I sat back in my chair, surveying the organized chaos of my desk. Or rather, the lack thereof. For the first time in months, my files were perfectly alphabetized, my schedule was color-coded, and the billing—usually a nightmare of insurance codes and loopholes—was up to date. Emily Sands was proving to be a better investment than I could have possibly imagined.

She had taken the initiative to expand our reach, creating a targeted social media campaign that was both professional and subtly inviting. She had even managed to secure a four-star rating on Google for the practice, complete with glowing, generic reviews praising my “insight” and “calming presence.” I knew for a fact that neither Mary nor Amy had posted them, which meant Emily had fabricated them. Her resourcefulness was delightful.

The result was a flood of potential patients. I spent my mornings sifting through inquiries, filtering out the chaff—the truly mentally ill, the desperate, the boring. I could afford to be picky now. I needed subjects that served a dual purpose: they had to be interesting test cases for the Wagstaff Technique, pushing the boundaries of what the machine could rewrite, and, quite frankly, they had to be attractive. If I was going to spend hours reshaping a mind, I wanted a pleasant view while I did it. My ideal of beauty wasn’t always conventional, of course, but I sometimes liked that as well.

Petra Norcova was definitely conventionally beautiful.

She walked into my office at 2:00 PM sharp, a striking figure even in her conservative dress. She was twenty-eight, a Russian-American with jet-black hair slicked back and pale, flawless skin. She wore a high-necked blouse and a skirt that fell well below her knees, but the fabric strained to contain a chest that had to be a D-cup at least. She was a fortress of modesty built on a foundation of pure sex appeal.

“Doctor Wagstaff?” she asked, her voice carrying a faint, melodic trace of an accent. “I am Petra.”

“Please, come in, Petra,” I said, gesturing to the chair.

She sat with her knees pressed together, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She radiated a chilly, defensive energy.

“So, Petra,” I began, opening her file. “You mentioned in your intake form that you’re struggling with… relationship intimacy.”

“I am asexual,” she stated flatly. It wasn’t a confession; it was a challenge. “I do not experience sexual attraction. I do not desire sex. This is who I am.”

“I see,” I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. “And you see this as a problem?”

“The asexuality? No,” she said, her chin lifting slightly. “It is part of my identity. The problem is the… fallout. I am not aromantic. I want companionship. I want a partner. But the moment I tell a man that I do not want him inside me, that I will never want him inside me… they leave. Or they try to ‘fix’ me. It is exhausting. I want to know how to navigate this without… losing everyone.”

I leaned back, steepled my fingers, and looked at her. Asexual. It was a fascinating deviation. Was it hormonal? A misfiring of neurotransmitters? A lack of physical receptors? Or was it purely psychological, a deep-seated repression? I wasn’t an expert in the biological underpinnings of her condition, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the challenge.

Could the machine override a fundamental lack of drive? Could I force a brain to invent pleasure where none existed? Could the absolute truth of my commands overwhelm her very biology?

“Petra,” I said slowly. “I believe I can help you. But my methods are… unconventional. I use a specialized relaxation therapy to access the subconscious mind. It allows us to bypass the anxiety and the social pressure and find the root of your feelings.”

“Hypnosis?” she asked skeptically.

“Something like that. But much more effective.”

I realized I couldn’t just use the machine to blunt-force a sexual awakening. If I simply told her “You are a slut” while she was conscious, her mind would reject it violently. The cognitive dissonance would be too great. No, I needed a Trojan horse.

“I’d like you to try the device,” I said. “Just to relax. To clear your mind so we can talk without your defenses up.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”

She moved to the couch and lay down, her body stiff and unyielding. I watched her settle, the rise and fall of those magnificent breasts beneath her blouse.

I keyed in the sequence. Lights. Sound. Scent.

“Just listen to my voice, Petra,” I said.

I used a standard induction script first, layering a trance state over her conscious mind before turning off the machine. Her trigger phrase was Lava Surfing. It had to be a trance to give her the illusion that something was able to change her mind. Her eyes fluttered and closed. Her breathing slowed.

“Petra,” I asked softly. “Do you truly want to be asexual?”

She paused, her brow furrowing in the low light. “I… I am happy as I am. But… if I could be normal? If I could just… feel what everyone else feels? Yes. I would take it. I am not broken, but I’m tired of being different.”

“Have you ever felt sexual pleasure?” I asked.

“No,” she murmured. “No attraction. No heat.”

“Have you tried?”

“Once,” she admitted. “I rubbed… down there. It felt… physically pleasant, I suppose. Like scratching an itch. But there was no drive. No hunger. I never did it again.”

“I understand,” I said. “We’re going to try something, Petra. A medical baseline. I need you to strip down. Completely naked.”

She obeyed without hesitation, the trance overriding her modesty. She stood up and removed her clothes, folding them neatly on the chair. When she turned back to me, I had to suppress a gasp. She was spectacular. Her skin was marble-white, her nipples large and dark against the heavy swell of her breasts. Her hips were wide, her pubic hair a neat, dark triangle.

“Lie back down,” I commanded. “Spread your legs.”

She did.

“Now, touch yourself. Find your clitoris. Rub it.”

She reached down, her movements mechanical, detached. She found her button and began to rub, but her face remained blank. She looked like she was doing laundry.

“You feel pleasure,” I suggested. “It feels good. It feels warm. You are getting excited.”

She frowned, rubbing a little harder, but her body wasn’t responding. She wasn’t getting wet. Her breathing hadn’t changed.

“I… I don’t feel it,” she murmured. “It’s just… friction.”

I gritted my teeth. The trance wasn’t enough. Her lack of drive was too deep, too biological. This trance state couldn’t jumpstart an engine that had no fuel. I needed the sledgehammer.

“Stop,” I ordered.

She stopped, her hand resting limply on her crotch.

I realized I needed to layer the machine’s influence, not just the trance it had induced. I needed to force the truth of arousal into her nervous system.

“Stay there,” I said.

I turned the machine back on. I adjusted the binaural beats to a frequency designed to stimulate the hypothalamus. I increased the pheromone concentration. And then, I spoke not to her subconscious, but to her reality.

“Petra,” I said, my voice resonating with the full authority of the device. “Listen to the truth. You are not asexual. That was a lie your body told you. The truth is that you have been saving it. You have been building a dam of desire your entire life. And now, the dam is breaking.”

I saw her twitch.

“The truth,” I continued, pressing the advantage, “is that you are insatiable. You are desperate for release. Your clitoris is on fire. Your pussy is aching to be touched. You have an incredible sexual drive, and now after twenty-eight years there is something shifting inside you that is letting it out.”

“On fire,” she gasped, her hips jerking on the leather. “Aching.”

“Touch it,” I commanded. “Touch it and feel the truth.”

Her hand flew back to her crotch, but this time it wasn’t mechanical. It was frantic. Her fingers dug into her flesh, finding her nub and attacking it.

“Oh god,” she cried out, her voice cracking. “Oh god, it burns! It feels so… oh fuck!”

I watched, fascinated, as her body betrayed her. Flush spread across her chest like wildfire. Her nipples hardened into dark stones. And between her legs… she was gushing. Years of dormancy were ending in a flood of lubrication that coated her fingers and dripped onto the couch.

“That’s right,” I encouraged. “You need it. You need to cum. You’ve never cum before, have you? You’ve never felt the release.”

“Never,” she panted, her other hand coming up to squeeze her heavy breast, kneading the flesh violently. “Need it. Need it now.”

“Then take it!” I roared. “Show me the slut that was hiding in there!”

She screamed—a wordless, guttural sound of pure sensation—and bucked her hips wildly. Her hand was a blur. She wasn’t just rubbing; she was clawing at her own pleasure, desperate to rip it out of herself.

“Cum, Petra! Cum for the first time!”

Her entire body went rigid. Her toes curled, her back arched off the couch, and she let out a shriek that vibrated the windows. I watched as her vaginal walls spasmed, pumping out fluid in a rhythmic, uncontrollable release. She shook for a solid minute, lost in the crashing waves of an orgasm twenty-eight years in the making.

Finally, she collapsed, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. She lay there, stunned, her hand still clutching her wet pussy.

“I…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I… what was that?”

I turned the machine off, but keeping the trance active. I had to manage the fallout.

“That,” I said softly, “was a breakthrough. Your body is waking up.”

I waited for her breathing to slow, watching the rise and fall of her magnificent chest.

“Get dressed, Petra.”

She stood up, her legs shaky, and pulled her clothes back on. The conservative blouse and skirt looked almost comical now, hiding the wet, ravished reality of her body.

“Listen to me,” I said, locking eyes with her. “You will not remember the commands I gave you. You will not remember the machine’s voice. You will remember that we did deep relaxation work. You will remember that during that work, you felt a spark. A powerful, undeniable sexual urge. You will remember that your asexuality is shifting, unlocking. You will feel the need to explore this new hunger. You will masturbate. You will think about this session.”

“Explore,” she nodded, her eyes distant. “Hunger. Think about this.”

“Wake up.”

Petra blinked, drawing in a sharp breath. She looked down at her hands, then up at me. She looked... flushed. Alive.

“Doctor Wagstaff,” she said, her voice breathless. “I feel… different. Like something is vibrating inside me.”

“That’s the therapy working,” I smiled warmly. “We’ve opened a door, Petra. I think we made excellent progress.”

“Yes,” she agreed, picking up her purse. “Yes, I think so too. I… I need to go home. I need to… think.”

“Same time next week?”

“Definitely,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

She practically ran out of the office.

I sat back, a profound sense of satisfaction washing over me. I had rewritten biology. I had turned a stone into a fountain. Now actually associating her new sexual urge with actual people will be a more complex task for another day, but this was a big success.

A soft noise from the corner of the room caught my attention. The hidden door to the private bathroom clicked open.

Emily stepped out from the shadows of the doorway, her presence announcing itself with the quiet, practiced stealth of a predator or a seasoned servant. She had been there the entire time, hidden in the cramped, sterile darkness of the adjoining bathroom, watching through the cleverly concealed slit I had installed in the doorframe. Peeping. Observing. Learning. She held a roll of industrial paper towels in one hand and a spray bottle of hospital-grade disinfectant in the other, the tools of her new trade. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t meet my gaze, keeping her eyes lowered in a perfect display of deferential submission, though I could see the flush high on her cheeks, a telltale sign that she had enjoyed the show just as much as I had. She walked past me, the faint scent of arousal clinging to her sensible cardigan, and moved directly to the couch. There, glistening under the artificial lights, was the wet, spreading patch of Petra’s fluids—the tangible evidence of a biology rewritten. Emily knelt, her movements efficient and reverent, and began to spray and scrub, erasing the mess and preserving the secret.