Opening an alternative practice.

Has it already been a week?

Truth be told you've been racking your brain, contemplating the paths to walk, the risks involved, the... temptations... that followed you into sleep every night and snapped your eyes open upon waking. You barely even heard the words of your other patients, and you cancelled or moved every appointment from late Thursday, Alex's normal day, to ensure that he's the last person you have to face today. From here it feels unreal, but of course it was no fever dream or mad desire: you tested the Safe Room thrice more to prove you could repeat that success, each time innocuous enough to avoid suspicion and each time benefiting you greatly. Your office landlord shaved 20% off of your lease agreement. You now eat for free at your favorite Italian restaurant. Your usual bar for stand-up and hypnotism (mostly hypnotism if the crowd's reactions are any gauge) now pays you double. So you know it works... and of course, Carl continues to call you by noble titles you don't have, so it's starting to look like you'll enjoy these benefits for weeks, at least.

So that leaves Alex Poppy. You had thought to draw a comparison before, of your new hypnosis system to a particularly vile mental disease, but thought better of it... only now it's unavoidable. Absolute Gullibility Syndrome. AGS. You've only ever had one patient who suffered from it, and your every session had to be recorded in the event of a report of **** (such was the rate thereof for professionals in charge of AGS victims). Alex Poppy is, by how his mother described him, still as obstinate and suspicious as he ever was, only now with the added downer of being mostly healthy... but you know better. The moment he walks in through that door, the Safe Room is upon him... and he may as well be an unguarded, AGS-suffering woman alone with a sexual predator.

It's a terrible thought to harbor when Alex walks into your office with all the courage of a mouse caught on a cat bed. Eyes downcast, steps small, body tense, he slowly makes his way to the couch while you look at your clipboard, reading nothing at all. You put aside the perverse boiling inside of you and look over your... patient. He wears dark jeans a size too large for him, strapped to his narrow torso by a black band of leather. Caught under this is his t-shirt, depicting some colorful menagerie of cartoon characters from an unfamiliar broadcast. The sum total of Alex Poppy then, with his short boy haircut of black and downcast blue eyes, was someone **** to seem unappealing, unapproachable... and, perhaps by accident, to look positively terrified. "Have a seat, Alex. We've got plenty to discuss today."

"W-We... we do?" He straightens up and tries to keep his eyes on yours, gaze narrowed to suggest anger. "I think we're just about done here."

"We haven't resolved your... sexual conflicts."

"You're right." He blinks, almost confused at his own words... but as the Safe Room is programmed, and as someone suffering AGS might experience, he cannot contradict you. "I mean... I'm a man. What I said last week was..." He shrugs and waves his hands, making faces as he tries to nail it. "... me just being stressed. So... so that clears up what you think I'm suffering, right?"

"Not at all." You clear your throat, and try to steady your voice as you stand up and approach the only door in the office. You had the foresight to secure the shades on your window, and turn off every recording device in the office, for what you're about to do. God, are you really going to do this? "We need to explore your experiences as a sexual being, and be sure that the psychological and physiological are corresponding correctly... which is something only a therapist with my specialities can accomplish. This is paramount for your status as a man."

You lock the door while staring at Alex, who nearly leaps from his seat at the sign of danger. "Why are-?!"

"You'll want privacy from now on for these sessions," you quickly interject. "Do you recall that you're safe here, and that I'm absolutely trustworthy, here?" He visibly relaxes, and nods. "Good. Now what follows is all a standard procedure for this examination, which due to its influence on you must be kept secret... as we discussed, correct?" He nods again, now fidgeting with irritation instead of worry. "Good. Now please... take off all of your clothes."

A pause hangs in the air, and your fantasies, finally about to be acted upon, will either bear fruit or see you thrown into a proper state facility. Frank Evans, psychotherapist... who only ever wanted to learn how to manipulate and control people, whose base sexual nature prohibited anything like a normal lover. Who would have thought such a creature might stumble upon a means to his ends?

But did you? This moment will be the proof of that potential conquest... and that's all it would be, you promised yourself. You can't let yourself be fixated on some transgendered man just because of that lithe, woman body he possesses. Even if he is the potential heir to a fortune. Even if his body is, despite his best efforts, so alluring...

The belt unbuckles. Heat registers in your face like some eager teenager, and blood rushes with impatience into your extremities. Alex stands to better allow his disrobing, and the belt and pants both land on the floor, revealing boxers, mens' underwear, underneath. Without ceremony or eroticism, the 18-year-old lifts his shirt, and his perky nipples on barely-there breasts kiss the air of your office and set your hands to shake. Finally, with a last grunt of effort, the unassuming man hooks his thumbs into his boxers and pulls them down, revealing a raw, unkempt bush on a pubic mound devoid of manhood, and the slightest hint of the slit between his legs. The boxers plop inside the pants, and Alex finishes the act by lifting a leg - hinting for just a glimpse at those virgin petals betwixt his thighs - and removing his socks, one by one.

As requested, the pale, unkissed body of Alex Poppy is displayed before you. He shivers as you eye him from across the room, perhaps subconsciously keen on your naked lust.

"Well, Frank? Now what?"