Pretty hard to think with a boner

The only sound now is the steady rhythm of the monitors beside you. For a moment, neither of you moves. You watch Dr. Carter standing there, her eyes glassy and unfocused; her body relaxed in a way that's both eerie and inviting. The woman who just a moment ago was ready to report you for **** is now standing perfectly still.

"Dr. Carter?" you say, your voice steadier now. "Can you hear me?" Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. "Are you okay? What's going on?" you ask again.

"I'm in a deep trance, and I will do anything you want," she answers this time, her voice a hollow, airy drone.

You freeze for a second, the weight of what she just said settling heavily in the air. "There's no way," you think to yourself. You glance at her and then at your raging boner, not knowing how to proceed or how long her trance-like state will last. "Well... you've crossed one line already - why not push further? She's your doctor, after all. It's her duty to help you heal, to relieve your stress, and to make sure you're comfortable." You rationalize it that way, the words forming in your mind before they spill out. "This is all part of your duty as my doctor. I was hit by a truck - I'm under immense stress, and it's your responsibility to help me recover. You'll be my personal stress reliever from now on. Starting right now." She nods almost imperceptibly; her body swaying just a fraction as the suggestion takes root.

"First, strip for me," you continue, heart pounding. "Take everything off slowly. Show me what you've got under that professional exterior." Without hesitation, her hands move to the buttons of her white coat. Her movements are mechanical at first, then fluid, almost graceful, as if she's performing a routine she's done a thousand times - but you know it's the trance guiding her. The coat slips off her shoulders, revealing a fitted blouse that hugs big tits. She unbuttons it methodically, exposing a lacy bra beneath, her skin flushing slightly under the fluorescent lights. The blouse falls to the floor. Next, her pants. The leather fabric pooling at her feet. She steps out of it, now in just her underwear and heels. Her eyes remain locked on yours, distant and compliant.

"Keep going," you urge, your voice thickening with anticipation. She reaches behind her back, unhooking the bra and letting it drop; her full breasts spilling free, nipples hardening in the cool air of the exam room. Then the panties slid down her thighs, revealing the neatly trimmed patch between her legs. She kicks off her heels, standing completely naked before you. Her body is toned, professional poise giving way to raw vulnerability. She doesn't cover herself; she just stands there, waiting, her breathing deep and even.

You drink in the sight, the warmth from earlier returning, stirring low in your body. "Good girl," you murmur. "Now, from now on, for all our future appointments, you'll dress sexier for me. No more boring doctor outfits. Think shorter, tighter, sexier - whatever shows off that amazing body. Make sure it's just for me, your special patient. It's part of your therapy plan to help me relax."

She nods again, the command embedding itself. "Yes..." she whispers, her voice soft and distant. "My duty is your recovery."

"And remember, you're my personal stress reliever," you add, leaning back against the pillows, testing the limits. "Whenever I'm 'stressed' - because of the accident, the pain, anything - you'll do whatever it takes to make me feel better. You’re going to give me whatever relief I ask for, and you’re going to do it because it’s your medical duty to ensure I don’t suffer any more trauma."

Her head tilts slightly, the suggestion taking root in her subconscious, rewriting her professional ethics. "I understand," she whispers, her glazed eyes fixed on yours. "I will relieve your stress. It's what I'm for."