#hypnomartyr

The sessions always begin the same way: the soft tick of a metronome, the faint smell of incense, and the low, honey-thick voice of your therapist—the man you’ve unhealthily come to know as your savior.

"Let your body relax," he murmurs, "Just follow my voice…and drop deeper for me.”

And you do. You always do. But when the trance snaps, you’re never truly rested. You wake up on his leather chair, disoriented and gasping for air, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Your skin feels electric, abnormally sensitive to the brush of your own clothes, and unfortunately — a heavy, aching heat pools in your lap. You feel slick, desperate, and inexplicably used.

"You drifted off again," He explains, sitting across from you, his expression a mask of professional concern. "A deep, restorative sleep. It’s a sign of progress." He smiles.

You want to believe him, but as you stumble out of his office, the "progress" feels like the worst kind of fever. By the time you reach your apartment, you are frantic, clumsily peeling off the heavy fabric clinging uncomfortably to your heated skin, sinking into your bed, touching yourself, spiraling into a desperate, frantic release. Your mind is flooded with him and the rhythmic vibration of his voice. You want to stop, but a part of you knows that only the thought of him can bring the delirium you crave.

The shame is a cold aftertaste that lingers punishingly. He is your therapist, you keep telling yourself, scrubbing at your flushed face in the dark. He is trying to fix you, and here you are—obsessed, depraved, and ungrateful. Yet, the addiction is stronger than the guilt. Each session leaves you more pent up than the last, more desperate for the feverish tension only he seems to trigger, even if you can’t remember how he does it.

The routine broke during the eleventh session.

Perhaps the dosage of his suggestion was off, or perhaps your subconscious was finally screaming loud enough to be heard. Mid-trance, the darkness cracked. You felt the heavy weight of your limbs, but when you tried to lift a hand to wipe the sweat from your brow—nothing moved.

Panic flared like a white-hot spike in your chest. You tried to thrash, your body felt like a stone statue, pinned down by an invisible force to the leather chair that no longer felt safe. A muffled scream tore from your throat.

"Shhhhh…," There stands your therapist in front of you, perhaps a bit too close. His voice sliced through your panic, still soft and calm, but there was something dark in his tone that you couldn’t quite place — you’re too clueless, too helpless in trance to do anything but cling to him as your only anchor.

"Don't fight the tide. Follow my lead. I will help you." He leaned in, lips inches from your ear. He whispered a single, nonsense word,a jagged syllable that felt like a key turning in a lock you didn't know existed.

The moment the sound hit your ears, the panic vanished, replaced by a violent, overwhelming heat. He began to chant it, louder and more rhythmic, a pulse of sound that vibrated through your paralyzed spine. You realized, with a sickening jolt of clarity, that this wasn't new. Your body recognized this word. It had been carved into your mind during those hours you couldn't remember, sessions intentionally programmed to be forgotten. You came undone right there on the chair, helpless and weeping, the intense embarrassment made you want to cover up your face, yet any struggle was futile, your body reacting to his voice like a puppet on a string. This time, he didn't whisper the command to forget.

When the fog finally cleared and the paralysis was gone, you sat up, shaking, your clothes damp and your face flushed with undeniable evidence of what had happened.

He was back at his desk, ever so professional and composed, scribbling down notes on your file. He looked up, his face a picture of mild surprise. "Are you alright? You seem… agitated today. Did you have another one of your 'fantasies' while under?"

"You... you said a word," you stammered, your voice trembling. "I saw... I felt..."

He sighed, a sound of gentle disappointment. "I said nothing but 'relax,' my dear. It seems your fixation is becoming a barrier to your recovery. Your mind is projecting these desires to fill the blanks of your memory. It's a common, if unfortunate, side effect of your particular... sensitivities."

He let you remember this time. He let you remember the sensation, but denied the cause. You tucked your head in shame, believing that your own disgusting mind had invented the trigger, the word, and the release. You felt pathetic, yet he remained so patient—just as he was when you first started seeing him, when you confessed your trauma, your numbness, all the things you hated about yourself. He was always there, listening, the only safe constant in your miserable life.

Now, you sit at home, staring at the phone. Your skin is crawling, and that single, jagged word echoes in the back of your skull like a heartbeat. You are terrified of that twisted part of yourself, the part that leers at a man who is only trying to heal you. You know he isn't good for you, you should switch doctors, or perhaps admit that therapy isn't working at all.

Yet as you reach for your keys to head to your next appointment, the shame is drowned out by a desperate, starving need — You don't want to be fixed. You just want to crawl back onto that chair, close your eyes, and pray that your "fantasies" take over you. Does he know how much you want to be broken?

They had to be projecting their own disgusting fantasies onto their therapist. It didn’t start out like this, they didn’t feel like this when they first met. They didn’t even find him attractive or, or really thought of him in a romantic light. Yet over the next few months, unwillingly, they found that their mind would wander back to him. In the quiet spaces it was always him standing there seemingly taking over their waking thoughts and desire. Everything he said now sounded suggestive as if he was saying them for their own benefit, to give them something to think about later in the darkness of their bedroom. They have to be projecting. He didn’t feel that way about them and any heavy lidded eye glance with what they swore was hunger- lust that would consume them a trick of the light. 

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been pulling away more lately. Is there something going on?” 

His voice makes goosebumps raise on their arms and it’s with a frantic, fraying will they manage to keep themselves from rubbing their thighs together to alleviate the sudden heat that spiked between their legs. 

“Ah, yeah I- sorry it’s just I’ve been so busy with work. It’s hard to- um, you know, be introspective when all I'm focused on is getting through the day.” They nervously rung their hands together, to keep their hands busy. To keep them from wandering somewhere… Inappropriate. “I haven’t had much to- to say.” 

The familiar all consuming throb, slow at first, yet with every steady word he spoke nowadays the spikes of pleasure would grow to a point they believed that they would lose their mind. Yet, every session they somehow manage to leave without incident. The burning heat would be gone and their body would feel… loose. Relaxed. This is why they kept coming back, he was the only therapist who made them feel so calm. Before this conundrum they had felt so comfortable with him. Now they had to keep a tight leash in fear of doing something shameful, like falling to their knees and begging him to fuck their throat raw. In their imagination his lips would start to curl at the edges, parting to show a flash of teeth-

A click of the tongue suddenly made them go limp, anxious energy easily rushing out of them. Any thoughts they were having seemed to fade as easily as water color paint. Only the emotions connected left seeping out onto the page.

“You know it’s not good to lie about these things.” His voice is soft, warm, comforting- hot so hot. There's the sound of fabric running across skin as he loosened his tie. They were left memorized by the way his thick fingers sunk into the fold of the fabric spreading it apart easily. Then he pulled, showcasing the column of his neck, stretching himself out akin to a languishing cat. "Tell me what's been bothering you doll.”

Their lips move, against their will, voice low, throaty as if just awoken from sleep. “I keep getting horny at work.” The words are spoken dully with no sense of shame feeling divorced from the anxiety and worry of before. “I get stressed, then I think of you like you told me too last time. I can’t stop thinking about you sir. Then I hide in the family bathroom so I can touch myself. When I come it's so relieving- I cry, then I feel so much better.” 

A sly smile curls upon his lips, as he slowly stands from his chair clearly liking what he heard. “Good, good you remembered what I told you. By the sound of it you've been masturbating daily. And what is it that you’ve been thinking about during these sessions?” Between slow blinks they find him standing right in front of the couch they’re sitting on leaning over them. His body heat makes them shiver subconsciously.

Their lips smacked together, another slow breath being taken in as a hand is put gently onto the crown of their head. “Mhm, every day morning at work an at nigh-” A moan is dragged from their lips as his fingers cascade down, fingernails lightly scratching their scalp causing a full body shiver. “I think about you bending me over my office desk,” they manage to get out in a breathy rasp, feeling wet- empty. They're clenching around nothing, it feels wrong. “You grind against me, I can feel how haard you are.” Their voice starts to slur slightly as if the image in their mind is pulling them deeper into this trance. Their head would have already lulled to the side, if not for his hands cupping their cheeks forcing them to tilt their head back, encouraging them to look at him.

“Do I fuck you my little doll?”His voice is like honey, sticky, sweet, causing warmth to wash over their body. Another shake, another moan this time louder as they lull their head into the palm of his hand uselessly, sinking deeper, and deeper into the couch. “You didn’t leave me… unsatisfied did you?”  Something in their stomach is twisting at the tone, feeling a bite to it that sends another hot flash through them. 

A warning.

“Yes!” they replied quickly, a hint of frantic energy spilling out of their laxed lips. “You did! You- Deep, so deep an hot, dripping out of me. Teasing me, making me- making….” They trail off, at the sound of his lo hum, his hands having moved down their body washing away whatever worry tried to build up. They’re slowly sliding down the couch, as his hands move their body to lay across the cushions. How long have their eyes been closed?