Chains of the Mind
They say the worst chains are the ones we forge in our own mind. I don’t know why that image has been resonating with me so powerfully lately, but I think it must be true. I never noticed how badly I was burdened by them, how much I was bound by them, until I met Michael and his hypnotherapy began to free me from them.
I looked in the mirror after my shower. I was fifty two years old, not in the same shape that I was when I left the infantry, but three daughters had left me with even rounder breasts and ass than I had before, and I was always on the Jessica Rabbit side of buxom. My long hair was still red, but you could see silver threads here and there in it if you looked hard enough. I used to. I used to worry that time was marching on, and I no longer loved the person I saw in the mirror. I no longer lusted for life, no longer charged the next day like a wolf running down prey, but trudged into it like a drone.
All that had changed. I had begun doing sessions with Michael. He was a professional therapist and hypnotist from Leashholder Therapy. I laughed low and throaty. I ran my hands over my smooth legs, freshly shaved. I usually didn’t bother doing that on a daily basis, but since starting with Leashholder Therapy sessions I felt UNLEASHED. I felt powerful, vital and alive. I felt sexy.
I had lost five pounds without really trying. My jogging, bike, and rowing machine times were no longer theoretical targets but daily parts of my routine. I felt energy like when I was twenty. My students and my coworkers had been somewhat blown away by the changes. My classes listened, because I wasn’t just droning, I was active and engaged, challenging and playful, dragging them with me into an enthusiasm for learning that honestly got more results than threats of bad test results ever would.
I ran my fingers down my body, to my sex. God. I was playing with myself so much these days, but I wasn’t doing it to release tension or to cum. My husband’s disinterest in sex made me hate my body, made me fear that his disinterest was because of me. Somehow, Michael’s sessions had fixed that.
I thought of him, seeing his face looming above me, thinking of him in my mouth. His hard cock emptying itself into my mouth. Lapping all the cum from his cock, sucking his balls and wondering how his face would look if I burrowed my tongue into his tight puckered asshole and teased him with the feeling I yearned to experience from giving him the part of me even my husband had never known. My own virgin ass.
My wedding rings glinted on my finger. Three diamonds, two small and one large. Engagement, wedding, tenth anniversary. I should feel bad about touching myself and dreaming of another man’s cock, another man’s balls. Wondering what another man’s ass would taste like, wondering if he would react if I sucked upon his nipples. Dreaming of him spanking me, my ass, my tits. Wondering if he would ever suspect I had fantasies about him collaring me and training me. I laughed. I could never tell him. He would run away screaming if he suspected I dreamed of kneeling naked before him while he took a whip to me.
My fingers stroked my sex and I shuddered, holding myself short of orgasm. No. I was getting ready for school. No time for that.
I felt a little guilty about the thoughts I had about Michael. I felt more guilty about sucking his cock in his office. He was such a professional, such a gentleman. I had crossed the line as his patient and put him in a compromised professional position for having sexual contact with a client. I felt shame welling up within me, and this is when my self hatred should have kicked in and taken my joy away, taken my energy away, and left me the self hating husk I began the month as.
It didn’t. I traced my fingers around my neck, a brief memory of the touch of steel, and Michael’s voice passed just below my conscious thought, and I let go the spiral of self hatred. I felt my shoulders relax, felt my nipples tighten and my sex throb. I was not allowed to feel guilt. I was not permitted. I was a good girl, and would obey.
I dressed for the day, taking time to put on a very minimal amount of makeup. I didn’t usually wear any, but spending extra time on my hair, makeup, personal grooming, and even my underwear selection was important to me now. I had to be a better woman, I had to be a more pleasing woman. I had to be worthy of my Leashholder.
I shuddered, a mental image of Michael holding my leash, of Priapus and Pan, his two Great Danes being leashed beside me threatened to bring me to a touchless orgasm even dressed and fingers busy doing my blouse buttons.
I grinned. I hadn’t been this full of energy to teach since I started. I had the energy of a new teacher and the experience of the seasoned professional that I was. I will never be the redheaded Viking goddess I was when I was in the infantry, but if what I was now was softer, it was even more deeply feminine, and far less ashamed of that since starting with Michael. My confidence made every personal and professional interaction easier, less stressful, and more successful.
I owed so much to Michael and his sessions. Tonight I would have a chance to pay back even a little of what I owed him.
Michael had asked for my help with a counselling group that he ran on Thursday nights. He said he used his therapy dogs Pan and Priapus to help defuse some of the anger and self hatred of the men, to help them to share without shame. He said he thought I could serve along side his two Great Danes to help even more for these men to unburden themselves, to feel better about themselves, to make peace with their problem.
I wasn’t sure how a woman could help a group of men dealing with erectile dysfunction feel better about themselves, but I wanted to give back to Michael for all the wonderful things he has done for me, all the changes he has made in my life.
If I could be of service, if I could be of use to my Leashholder, I wanted to. No. I needed to. I groaned as I had to grip the counter to avoid the need to touch myself. A part of me, a part I must never show to Michael, wished he would see me less as a volunteer coming to help, and more as a third service animal. Two Great Danes, and me. I must never tell him, he must never know the thoughts I have, seeing a leash in his hand, and wanting to fall at his feet and beg him to collar me as just another one of his animals to be trained, to be used to help his clients.
God. I thought I could skip my coffee on the way to work today, but I will need something in my hands or I will be playing with myself as I drive to school. I grinned. Today would be a good day, and tonight I would get to see how I could be of use for Michaels group of older men with erectile dysfunction.
Therapy Bitch
Looking in the mirror, I wonder at myself. I am trembling like I am getting ready for a date, or some sort of big ticket show I have been obsessing about for years, complete with backstage pass to meet the band. My heart is racing, my face is blushing.
Trust me as a redhead, that last one is a bitch. You could roast marshmallows off the heat coming off my cheeks. My nipples are hard enough to be pushing themselves out my bra, which is a $75 dollar custom fitted beast designed to keep my 48G contained without undue harm to my back. I didn’t select it for sexy, but the top half cups were lace because the woman who made them thought us girls should always be a little sexy. Usually this frustrated me, but now the look of the half circle of my nipple that showed through made me bite my lip in half contained lust.
I wondered at the matching lace panties I had put on, and the fact that I was putting on the purple dress we bought for our big New Years concert event a few years ago. I remember I was so embarrassed about how much cleavage it showed off I was a full bottle of champagne in before I could take my wrap off and let my husband see the twins. I was not wearing a wrap tonight.
I was a school teacher, and with a body like mine, I had to dress to minimize my sexuality if I wanted to get any work done, not only from my students, but from the rest of the, also all married, faculty. Tonight I slid on my pink thigh highs and put myself in purple pumps that matched my dress and felt more sensual than I had on my honeymoon. I don’t know why I needed to, but I felt it important.
Michael, my hypnotherapist, had asked for my help tonight. He gave me so much, and had never asked even for payment. Leashholder services billed more an hour than I make in a day, but he gave me my therapy sessions pro-bono. I was so desperate to pay him back that when Michael asked me to help with his erectile dysfunction group, I almost jumped in his lap with my eagerness to say yes.
I know how Leashholder Therapy had changed my life. I have never felt this relaxed, never felt this empowered, never been free of the crippling self doubt and self hatred, the body shaming from flat chested girls that started in elementary, the slut shaming of the boys and girls that started about the same. I was so deeply ashamed of my body that hiding it and ignoring my sexuality was a shame driven reflex before I had my first period and years before I had my first romantic thought. Now, since I was in the care of Michael, since he became my own personal Leashholder, I was finally free of that.
Every time I said the name, Leashholder, I had the sudden image of myself collared and naked on my knees, like one of his therapy dogs. Michaels strong hand holding my leash, holding my will, holding my guilt, my shame, my fear, leaving me only my lust, only my need to please, and my joy. I grabbed the sides of the bathroom table to keep from touching myself. I must never let Michael know the secret thoughts that were in my head since the beginning of my therapy sessions or he might stop, and I would never be able to even dream of him as my Leashholder in truth, rather than just my therapist from Leashholder Therapy.
I wondered how I could be of service to a men’s erectile dysfunction group. From what I had read, they were as tied up in shame and self hatred as I had been before Michael, but being men, tended to focus that outward into misogyny and anger at women, rather than inward women like me did. I wondered how Michael planned on getting past the defensive reaction my presence would draw from them.
Michael had said he would use me like his therapy dogs, as an object to draw them to reach out, to share, to express rather than repress. He would use me like an object. Like a therapy dog. GOD, if I didn’t get out of the bathroom soon, I would touch myself. Michael must never know the thoughts in my head, or he could never respect me again. Still, if he was right, if I could bring them out of their shell, and let them learn to love themselves again, as Michael taught me to love myself again, wouldn’t that be worth any cost to me? How could I miss that chance to finally pay Michael back for the freedom he gave me, the joy he brought back into my life.
No. Whatever he needed me to be, whatever he needed me to do, I vowed before God that I would give 110%, not letting my comfort zones or societal role get in the way of being what THEY needed me to be. Michael would show me what to do. Michael would make it okay. I trusted him, and that made everything safe.
When I arrived, Michael let me into his office, and told me to wait while the group formed in. For today, he took out a gold coin. He began to speak to me softly, warmly, almost lovingly.
“This is a coin I bought at auction. This coin was used in the 18th century to buy an English noble woman taken by pirates and sold at auction in the Emirates. This coin turned a great noble lady into a harem slave, whose only job was to please the men she was brought to. I want you to watch this coin, to see how it sparkles and swings.”
“Do you see how it catches the light? How magical, how wonderful.” Michael intoned.
“Yes, I see it!” I found the way the gold coin caught the light, the deep engravings darker with grime, the surface brighter than a mirror. It spun and swung, forcing me to give my all to following its motion, and following Michael’s words.
“She had been raised to be a virgin bride, to be chaste and proper, modest and demure. She was filled with Christian guilt and shame Jan, Do you know how that feels?” Michael asked, softly.
I groaned, I knew how that feels. I felt the chains of it, the chains in my mind, the chains that bound my body and shut down my responses. The chains that made me physically freeze and grow sick at the thought of seeing desire in men’s eyes, and physically locking down in my shame.
“Count back with me Jan, count back from ten.” Michael intoned softly.
“Ten” we said together.
“When this coin found her, she was full of shame, full of fear, full of guilt.
“Nine” we said together.
“This coin freed her. She was collared, she was disciplined, she was no longer a noble lady, she was no longer a person.”
I groaned, caught in the images he was painting.
“Eight” Michael intoned, and I echoed softly.
“She had masters now, she had a purpose Jan. Do you know the purpose?” Michael whispered.
“Seven.” Michael’s voice was strong, my own a soft echo.
“She existed to please her masters. She was an object, a thing, a plaything Jan. Can you imagine it?”
“Six” we spoke as one, my voice rising to match his again.
“Free from guilt, free from shame, free from doubt or hesitation. Collared and free Jan, can you imagine?”
I heard my voice give answer.
“Yes!”
“Five” our voices sounded together.
The gold coin swung back and forth before me, a golden bridge between what was and what could be. A golden bridge between Jan the woman who dared not act, and Jan the slave who existed only to serve.
“Four” Our voices sounded together.
“No shame Jan, only joy. Only the love of healing others. Only the pride in serving your masters.”
“Three.” Michaels voice was strong, my own a whisper.
“Do you want this Jan? Do you need this Jan?” He asked softly.
“Two” He said softly.
I watched the gold coin arc back and forth. Lady or slave. Which was free. Which did I need.
“Yes!” I cried out. “I need it!” I begged.
“One.” Michael said softly.
“Go still now Jan, go quiet now Jan. It is time for Jan to go away. Jan has a family, Jan has a career, Jan has guilt and shame. Now there is only slut. Slut has no shame, slut has no fear, slut has no doubt.
Do you know what slut has Jan?
Slut has a glorious purpose. Slut serves her masters. Slut brings joy. Slut brings healing. Slut is worthy. Slut is loved. Slut has found her salvation through suffering, her baptism in humiliation, her rebirth in service.
Are you happy Slut, are you ready to serve?”
Michaels voice was gentle, was kind was mercy itself. I smiled and nodded.
“Slut understands sir.”
He left me a mindfulness meditation loop on his computer. I sat before it and let my stress slip away as his recorded voice and the swirling images, gone too fast to consciously note, played in the background. There were pictures of me, pictures of his dogs, pictures of him holding the stainless steel leash he controlled those mighty Great Danes with. They came and went almost too fast to notice, but his words let me let go my awareness and just drink in his words. Just relax, just await his instructions. I was there to serve, I was there to heal others, I was there to please, I was there to obey, I was there to be a good girl. I don’t know how long I was listening to his loop, how long I was watching his images on the computer as the men filed in, but I heard a series of gruff, hard voices from the next room. Some defensive, some dismissive, but all hard and somewhat cold. Michaels low tones were like a gentle sea, washing against the hard stone of their words, and smoothing out their harshness.
“What the hell are you bringing a woman here for?” Graeme, a black somewhat portly man with a high and tight salt and pepper crew cut that screamed “angry veteran” loud enough to be heard on the next block. He was the chief of police, and a man whose iron control was legendary among a police force that had been lacking in control before his arrival. A paragon of all the manly virtues, his personal performance issues cut at the root of who he was, and brought anger into every interaction at home or work. That was the only thing driving him to seek therapy.
“I don’t need another ‘understanding’ woman dressing up pity and contempt in frilly clothes and laughing behind her hand at me. I get enough of that at home.” Said Father Mathus, the white haired rail thin priest of Jan’s own Anglican congregation. None of his flock would have believed the ugly anger in his voice, for it was always his job to be the calm understanding one, the one who accepted the burdens of others. This burden and shame was his alone, and he did not need another person finding out. It had taken the first thoughts of self harm to drive him to accept therapy as required.
“Michael, I understand the need for us to open up about this, but we are all professional men, powerful men. We all have to be in control of ourselves at all times, and have to be seen as capable and in control if we are able to function and do our jobs. You can’t expect us to open up about something that makes us feel powerless, that makes us feel unworthy, that makes us feel weak. We can’t do it even amongst ourselves when we are all in the same boat. We could never do it in front of a woman. All we have left is our pride, and that shame would strip even that from us.” The somewhat lilting voice of a native Hindi speaker would have been very familiar to Jan, even if the less perfectly suppressed rage was not. Mr Patel was the smiling soft spoken principal of the local highschool, the white knuckled interlocked hands that spoke of barely chained rage would surprise anyone who knew him personally or professionally.
Michael spoke softly to them, letting his voice grow loud enough to carry into the next room for me to hear. I heard his voice through the hypno loop I was listening to, and felt myself grow both relaxed and aroused as he spoke.
“I have a woman volunteering to join us tonight. I don’t want you to think of her as a woman, she is not here as a counsellor. I want you to remember how we used the therapy dogs to allow you to express your feelings without words. The woman who will be joining us will be serving just like the therapy dogs. She will be here as an object, not a person. She will exist only to help you express your feelings and your needs.”
Michael’s voice slid through my body like whiskey, lighting every corner of my flesh and soul. That is what I wanted, that is what I needed. God, if only I could react, if only I could speak, I would scream the truth of this, but I was caught in the loop. I was to listen and relax. I was to await instruction. I was to be at peace, awaiting the chance to serve.
“Bullshit. I don’t care what she pretends, you know what she is going to say when she leaves the room. How do you expect us to deal with someone knowing our secrets, and our shame who we can run into on the street, or at work. Do you know what one little smirk from her will feel like? I would rather take a bullet, and I have taken a bullet.” Graeme snarled, his own iron control on its last scrap, his volume almost a roar.
Michael smiled softly. His voice continued.
“A free woman yes. I don’t bring you a free woman. I don’t bring you a woman that is able to look down on you. I bring you a woman who has chosen to serve, to obey, to accept whatever you choose to share with her, to give to her, to do to her. She will bear no memory of this, nor should you bear any shame for what you say and do with her, for she freely chose to offer herself to this.”
Michael said, slowly walking to the office door, beyond which I sat in a light trance, awaiting his orders.
Walking into the office, Michael came to me. He placed a collar upon my neck, and clipped a leash to it.
“Come with me Slut, there are men who you can help. Men who you can heal. Men who you can serve.
Michael’s words swept the lethargy that held me away like the dawn sun sweeps away fog, and I felt bright joy leap inside me. I smiled like I had when they put my fdaughter to my breast for the first time after twenty hours of labour.
“Yes sir!”
I walked into the room and three voices cried out in shock.
Graeme, who had been my company Sgt when I got my first platoon in the army. Father Mathus, my parish priest who married my husband and I, who baptized our daughters. Mr Patel, principal of the high school at which I taught.
I beamed as my Master lead me in on my leash. I smiled and thrust out my chest, before dropping into a deep curtsey.
“Good evening sirs. I am Slut. I am yours. It is my only purpose to serve you, it is my only joy to please you!”
Michael watched the looks of disbelief cross the faces of the most influential men in my life as I smiled in demure submission, and without recognition to my new Masters. Jan knew them, but Jan was not here. Slut only knew them as worthy, Slut only knew them as the men who offered her a chance to please, a chance to serve, a chance to accept the punishment she deserved, the humiliation that would teach Slut her place and earn Slut her reward of a permanent collar, a permanent place at Michael’s feet.
“Would you like to disrobe for your masters, Slut?” Michael asked in amusement.
I made a production of undressing slowly, of revealing my charms, my all natural breasts topped by painfully erect nipples demonstrating my desire. The damp flower of my sex crowned by the little red landing strip that branded me a natural redhead.
As I went to take off my pink thigh highs, the police commissioner, Graeme Stone, my former first Sgt growled a command.
“Keep the stockings on Slut!” He growled.
I shuddered, and cupped my breasts, pinching my nipples.
“Yes Master!” I cried in joy. The Masters wanted me, the Masters needed me. The Masters would use and instruct me. I could be a good girl, I could earn my collar!
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vtklq3/hypnosis_and_the_hound_iv