We all know the story of Pandora’s box, and every therapist understands that the dynamic is universal — we all have the lid closed tight on one personal demon or another, without exception. It’s part of the human condition, and on that scale, the only difference between one human being and the next lies in the particular form their worst aspects take, and how successful they are at holding the lid down, and for how long. Sometimes these energies erupt on a mass scale, accounting for wars, revolutions, genocide and political or ethnic cleansing. I had a print on the theme, a famous Goya etching titled “The Sleep of Reason produces Monsters”, hanging over my bathroom john in college, just as a reminder of the repressed contents within us all. In that image, a man sleeps at a table with his head buried in his folded arms, every manner of ghostly monster flying out of his being to wreak havoc upon the world. The inspiration behind the drawing was supposedly political as much as psychological; either way, the emotions conveyed are direct, and powerful: Despondence, hopelessness, with a large helping of horror piled on top.

Which had me wondering: Was there something terribly wrong with me, when I felt no despondence, or horror or guilt or shame about all that had transpired with Judith? I experienced rushes of fear every now and then, when I thought about the risks I was running, and how much I had to lose if things went awry. But no regrets, and no sense that I should have pushed down on the lid even harder, with both hands, to keep this part of Michael from flying out to forever haunt my home. I was an adulterer now, which I could never take back, and I had revived the conniving sex-obsessed hypnotist part of myself, misusing the tools intended for healing by deliberately bending them towards the dark side. I had also proven the validity of something I had repeated to many clients in the past, when their therapy became too intense for them, to the point that they decided to quit the sessions, or move to another state or town: You can run but you cannot hide from the contents of your own soul. What you are will follow you, and create the same tensions wherever you are, without fail. We can delay the recognition of who we are, but we can never escape ourselves. Never.

And how did I feel about lid of my Pandora’s box flying open, with the deviant hypnotist part once again roaming the earth? What I experienced was something close to the satisfaction that sometimes appeared in Scarlet’s dark eyes, when she stretched her hind legs far behind her body, loosening her spine and letting out whatever tensions a dog feels. I had been using my talent with the immersion method for months in my hospital work, and I came home every day with a strong sense of personal satisfaction, and professional pride. Not satisfaction like this, though. Not the kind of satisfaction that got my heart racing when I looked at the calendar, and saw that Monday — now privately known as HypBlowtism Day — was only four days away. Until going so far with Judith, it was like I’d been training for long-distance running, where it was in my nature to be a sprinter. My dreams had presaged the inevitable resurrection of my controlling self, and now that I had succumbed to the truth I felt… utilized. In my element. Oddly complete.

And powerful. I got a rush of that every now and then, a tickling sensation deep in my loins that seemed to spread through every bit of me in a rapidly expanding wave. The immersion technique, even in my extremely capable hands, was neither foolproof nor all-powerful, and Judith might be as susceptible a candidate as I might ever find. Judith wanted to be told what to do, and made to do things outside of the scope of her conscious thought. Most women did not share these desires. Most women were capable of resisting hypnotic suggestions that strayed too far outside of their natural or repressed tendencies. But even with those restrictions, the things I could do…

These were the very first thoughts in my head when the trilling of birds awakened me early on Thursday morning. I took Scarlet out for a dawn pee and watched all the winged triggers fluttering in the sky, and smiled. This was See A Bird and Melt Day for Judith, and my only regret was that I hadn’t thought to hotwire her pussy to all of this warbling music.

It was an uncharacteristically cool day for early August, and I took advantage of the crisp air by walking to work, hyper-aware of every feathered movement in the environment. Minutes would pass by sometimes, before a dark shape would dart across the sky, or emerge from a tree. Not many minutes, though, and there were times when they came frequently, one bird appearing only seconds after another had passed beyond my sight. I glanced at my watch and counted the birds for exactly five minutes. Twenty-seven. My God, Judith would be rolling on the sidewalk in blissful agony if she were here. I wondered how long it would take before she pinpointed the exact cause of her interior eruptions, and the film title “Wings of Desire” came into my mind. I liked that — wings of desire. Would Judith seek them out, once she had identified the trigger, or walk with her head down, fearful of every tiny movement?

I didn’t know, and I liked that. We could feel hot together that way — she, randomly erupting with the déjà vu-like sensations of my fingers stroking her entire mind-body-clit-pussy self, and me counting birds, and noticing, for future reference, how often a jet would appear higher in the sky.

It felt so refreshing, to look at certain details of the world like this, for the first time feeling that they held some promise, and meaning for me. It felt so refreshing to be back in business, doing the things I loved most in life.

And lucky for me, I saw opportunities everywhere. My business had every likelihood of expanding, if I played my cards right.

Thursday was also the second day of interviewing at the hospital. On day one we had most likely found two of our four training candidates — one male, one female — but today was the big day, because I would get my first real-life look at Anya Kroplewski, our candidate of special interest.

Carlotta, my former secretary, had found Anya for us. The Friday e-mail that had survived on my computer, Carlotta’s e-mail, included a link to a modest website, through which I was able to study Anya’s resume and pore over several candid photos from a recent palliative care conference. Ms. Kroplewski was thirty-two, blonde and of mixed Czech and Polish descent. Her professional resume as a palliative care specialist was nearly ideal for our purposes, and from what I could see in the snapshots, she was quite attractive, if a tad plumpish, with a warm smile and a promising figure. With her usual efficiency, Carlotta had already contacted Anya, scheduling a tentative date for an interview at the hospital, which I only had to confirm.

I made a point of keeping my gaze above Anya’s chest when Bill escorted her into the conference room for her ten-thirty appointment. I shook her outstretched hand and met the intelligent blue-grey eyes, framed by wide brown eyeglasses. I hadn’t seen the glasses in any of the website snapshots, and presumed that she wore contacts at times. Anya had dressed smartly yet conservatively for her interview, in a navy knee-length skirt with matching jacket, sensible heels and a white button-up blouse. The eyes expressed confidence as she settled into the hot seat directly across from me, and she had every right to feel confident, as any fool could see at a glance that she met our unspoken criteria, and met them quite generously.

Though the tailored jacket kept details to a minimum, there was no denying that Anya had big criteria. Nice legs, too, though I’d only gotten a glimpse of them when she'd entered the room. The white of her blouse reflected brightly in the polished surface of the mahogany conference table, but I was careful to avoid any staring, or any other signs that her looks played a part in our decision-making. We asked the same questions that we asked all of the prospects, and thankfully, Anya did not disappoint. She knew her field and was dedicated to it, and halfway through the interview I realized that she had managed to shift the balance of power in the room, by making us want her more than she needed us. The palms of my hands began to sweat, because it became obvious that we — which specifically meant me — had become the ones being interviewed. Anya already had a career elsewhere, and existing patients who counted on her presence. She needed some convincing to uproot her life and come on board, especially when I mentioned the six month contract we were required to extend.

“Only six months?” she responded. “Is the program in danger of losing its funding?”

I explained, as I had with the other viable candidates, that the immersion technique was not something that “just anybody” could administer reliably. Our intention would be to offer her a long-term arrangement at the end of the six months, providing that the training went well, and she proved effective in placing an acceptable percentage of her patients in the immersion state.

“And you will be the one providing the training,” she stated, fixing me with those intelligent blue eyes.

“Yes. And I have every confidence that the training will be successful.”

“But you can’t guarantee that.” Again, it wasn’t a question.

“I wish I could,” I replied.

“It would be something of a leap of faith for me, to move up here on a six month contract.”

“We understand that. You have to believe that it is our goal to help you succeed, Ms. Kroplewski. Consider it a personal mission for me, to bring you up to speed and have you administering the technique as rapidly as possible. We will all be behind you, you can be assured of that.”

“It isn’t the inconvenience that troubles me,” she explained. “It isn’t even fear of taking a risk. There are people I really care about who would be devastated if I left them behind. Friends, of course, but they would understand. It’s the patients in my care that I’m worried about. I’d need to know…”

“I understand,” I said, and I did. “I’ve been there, too. This is where you have to have confidence in the abilities of your coworkers and the professional community back home, that they can help your existing patients in your absence. And you need to believe in us, and in this program. Our goal is to give you additional and very rare skills, skills that can help others in ways presently unavailable to you. It’s worth it, Anya — I wouldn’t have left my practice if I didn’t know that. We’re breaking ground here, and not to have articles written about how brilliant and pioneering we are. This is about helping people in distress. This is about giving our patients a chance to be lucid and clear within themselves when they face devastating illness, or the approach of death. This is about self-healing, and those who can’t be healed leaving this world in a state of relative lucidity, rather than being drugged out of their minds. That’s the choice you’re making, Anya. Those are the stakes, and the opportunity we represent here.”

She knew she had the job if she wanted it — every person in the room knew I wouldn’t have given a speech like that if the job wasn’t hers for the taking. A quick glance around the table was all I needed to know I hadn’t gone too far. We were unanimous, already, in the wish to bring Anya Kroplewski on board.

And this was it, the moment of truth. She needed to feel the promise of our research, and how that fit into her vision of helping others. She needed to feel that future successes trumped the pain of leaving her current patients behind. Even more than that, she needed to have confidence in me, that I was up to the task of training her. Otherwise, her answer would be ‘no’.

She looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds, adjusting the glasses on her delicate nose. When the blue eyes next met mine, she said: “I’ll need to know what it feels like, before I make my decision.”

It was Bill Littlefield who cut in. “What the immersion state feels like? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” she replied, continuing to look at me. “I’ll want the experience myself — in fact, I insist on it. Otherwise I’d just have some vague idea of what I’m agreeing to do.”

“That can be arranged,” Bill assured her, glancing at me. I calmly nodded my head, although my heart began to pound in my chest. I felt my cock swelling so fast under the conference table that I had to shift in my seat. I’d fantasized about this in bed last night, but I hadn’t thought it could happen.

“Here in the hospital?” Anya asked. “Now?”

I did not want to stand at this particular moment, with an erection tenting my trousers. Fortunately, enough people fidgeted at the request that Anya saw we weren’t prepared to act so quickly.

“My hotel, later?” she redirected.

“That would be best,” I replied. “We have several more hours of interviewing to take care of here.”

She wrote her hotel information on a business card and slipped it to me across the table. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at six?”

“I’ll be there. Anyone else want to tag along?”

No response, other than averted eyes. Yesterday's interviews had stretched into the evening, and everybody was looking forward to going home on time today.

Was I on a roll, or what?

I left a message for Coral that I would be home around seven-thirty or eight, and met Anya at her hotel as arranged. We unwound in the hotel bar over one mixed drink each — doctor’s orders — and I learned a few things about her that would never come out in an interview, as I had hoped. Anya was two years divorced, no children, and almost itching for a change in her life.

“I’m happy enough,” she concluded at one point. “Just… restless. I was being truthful in the interview — it would be very difficult, cutting short certain relationships with my patients…”

“Aren’t those relationships cut short by design? It’s one of the things in this line of work that I’ve had to adjust to, that I’m no longer helping people to deal with the rest of their lives in an abstract sense.”

“You’re slipping into the danger of equating palliative care with hospice care. The emphasis of my work is to alleviate suffering, which sometimes includes patients facing end of life situations.” She took a small sip of her vodka tonic, and the blue eyes behind the glasses fixed to mine with interest. “It must be very different for you, moving from your work on managing or curing addictions, to working with more tangible physical issues, and death.”

“Mental illness and psychological discomforts are tangible enough for any trained therapist. But you’re right, it’s a different landscape here, dealing with serious disease and worse. Rather than working for years with a client, slowly peeling their defenses away to get at the root of their hidden issues, those facing serious illness know their enemy, and the time frame is comparatively narrow. People are either cured, or in remission, or gone. In the meantime, facing physical illness does not remove them from the same psychological difficulties they’ve always had to deal with. I’m still a therapist in there, even if I’m not wearing my training on my sleeve.”

“You sound a little like me. I like to take events — and relationships — to their natural conclusion, and do all I can for people for as long as they’re in my care. I’ve always believed that we are given certain people in our lives — our blood relatives, of course, but other people too, and not always the easiest people. Don’t you ever feel like that, that life has dished up a deep connection with a particular person, whether they neatly fit into your plans or not? Like knowing them and being tied to them is inescapable? It’s like an unseen tide washes them onto your shore, and they’re yours until another tide of that same nature washes them away.”

The image of Mira, lying naked in the sand with her legs spread wide and wet hair clinging to her breasts flashed through my mind. I could see my tongue gliding up the inside of a thigh, the scent of ocean mixing with the scent of pussy. Meanwhile, Rosita might be masturbating in front of a video camera at this very second, and a starling could be darting into Judith’s field of vision, making her fall to her knees from the phantom sensations of my fingers diddling her clit and twat. I brought my mug of beer to my lips and took a very long pull of the dark liquid before answering: “I’ve felt something like that before, yes.”

Anya brought her left hand to her throat and lightly pulled at a silver chain that I hadn’t noticed. Her fingers unconsciously stroked along the thin metal strand, and I caught a glimpse of a small cross affixed to the bottom. Lucky cross, I thought, as it appeared to live in the shadowy crack between her breasts.

“Well, I experience that with a great number of my patients,” she went on. “They’ve been given to me to take care of, and relate with, sometimes until their last breath. It isn’t easy to contemplate cutting those people off, no matter how tempting your program is.”

I didn’t say anything in response, partly because it seemed intelligent to avoid any word or deed that might appear pushy, and partly because I felt something unseen hovering in the air, and wondered if Anya might continue speaking, bringing it forth. I kept taking in the measure of this woman — physically, through sideways glances, but also drinking in her spirit. She possessed a dedication to this field that I was just learning to embrace, and it was a beautiful thing. Anya Kroplewski was a beautiful thing, inside and out, although the more I looked, the more I saw an underlying tension tightening her cheeks. She was hiding something, or not saying something, and keeping it inside tightened the smooth flesh around the mouth in a way that reminded me of my own reflection in a mirror. I began to feel a magnetic pull towards her, the kind of pull where I could possibly imagine that she had been “given” to me, much as she had described, whether she easily fit into my plans or not.

I asked how she had chosen nursing to begin with, and she looked thankful for the change of direction, telling me about caring for her grandmother as a young girl, and the connection that had formed between them. I snuck little glances at Anya’s lips — more relaxed now — as she spoke, studying how they moved. They were well-defined, and seemed to catch the light the way lips do when freshly coated with lipstick. My eyes slid down the neck, past the silver chain to the swell of her breasts, and how they caused the black silk of her blouse to shimmer with silvery-black highlights. The breasts ended in a darker black shelf, and beyond that I couldn’t see, although I’d noticed before that she had changed into a shorter skirt. She was definitely voluptuous, and nicely shaped all around, including the legs and the ankles slipping down into her heels. She was perhaps ten pounds on the wrong side of “cuddly” — the thing was, it was easy as pie to imagine the pounds melting away, and the glasses coming off, with Anya sitting there just as she was now, only looking more like a busty European playmate than an attractive palliative care nurse.

I tried to listen attentively as she divulged bits and pieces of her personal history. It wasn’t easy, because ideas kept flitting through my brain, dangerous ideas that I’d have to be a fool to try. And when Anya finally asked: “So, are we ready to do this?”, my hands were trembling, because I was already hard at work inside, pushing the lid back down with all my might. I couldn’t close it — I’d never be able to close it, I had missed that chance, if I’d ever had one. But if I could shut it part-way, letting only one or two demons out, rather than twenty…

I knew I had to press down harder when I fell a couple of steps behind Anya on the way to the elevator, studying the musculature of her legs in the nylons, and the sway of that just slightly too big ass. I began to grow hard, vividly imagining this same backside two months from now, naked and slimmer, but more importantly dying to feel my abdomen smacking hard against it, my hands wrapping around to squash those big boobs tight to her ribcage. The elevator walls were mirrored, and every angle inspired a different hypnotic suggestion. I kept imagining how she would look if lust began to flow like magma from her depths, and she removed her glasses, just before sinking to her knees. I pictured Judith’s tongue driving into her pussy, while Anya’s tongue slowly swirled saliva around the head of my cock. I wondered whether she would cry out in Polish when she came, and just how talented the fingers were that had absently stroked the silver chain around her neck.

A sip, rather than a bender, I concluded. I wasn’t crazy enough to believe I could actually resist temptation with this woman, but I could avoid pushing her in directions today that would flush my whole life down the toilet. A tiny sip, implanting the desire in her to let me sip again. Slow and steady. Patient. Measured. Safe.

“I lie down on my back, right?” she asked, once we had entered her room.

“Right. Take as much time as you need to settle into a position where you can relax completely.”

“Go ahead and close those curtains,” she pointed with her eyes, removing both her shoes and the eyeglasses. “That sun is still so bright out there.”

Anya’s settled her body onto the twin bed at the back of the room, and I pulled a wooden chair alongside, placing myself roughly at her midsection. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs an inch or so, and I kept sneaking little glances down the length of the nylons.

“I’ve been wondering what I want out of this,” she spoke softly, the corners of her mouth rising in a strange smile.

“What do you mean?”

Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, and I could see in the stare that her world was out of focus beyond a few feet away. “I want the experience of being in the state, but I’m not in pain — I don’t even have a headache, or tired feet. So… What is it that we should do, so I feel that I’ve been there like your patients, at least part-way?”

“Do you have any bad habits you want to overcome?"

“Oh, your work with addictions. I… Let me think a moment.”

She stopped speaking, and the air around her became invisibly volatile. I still had my talent, my “ordinary” talent, for following certain barely perceptible signals. What that told me right now was that a cloud had passed through Anya’s being. She wanted something from this little session, and she didn’t want to want it.

“I know!” she exploded, banishing whatever had been there. “It’s chocolate. I keep trying to drop a bit of weight, but I can’t resist chocolate, especially during the day. Sometimes I feel like it keeps me going when I work, like coffee for coffee drinkers.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’m good at this sort of thing, although not in a one-shot deal.”

“If you really believe you could help at all, then tell me to get my ass into the gym more often, too. I have a membership, but my workload takes over and I don’t get there the way I intend to.”

“You’ll be doing sit-ups here on the carpet the moment you come out of the state,” I joked, keeping things light. “Now close your eyes, and place your hands on your abdomen.”

“Here we goooo…” she sang, closing her eyes. Before I could begin, she reopened them, and seemed to take in the fact that she was lying on a bed in a room with a man she barely knew. Her breasts rose and fell with three deep quick breaths before she said, “My God, this requires so much trust on the part of the patient!”

“Probably no more than what is required from your patients every day,” I soothed, although I didn’t really believe that. “And you aren’t used to being on the receiving end of professional treatment. You’re in unfamiliar territory.”

She turned her head and looked in the direction of my eyes. “I suppose you’re right.”

I didn’t think she could tell whether my eyes roamed down her body, not without the glasses. “We don’t have to do this,” I allowed, staring straight at the big tits as they rose and fell, just because I could. “If you feel uncomfortable here, we could…”

“Yes, we do have to do it. It’s okay, I’ll be fine. I trust you.”

Even so, she wasn’t the easiest woman to guide into the immersion state, probably because she was studying what I was doing as I did it. I worked patiently with her, sometimes coming to the strange sense that I could observe the unfolding induction from behind my right shoulder, viewing both Anya and myself from the same viewpoint that Coral had sketched all those times. It wouldn’t have looked like this, of course, because here I was hypnotizing a beautiful woman, alone, rather than a sickly patient in the company of other professionals.

Anya did finally succumb, and it felt right to begin where we had left off, on the issue of trust.

“You really do trust Michel, don’t you Anya?”

Her response was not quick. “I… trust Michael…”

She never said the words “some”, or “enough”, but they were there, silently pushing back at my compelling voice. She trusted my professionalism enough to be lying on a bed in the immersion state, but she barely knew me.

“You can trust Michael, completely,” I soothed, although the thoughts running through my mind were the opposite of trustworthy. Anya looked really good like this, sans glasses with her tits sticking up into the air. I lowered my head as I kept repeating variations on how she could trust me, surveying a profile view of her breasts rising above her ribcage. She was a very big girl, her breasts harnessed by what must be a very big bra. They were undoubtedly larger than Corral’s breasts in volume, though not in proportion. Again I pictured something like fifteen pounds melting away from Anya’s upper arms, and midsection, and ass, to the point that she would need to buy a whole new wardrobe. New bras, too? One could only guess, and imagine. Whatever the outcome, it would probably be spectacular.

I aimed there, on her weight issues where she wished for us to aim, once I felt confident that she would accept the suggestions without resistance. It had been months since I’d worked with normal compulsive behaviors like this, and it surprised me how it all came back so easily. I began by stressing the sense of well-being Anya would experience every time she set the goal of denying herself unnecessary snacks during the day, and met the goal. The same with her attendance at a gym, and working her body into a sweat.

Several minutes into the process, I felt the singular adrenaline rush that comes from a hunch that seems like more than a hunch. The basis of my success had always been in unearthing the cravings underneath problematic behaviors, and Anya might have divulged just enough for me to make an educated guess.

“Tell Michael what happened to your marriage, Anya. You wish to be understood, and accepted by a trustworthy man like Michael. You should tell Michael what led to the end of your marriage, so he can understand you better.”

“I… I…”

“Tell the compelling and trustworthy voice why your marriage ended.”

I had to wait. Eventually, she whispered: “I… fell in love with… someone.”

Again, I was certain that I had heard the unspoken words. “You fell in love with a woman, didn’t you Anya?”

“Yesss…”

“Are you a lesbian?”

“I’m… not sure. I… I…don’t…”

I don’t want to be, I could intuit. I remembered the little cross pendant, and the box checked “Catholic” on her application form. To some that could mean very little; to others, a great deal.

“Is it a sin to be a lesbian, Anya?”

“Yes… great… sin.”

“Did your husband divorce you because you had sinned?”

“No, he… I couldn’t… stop.”

Well, well. “Couldn’t stop sinning with this woman?”

“Yesss…”

“Because it felt too good to sin with this woman. It felt like heaven.”

“Oh yesss…”

Our earlier conversation about people “being given to you” took on new meaning. I also knew without being told that this particular relationship had ended. “How long has it been since you had sex, Anya?”

“S...six.”

Months. And now with the woman she had fallen for no longer around for whatever reasons, Anya was caught. Maybe she had tried dating men; maybe had “fallen” again with someone else. Hell, maybe she just sat at home, or at her patients’ bedsides, trying like crazy not to think about the forbidden urges. “I’m restless,” she had said in the bar, and now it made sense. She was thinking of running like I had tried to run. She was thinking that a new job with new friends in a new city might provide the magic spark that could turn her into a new woman. She was thinking that the excitement of a new situation might give her strength that she didn’t have now, to push the lid down and keep it in place.

And as fate would have it, what she had found instead was… me.

“How often do you masturbate, Anya?” I asked, my adrenaline pumping.

“I… not… much.”

“Because that, too, is a sin?”

“Y…yes.”

“How many times a month do you masturbate? More than five? Less?”

“Less.”

“Where do you masturbate?”

“In the… bath.”

“Only the bath?”

“Yesss…”

I could see it like the scene in a film — Anya lighting dozens of votive candles in her bathroom, slowly stripping her voluptuous body out of her bathrobe, and easing herself into steaming water. Ritualizing her forbidden pleasure. Giving it atmosphere, and romance, in an environment where the nectar of her lust could be quickly washed away. Perhaps she even completed the scene by getting down on her knees afterwards, to pray for forgiveness.

“You feel so much tension, don’t you Anya? Excitement when you fantasize about your secret lust for women, but so much tension, every day, from the need to hide it away.”

“Yes!”

“I understand, Anya. Michael understands you, in a way few people ever will. You can feel that, can’t you? You can feel the truth of that.”

“Yes, I… feel it.”

My cock was pushing hard at my pants again, and I knew what I wanted right now. It wasn’t an immersion blowjob, or suggestions that Anya feel the need for my dick plugging her pussy, not yet. No, all I wanted right now was to watch her masturbate in front of me. I wanted to see for myself how much tit-play was involved, and how her blue eyes clouded, or brightened, when sin swamped devotion, and the needs of the body declared that she had lost the possibility of turning back.

I stood from my chair, and leaned in close to the middle of her thighs, bending until my chin nearly touched the nylons. I could breathe in the scent of her pussy from here, faint but detectable. With great care, I placed the pinky of my left hand under the hem of her skirt at the front, and lifted, just enough to move my nose in closer. The talk about liking girls and masturbation was definitely getting her hot. It would be so easy, to have her raise the skirt up on her own, spreading the legs wider to engage in the activity she simultaneously desired and feared. I would be able to watch her fingers as they unconsciously stroking her clitoris, much as they had stroked the silver chain around her neck.

I recognized that Anya had almost come clean to me before being put under. She had wanted something in particular, something about her repressed sexual nature, and I might be able to give it to her. I sat back in the chair, deciding on my next move. The question was: Did I want to know what she desired? If she told me, and I wanted something completely different, would I be doubly damned if I ignored her wishes, and followed my own?

There were so many directions, so many possibilities for this woman. She really was a bit like me, with a probable obsessive streak that would be so easy to take hold of, and stroke. It was almost ideal, too, that she was at a crossroads, trying to choose the direction that her life would take, and whom she would be. The point was, her psyche came to me wanting change, perhaps even craving change. In a place like that, arrived at on her own steam, almost all possibilities were open, weren’t they? A foreign impulse might feel like a flash of inspiration in a place like that. A sudden urge to partake of even worse forbidden acts might feel like the lid of one’s own Pandora’s box snapping open, with its horrible contents spilling out.

It was a no-brainer that Anya would have to take the job. Beyond that, all I needed to do was get her in the immersion state, again and again and again. I didn’t want to know what direction she actually wished to be pointed in — she’d had her chance to tell me, and had chosen not to. Now, knowing what I knew, her future belonged to the both of us.

Given to each other, like an unseen tide had washed her onto my shore, and mine until another tide of the same nature washed her away. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Her pussy was going to like that, too. I couldn’t have her emerging from our little session with the smell of her cunt all over her fingers, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t already mine. Anya Kroplewski had washed onto the shores of Immersion Island, and I would make certain that her stay was a wet and pleasant one.

I drove several points home over and over before bringing Anya out of the immersion state. She would come to see the job as exactly what she needed to move forward in her life, and she would feel it necessary to be placed in the immersion state repeatedly, to expedite her training. Her sexual orientation could remain a mystery for now — the important thing was for her to feel the pull towards masturbating more frequently, and in more locations, as a reward for foregoing chocolate and working out. Every dropped pound was cause for a major auto-play session, with sex toys if she felt especially inspired. The underlying guilt about sinning just added more heat to the deed. All illicit thoughts would add heat between her thighs, heat that could not be ignored, or resisted.

And most of all, she would feel positive feelings towards Michael, and trust him, and believe that he represented a positive force in her life. She would feel that Michael had been given to her in some profound way, even if she was unsure what their relationship would be, and how they might fit into each other’s lives.

“That was… incredible!” she smiled, once she was back. “Do all of your patients feel like this when they come out of hypnosis?”

“Feel how?”

“Like… I don’t know, all energized, and confident. I feel like I can take on the world right now!”

“What you’re describing is closer to what my old clients reported, when we worked on their compulsive behaviors. I went pretty hard at your little chocolate fetish.”

“Will it work?”

“I don’t know. It was only one go with the technique, so we'll see.”

“We’ll have to do it again,” she said, sitting up and carefully placing her glasses upon the bridge of her nose.

I raised an eyebrow. “That would mean…”

“Consider it part of my training, Michael.”

“You can give it more thought if you need to, Anya. There’s no rush.”

“I know. I wanted to sleep on it, because… But hell, who am I kidding? Your technique is astounding and I have to learn it! I’m on-board, okay? I’ll stop by your office tomorrow morning to make it official.”

“I just happen to have the papers you’d need to sign with me,” I admitted. “They’re in my car.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” she laughed.

She gave me a warm tit-squishing hug before we left the room together, and she signed the papers right there in the parking lot. We shook hands afterwards, sealing a devil's pact with depths that she would never understand.

“I’m really looking forward to working with you, Michael,” she said as a farewell.

“Me too,” I replied, feeling like my dick had so much energy that it could practically throb the car home.