shoulder against the frame in her haste.

“You will remember none of the trance,” I continued, my voice firm and commanding, weaving the final strands of the web around her mind. “You will remember the commands, deep in your subconscious where they will fester and grow. You will remember the session before the trance—the vulnerable confessions, the tears, the feeling of unburdening yourself. You will remember the stories you told me, about the van, the shower, the professor, and you will feel an immense sense of relief, as if sharing them was a breakthrough. Helpful. Therapeutic. A necessary step in your healing. But the rest? The part where you were nothing more than a warm hole for my pleasure? You will later remember the trance part of the session... but only as a vivid, erotic dream you will have tonight. A dream where you were helpless, used, and utterly satisfied. A dream of being my fuckmeat.”

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice ravaged from my abuse, as she wiped the last of the cum and mess from her cheeks. Her eyes were glazed, still lost in the fog of suggestion. “Erotic dream. Fuckmeat.”

She went into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the quiet room. I sat back down, listening to the faint sounds of water running, the rustle of clothes being straightened. It took at least 10 minutes—10 minutes for her to scrub my essence from her skin, to fix her hair, to compose herself into something resembling a human being again. When she finally came out, she looked clean, if a bit disheveled. Her face was scrubbed pink, her hair hastily smoothed down, but there was a wildness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A spark of something dark and hungry that I had ignited.

“Wake up.”

Amy blinked, her body giving a small jolt as she sat up on the desk, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. She looked disoriented, her hand instinctively going to her stomach, lingering there as if she could still feel the weight of my presence inside her, or perhaps the phantom sensation of the fluids that had coated her skin.

“I... I feel dizzy,” she murmured, bringing a hand to her forehead. “Like I just woke up from a long nap.”

“That’s normal,” I reassured her, my voice oozing professional concern. “Hypnotherapy can be quite draining. It releases a lot of pent-up energy. We did good work today, Amy. You were very brave to share those memories.”

“Yes,” she said, a dazed, dreamy smile spreading across her face, a stark contrast to the terror and shame she had shown earlier. “I feel... lighter. Thank you, Doctor Wagstaff. Same time next week?”

“Yes, please,” I replied, watching as she gathered her things, her movements still slightly uncoordinated. “Same time next week.”

She left the office, closing the door softly behind her. I watched her go, a sense of immense satisfaction washing over me. I realized with a jolt that I hadn’t even touched the machine for the trance induction. With Amy, the trigger phrase was all I needed now. The programming was taking root, deep and strong, like a weed choking out the flowers of her free will. But I couldn’t get complacent. Next time, on the next subject, I would use the device. I needed to see how far I could push a subject using the machine without breaking them completely. The human mind was resilient, yes, but everything had a breaking point.