Excitedly, nervously, you sit in the waiting room. The other “patients,” as the signs around the building call them, are a lot like you: composed young women in office casual attire meant to send a message of composure, of professionalism, of having their shit together.

The building had looked more unassuming than you expected. You remember double checking the address on that brochure and realizing that, yes, you were in the right place. The sign over the building read “Holistic Stress-Relief Institute,” cleaned up a little bit from what the flyer advertized-Orgasmic Stress-Relief Institute.” You realize that it makes sense, that such a service should be kept on the hush-hush, even if it is, as your doctor informed you, completely medically sound.

You hold the brochure in your hand. You’re at the end of your rope, and you get a feeling that this is your last chance to find a treatment that works. Suddenly, the door swings open, revealing a man in his twenties. He’s tall, standing at around 6 feet, with black hair, cream-colored skin, and hazel eyes that are somehow, at the same time, penetrating yet gentle. If it weren’t for his broad shoulders, thick biceps, and the layer of five o’clock shadow on his face, you would describe him as pretty.

“[name]?” I call, eyes double-checking the clipboard I’m holding.

You stand up, and walk over to me. You think you see me look you up and down, maybe checking you out. Or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.

“I’m Z,” I say. “And I’ll be your specialist for today.”

Looking me up and down, you take account of how little that word fits. “Specialist” feels strange considering my youth, not to mention my attire: black jeans with a tight, tight black short sleeve t-shirt.

I usher you down a corridor. At some point, you find yourself bringing my hand towards your hip, and I accept, guiding you down the hallway. We reach my office, a naturally-lit, incense scented room. Your eyes scan the informational posters on the wall, finding one particularly interesting one depicting a pyramid segmented into numbered layers, each layer overlaid with a depiction of an orgasm specialist “treating” a female patient. As your eyes move up the pyramid, you see that the acts depicted become more erotic, more intricate as the layers progress. Your eyes move from the poster to a comfortable-looking bed sitting in the center of the room.

“Now, if you will,” I say with confident authority. “Strip to your underwear and lay down on the bed.”

——

Hi DirtyPenPals, I’m Z. I came up with this scenario after reading somewhere that, in Victorian England, hysteria was treated with the use of vibrators. This turned out to be false, but the idea stuck in my head-orgasms as a tool to reduce stress. Incredibly turned on by this concept, I came up with a fantasy in which a stressed-out career woman, after trying endlessly to find some method of stress-relief attends (maybe experimental) orgasm therapy.

In this fantasy, I’ll be playing the dominant role. Whether the domination is gentle and praising or cold and professional is up to you. Either scenario is incredibly hot to me. On a similar note, your character’s backstory is totally up to you. I’m particularly excited about a fantasy in which the “patient” character has a husband or boyfriend who is unable to provide her the relief she needs. Maybe you’re sneaking behind his back, or maybe you’re doing this with his full knowledge, maybe even despite his protestations.

Kinks: humiliation, praise (giving and receiving), degradation, extramarital affairs

Limits: anything CNC or DubCon