I didn't want to be there.
The VA had been on my ass for months about seeing someone. Said the nightmares weren't gonna go away on their own. Said the drinking wasn't helping. Said a lot of shit, honestly.
But here I was, sitting in some fancy leather chair across from Dr. Adrian Cross, feeling like a goddamn idiot.
The guy was... not what I expected. Most shrinks I'd pictured were old dudes with glasses and bad breath. Adrian was maybe late thirties, early forties. Lean but not scrawny. Dark hair with some gray at the temples. These sharp green eyes that seemed to see right through me.
"So, Marcus," he said, flipping through my file. "Former Marine. Two tours. Honorable discharge three years ago."
He looked up and smiled. Not the kind of smile that made me feel like a patient. More like... I don't know. Like we were just two guys shooting the shit.
"You don't want to be here."
"Good." He closed the file and tossed it on his desk. "I don't want to waste your time with the usual bullshit. You've been through things most people can't imagine. Talking about it won't fix anything."
That got my attention. "Then what the hell am I doing here?"
"Have you heard of hypnotherapy?"
I snorted. "Like those stage shows where people cluck like chickens?"
"Nothing like that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, Marcus. Your conscious mind is on high alert all the time. That's what kept you alive over there. But now you're home, and that same survival mechanism is destroying your life. I can help you... turn down the volume."
I should've walked out right then. But something about the way he talked made sense. And honestly? I was tired. So fucking tired of jumping at every loud noise, of waking up drenched in sweat, of feeling like I was still in that desert.
"Fine. What do I gotta do?"
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Adrian's office had this leather recliner thing that was way more comfortable than it looked. He dimmed the lights and put on some soft music. Ocean sounds or some shit.
"Just relax, Marcus. Listen to my voice."
His voice was... something else. Deep and smooth. Like bourbon, if bourbon could talk.
"I want you to focus on breathing. In... and out. In... and out."
I felt stupid at first. But after a few minutes, my body started getting heavy. Like I was sinking into the chair.
"That's good. You're doing great, Marcus."
When he said my name, something warm spread through my chest. I don't know how to explain it. It just felt... good. Having someone tell me I was doing good.
"Now, I'm going to count down from ten. When I reach one, you'll be in a deep, peaceful state. You'll still hear me. You'll still be aware. But you'll feel completely safe."
He counted down. I don't remember reaching one.
The next thing I knew, he was telling me to open my eyes, and I felt... different. Lighter. Like someone had taken a forty-pound pack off my shoulders.
"Weird," I admitted. "But... good weird?"
"That's normal. We made some progress today."
"What did I say? Under the... whatever?"
Adrian smiled. "Nothing embarrassing. Just some memories you've been holding onto too tightly. We're going to work on letting them go."
I nodded, still feeling fuzzy. "Same time next week?"
"I'll see you then, Marcus."
Walking out to my truck, I realized something. For the first time in three years, the noise is gone.
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I went back the next week. And the week after that.
Every session, Adrian would put me under, and every session, I'd come out feeling better. The nightmares started fading. I stopped checking every exit when I walked into a room. The constant tension in my shoulders finally let up.
But there was other stuff too. Stuff I didn't really think about at first.
I started hitting the gym more. Not just maintaining like I used to, but really pushing myself. I caught myself checking out my reflection in the mirror, flexing, seeing how the sweat made my skin shine.
"Looking good, Stone," I'd mutter, and it felt... right.
I bought new clothes. Tighter shirts. Jeans that actually fit instead of hanging off me like I was still expecting to lose twenty pounds in the field.
And suddenly, I was noticing people. Their bodies. The way they moved.
I should be freak out about it. But Adrian had said during one session that I should "embrace my natural desires" and "stop letting society's expectations control me." It made sense. Who gave a shit what anyone thought? I was a grown man. A strong man. I could want whatever and whoever I wanted.
"I've been feeling more... open," I told Adrian during our fifth session.
"Just. You know." I shifted in the chair, suddenly aware of how my thighs filled out my jeans. "More comfortable with myself. My body. What I want."
"That's excellent, Marcus. That's exactly the kind of progress we want to see."
When he smiled at me, I felt a flutter in my stomach. The same kind of flutter I used to get around pretty girls in high school.
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I asked Adrian if I could come in twice a week instead of once.
"My schedule's pretty packed," he said, looking at his calendar. But when he glanced up at me, his eyes did this thing where they traveled down my body and back up. "But for you, Marcus... I think we can make it work."
Tuesdays and Thursdays. I lived for those days.
The sessions got longer. More intense. When I was under, Adrian's voice would guide me through these... scenarios. I couldn't quite remember them when I woke up, but I'd feel this lingering warmth in my body. This ache. This need.
I started dreaming about him.
Nothing crazy at first. Just us in his office, but he'd touch my shoulder and it would feel electric. Then the dreams got more detailed. Him telling me I was good. Me wanting to be good for him. Waking up hard and not knowing exactly why.
By the eighth week, my PTSD symptoms were practically gone. I slept through the night. I didn't flinch at loud noises. I could watch action movies without having flashbacks.
But something else was different too. I walked different. Talked different. People at the hardware store where I worked said I seemed happier.
"What's your secret?" my manager asked.
"Best therapist in the world," I said. And meant it.
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"I want to see you more."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "More than twice a week?"
"I was thinking... maybe every day?"
It sounded crazy when I said it out loud. But the days between sessions felt endless. Empty. Like I was only half-awake until I was back in that chair, hearing his voice.
"Marcus, that's a significant commitment. Both financially and time-wise."
"I don't care about the money." I leaned forward, probably looking desperate. "I just... I need this. You're the only one who gets me, doc."
He studied me for a long moment. Those green eyes unreadable.
"Every day at five," he finally said. "But you have to understand, this level of therapy is intensive. You'll need to be completely open. Completely vulnerable."
"Can you? You'll need to trust me completely, Marcus. Will you do that? Will you trust me?"
The word came out before I even thought about it. But it felt right.
Those two words hit me like a freight train. Heat flooded through my body, all the way to my fingertips. I actually had to look down to make sure I wasn't visibly blushing.
No one had ever called me that before. I was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound former Marine with a chest like a barrel and hands that could crush a man's skull.
But hearing Adrian say "good boy" made me feel something I'd never felt. Something that made my knees weak and my heart race.
"Let's begin," he said, gesturing to the chair.
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I don't remember a lot from the daily sessions. But I remember feelings.
Warmth spreading through my whole body as Adrian's voice washed over me.
Weightlessness, like I was floating in water.
And always, always the sense that I was exactly where I belonged.
Sometimes I'd catch fragments of what he was saying. Words about how strong I was. How desirable. How my body was a gift that should be shared.
He talked a lot about how real strength meant being open to pleasure. How true masculinity wasn't about being closed off, but about being confident enough to receive.
At home, I started experimenting. Bought some nice lotion and took long baths. Shaved my body hair because it felt smoother, more sensual. I'd catch myself touching my own skin while watching TV, just feeling how soft it was.
I bought different underwear. The kind that showed off what I had. I'd stand in front of the mirror and pose, feeling this rush of confidence and arousal.
"Look at you," I'd whisper to myself. "Look at what a man you are."
The words felt like they came from somewhere deep inside me.
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It took me until week twelve to admit what was happening.
Not just as a therapist. Not just as someone who was helping me. I wanted him in ways I'd never wanted anyone before.
I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to see all of me—the strength and the softness, the hardness and the vulnerability.
More than anything, I wanted him to tell me I was good again.
"You seem distracted today," Adrian observed.
"I've been thinking about something."
I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding. This was braver than anything I'd done in combat.
"I think about you all the time," I admitted. "Not in a weird way. Just... when I'm doing stuff. Working out. Eating. Before I go to sleep."
"What do you think about?"
"Your voice. The way you say my name." I swallowed hard. "The way you make me feel."
"And how do I make you feel, Marcus?"
"Seen," I said, my voice cracking. "Wanted. Like I'm actually worth something."
"Those feelings are valid. You've made incredible progress. I'm proud of you."
There it was. Proud. Like "good boy" but even better.
"I want to be close to you," I blurted out. "Not just in sessions. I want..."
I couldn't finish the sentence. It was too much. Too crazy.
But Adrian just smiled that calm smile of his.
"Marcus, what you're feeling is natural. You've opened yourself up in ways most men never dare. You've become comfortable with your desires." He tilted his head slightly. "Tell me what you want."
The words hung in the air.
And Adrian's smile got just a little bit wider.
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"Show me," he said simply.
My legs were shaking as I stood up from the chair. Adrian stayed seated behind his desk, watching me with those green eyes.
I walked around to his side. He turned his chair to face me.
"I've never..." I started.
He didn't move. Didn't reach for me. This was mine to do. My choice.
I leaned down, bracing my hands on the armrests of his chair. He smelled like sandalwood and something else, something warm.
And everything I'd been feeling for twelve weeks crystallized into one perfect moment.
His mouth was soft but sure. One of his hands came up to cup the back of my neck, and I honest-to-god whimpered against his lips. A grown man, a Marine, whimpering like a teenager at his first dance.
"You're doing so well," Adrian murmured against my mouth. "Such a good boy."
That was it. That was all I needed.
I sank to my knees in front of him, not even thinking about it. It just felt right. Natural. Like this was exactly where I belonged.
"How do you feel?" he asked, looking down at me.
"Fucking amazing," I breathed. "Like I've been waiting my whole life for this."
"That's because you have." He ran his fingers through my short hair. "You've been so strong for so long, Marcus. Carrying all that weight. Now you get to let someone else carry it for a while."
"Yes," I said, not even knowing what I was agreeing to. "Yes, please."
"When you come in tomorrow, we'll begin a new phase of your therapy. Are you ready for that?"
"I'm ready for anything."
"I know you are." He smiled down at me. "That's what makes you so special."
I drove home in a daze, my lips still tingling. I didn't feel confused or ashamed. I felt euphoric. Like I'd finally figured out the secret to life.
That night, I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. My broad shoulders. My thick arms. The way my chest still looked damn good for forty-two.
"I'm a fucking catch," I said to my reflection. And I believed it.
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Every day at five, I was in that office. But now the sessions were different.
Now there was kissing. Touching. Adrian teaching me things about my body I'd never known.
"Real strength is being open," he'd say, his hands exploring my chest. "Real masculinity is about knowing what you want and taking it. Or giving it. Depending on what feels right."
"This feels right," I'd gasp.
"Of course it does. You were made for this, Marcus."
And I believed him. Because it felt true. It felt like everything in my life had been leading to this point. The military, the PTSD, the divorce—all of it was just the path that brought me to Adrian.
We didn't go all the way at first. He said I wasn't ready. Said I needed to be fully prepared, fully open.
"I want to be ready," I'd beg. "Please, Adrian. Tell me what to do."
"Patience," he'd say, kissing my forehead. "Good things come to those who wait."
The waiting was agony. But also exquisite. Every day I felt myself changing more. I started wearing even tighter clothes to our sessions. I'd catch myself sitting with my legs spread, my body angled toward him like a flower toward the sun.
At work, my coworkers noticed something was different.
"You're like a new man," my manager said. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
"Oh, I intend to," I said.
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Those four words sent a shiver through my entire body.
"Ready for what?" I asked, even though I knew. God, I knew.
"Ready to receive the full experience. Ready to be everything you were meant to be."
Adrian led me to a different room in his office. One I'd never seen before. It had a bigger couch, softer lighting, and a bed in the corner.
"Today, we're going to complete your transformation."
He laughed softly. "Not in the way you're thinking. But it might be intense. Are you prepared for intense, Marcus?"
I thought about my tours. The things I'd seen. The things I'd done.
"I've never been more prepared for anything."
He undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. My shoulders. My chest. Down my stomach.
"Look at you," he murmured. "This incredible body. You've been hiding it away, ashamed of it. But not anymore. Now you know what you have. What you can give."
"I want to give it to you," I said. "All of it."
What happened next was... I don't have words for most of it. It was pleasure and pain and revelation. It was feeling full in ways I'd never imagined. It was Adrian's voice in my ear, telling me I was taking it so well, that I was a natural, that this was what I was born for.
When it was over, I was crying. Sobbing, actually. Great heaving sobs of relief and joy.
"Shh," Adrian said, holding me. "It's alright. You did perfectly. You're perfect."
"You've been mine since the day you walked through that door, Marcus. You just didn't know it yet."
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It's been six months since that first session.
I don't have PTSD anymore. I don't have nightmares. I don't even think hard.
I'm a completely different person.
I moved into Adrian's place last month. I cook for him, clean for him, keep myself looking good for him. When he comes home from work, I greet him at the door. Sometimes on my knees.
Sometimes I think about the man I used to be. The closed-off Marine who couldn't sleep through the night. Who drank too much and loved too little.
He seems like a stranger now. A ghost.
I asked Adrian once if he'd changed me.
"Of course I did," he said, kissing my shoulder. "That was the point."
He pulled me closer. "Are you upset about that?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it.
"No," I said finally. "Because I'm happy now. Does it matter how I got here?"
I smiled and buried my face in his chest.
Everything about me is different now. My walk, my talk, my clothes, my desires.
The therapy sessions never really ended. They just changed. Now they happen in our bedroom. Adrian still uses that voice sometimes—the one that makes me feel weightless and warm. He says it helps reinforce my progress.
I don't question it. I just close my eyes and let his words wash over me.
And the last thought I have before I drift off is always the same:
This is exactly where I belong.
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