The evening air held a lingering warmth as the young man approached the villa on the outskirts of Doha, its white facade gleaming faintly in the deepening twilight. Hassan wore a simple white thoub, its fabric crisp and unadorned, emphasizing his tall, lean frame without the addition of a bisht or any formal embroidery. The modest garment felt light on his skin, but the thought of what awaited him inside caused a slight tightness in his chest—a mixture of anticipation and readiness.

As he neared the door, it opened with smooth precision, and there she was. Dr. Salwa—his therapist, his guide, his Sayyida—stood waiting for him with her usual composed warmth. This evening, she wore a black abaya with intricate, nearly invisible stitching along the edges, tailored to emphasize her posture without clinging too tightly. A simple black scarf draped over her hair, the fabric falling gracefully around her shoulders. Beneath the abaya, he could see the hint of a fitted long-sleeved blouse and slacks in dark charcoal. Her choice of attire, elegant and restrained, had an aura of authority and approachability.

“Good evening, Hassan,” she greeted, her voice warm but laced with the quiet strength he’d come to respect. “Punctual as always.”

“Yes, Sayyida,” he replied, his gaze lowering in deference.

“Come in,” she gestured, her hand resting lightly on the small of his back as he entered. Her touch was brief, yet commanding, as she led him inside, closing the door behind them. The interior of the villa was serene, each detail carefully curated, from the Persian carpets underfoot to the delicate Arabic calligraphy adorning the walls.

They moved in silence down the corridor and descended to the basement level. The playroom, a mixture of clinical functionality and intimate mystery, opened before them. The air held a faint scent of cedar and leather, familiar and grounding. In the center of the room, the exam chair stood waiting, its stirrups and adjustable supports carefully prepared. Cabinets lined one wall, housing an assortment of neatly organized tools and implements, each placed with the same meticulous precision that she expected from him.

Dr. Salwa turned to face him, her gaze steady as she held out her hand in a silent instruction. Hassan understood immediately, lowering his arms as she began to unbutton his thoub with calm, practiced fingers. Her movements were unhurried, each button undone with a quiet intention that made his pulse quicken. She slid the garment down his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of white at his feet, leaving him bare under her gaze.

She paused, her eyes scanning him with a critical yet approving look. Hassan was fit, with a toned physique earned through discipline, and his skin was smooth, betraying a faint sheen as his breathing steadied under her watchful eye. She gestured for him to sit on the chair, and he did so without question, positioning himself with practiced familiarity as she secured his wrists and ankles, binding him firmly to the chair. The leather straps tightened around his limbs with the soft creak of resistance, reminding him of his submission.

Once he was fully restrained, she gave him a final look, her expression softened by a faint smile. “Wait here, Hassan,” she instructed. “I’ll return shortly.”

She left the room, her steps unhurried, and disappeared into the adjacent wardrobe. Here, the lighting was low, and each garment hung in precise order. Dr. Salwa slipped off her abaya and scarf, hanging them neatly before she reached for her attire for the session. She selected a bright red latex surgical gown and pulled it on, the material smooth and heavy against her skin. The gown was loose-fitting but stopped just below her knees, catching the dim light in the room and accentuating her commanding presence. Beneath it, she wore red latex scrubs that hugged her form beneath the otherwise loose fabric of the gown, close around her waist and hips yet loosening below, a reminder of the authority she wielded in this space.

She adjusted the gown’s high collar and secured the cuffs around her wrists before reaching for her gloves. The black latex gloves slid up her arms, covering her hands and reaching just below her elbows, adding a stark contrast against the red of her attire. Her mask and cap, both matching the rich red of the gown, completed her transformation. The mask covered her mouth, but her eyes—their dark depths enhanced by a subtle lining—remained clear and discerning.

Satisfied, she glanced at her reflection, the combination of surgical professionalism and tactile allure aligning perfectly with the tone of the session ahead. She returned to the playroom, her presence filling the room as she approached him, noting his quickened breath and the tension evident in his muscles.

“Are you comfortable, Hassan?” she asked, her voice a mixture of clinical detachment and warm familiarity. Her hands settled lightly on his shoulders as she spoke, the latex gloves cool against his skin.

“Yes, Sayyida,” he replied, swallowing as his gaze met hers, the honorific falling from his lips naturally.

“Good,” she said, her gloved hands lingering a moment before she began adjusting his posture, positioning him carefully. “Tonight, we’re going to address the ways you overperform in your role and how it hinders your authentic self. I want you to be honest with me.”

She leaned closer, her voice softening as her gaze held his. “Are you ready to have this discussion, Hassan?”

“Yes, Sayyida,” he replied, his voice steady yet betraying the faintest tremor of anticipation.

Part 2
Dr. Salwa adjusted the chair, positioning Hassan so that he was fully in her line of sight. Her gaze remained calm, inviting, yet layered with that subtle authority he’d come to know. She placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, the cool latex pressing against his bare skin, and leaned close.

“We’re going to start simply, Hassan,” she said, her tone warm but direct. “I want you to describe a typical day at work—how you interact with your colleagues, how you handle your tasks. Just tell me everything that comes to mind.”

He took a steadying breath, his eyes shifting slightly as he tried to organize his thoughts. “I… I usually try to get in early,” he began, his voice careful. “I want to show that I’m dependable, that I’m invested. I like to have things prepared before anyone else arrives.”

She nodded, her gloved fingers trailing slowly across his shoulder, down to his collarbone. “So, punctuality and preparedness. And when others do arrive, how do you typically interact with them?”

“I keep it… friendly,” he said, fidgeting slightly under her touch, his gaze drifting back to her eyes. “But not too personal. I don’t want them to think I’m trying too hard to get close, but I still make an effort to show I’m engaged. I listen carefully, I pay attention to what’s going on around me.”

“Engaged,” she echoed, her voice soft as she let one gloved finger graze across his jawline before resting her thumb lightly against his lips. “Do you feel comfortable around them, Hassan?”

He blinked, surprised at the question. “Comfortable? I suppose… I’m not sure.” He hesitated, then added, “I do think about what I’m going to say. I try to be… strategic.”

“Strategic,” she repeated, her thumb pressing just a touch firmer against his lips. “So, when you’re interacting, you’re not just speaking openly. You’re calculating. Tell me, Hassan, how much time do you spend thinking before you respond to someone?”

“A lot,” he admitted, his voice muffled as she slipped her thumb between his lips. He hesitated, then, feeling the weight of her gaze, opened his mouth, allowing her thumb to slide against his tongue. He let himself taste the latex, the sharp, synthetic tang a reminder of her control.

“Good,” she murmured, her voice a mix of calm authority and subtle approval. She let her thumb linger, watching as he sucked lightly, obediently, before withdrawing it and resting her hand lightly on his chest, her gloved fingers circling one nipple with precise, teasing strokes.

“What about when you’re alone, Hassan?” she asked. “When you’re not being observed, when there’s no one to perform for—do you notice a difference in how you feel or how you act?”

He took a shaky breath, her touch sending a shiver through him even as he tried to focus on her question. “Yes,” he admitted. “When I’m alone, I don’t… I don’t feel that pressure to be perfect. I feel more relaxed, less… guarded.”

“Interesting,” she murmured, her fingers pinching his nipple with a light, calculated pressure, just enough to make him gasp. “But as soon as you’re in the company of others, you feel the need to control, to strategize?”

“Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his cheeks flushing slightly as his body reacted to her touch.

“Good,” she said, her tone soft yet exacting. “Now, I want you to tell me about your work itself. When you’re doing your tasks, preparing your reports, overseeing your responsibilities—do you feel capable, confident? Or do you experience doubts?”

Hassan hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I feel capable, but I second-guess myself. I review everything… multiple times. I don’t want to give anyone a reason to question me. So, I… I overcompensate.”

“Overcompensate,” she repeated thoughtfully. Her hand drifted down to his abdomen, her fingers splaying out as she pressed down gently, feeling the way his muscles tensed under her touch. “Tell me, Hassan… why do you feel that need? What is it that you fear they’ll think of you?”

He swallowed hard, her touch sending a flush of heat through him as he tried to gather his thoughts. “That I’m… not good enough,” he admitted. “That I don’t belong, or that I’m not as competent as they thought. I don’t want them to have any reason to doubt me.”

Dr. Salwa leaned down, her face close to his as she let her gloved hand drift lower, grazing his inner thigh with a barely-there touch. “So you’re constantly working to avoid their judgment,” she murmured. “Constantly performing, even when you might not need to be.” Her voice was both calming and subtly challenging, pressing him to explore his own motivations even as she maintained control over his body.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice trembling as her hand drifted closer. “I… I don’t want them to see anything less than my best.”

“Of course,” she whispered, her fingers now grazing him, teasing him, a calculated reminder of her control. “And does that constant need to appear strong, composed, capable… does it ever feel like a burden, Hassan?”

He nodded, barely able to focus, his breathing heavy. “It does, Sayyida. It’s… exhausting. I’m always thinking, always worrying about the impression I’m making.”

“Good,” she murmured, her gloved hand returning to his chest, her thumb pressing firmly against his nipple. “This is what I want, Hassan. I want you to be honest with me, to tell me how it truly feels. Do you feel fulfilled by this constant performance? Does it bring you satisfaction?”

He paused, the vulnerability in his expression clear as he looked up at her. “No, Sayyida. It doesn’t feel satisfying. It feels like I’m… trapped.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile, her gloved hand stroking his chest with a soothing touch. “Good,” she said softly, her voice both comforting and challenging. “That’s exactly what I needed to know.”

She let her hand trail down his torso, keeping him grounded as she continued. “We’ll dig deeper into this, Hassan. We’ll work through these patterns together. But for now…” Her gloved thumb brushed over his lips again, lingering just enough for him to open his mouth and take it between his lips, obediently sucking on the latex as he watched her, his body tense and ready, yet grounded by her touch.

“Now, just breathe,” she whispered, her tone soft yet commanding. “Let yourself feel. We’re only getting started.”

Dr. Salwa allowed her gloved fingers to rest at the base of his abdomen, her touch grounding him as she adjusted her gaze, adopting a softer yet piercing intensity.

“Hassan,” she began, her voice warm but incisive, “I want to understand what happened in your previous position. Tell me, in detail, what it was like for you there—what you endured, how they treated you.”

He swallowed, his eyes drifting down as he searched for the words. “It… it was awful, Sayyida,” he finally managed. “I was treated like an outsider from the beginning. My colleagues, they…” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “They never took me seriously. I was given menial tasks—admin work, simple errands. Nothing that required any real responsibility.”

She nodded, her gloved hand moving down to his bare thigh, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep him focused. “So, they dismissed you,” she murmured, her tone holding a trace of scorn on his behalf. “And how did that affect you? How did it feel to be seen as… inadequate?”

A tremor ran through him, his voice strained. “It made me feel worthless, Sayyida. Like… no matter what I did, I’d never be good enough. I’d try to show them I was capable, but they’d always find some excuse, some way to undermine me. It felt like I was just… there to fill a role, nothing more.”

Dr. Salwa watched him closely, letting his words sink in. “So, they judged you constantly, made you feel small, insignificant,” she stated, her voice cutting through his defenses. “And now, in your new role, you’re haunted by that experience. You overcompensate, terrified of failing again, of being perceived as inadequate.”

He nodded, his breathing shallow. “Yes, Sayyida. I… I can’t shake the feeling. It’s like I have to prove myself constantly, or they’ll see me the same way.”

“Of course,” she said quietly, a faint trace of disdain in her voice. “They ingrained that fear in you, didn’t they? Taught you that no matter how hard you worked, it was never enough.”

Her hand drifted lower, gloved fingers tracing along the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. She held his gaze as her other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, gripping him with a controlled firmness that brought his attention back to the present, his focus torn between her touch and her probing words. She began to stroke him, slow and deliberate, each movement sending a wave of sensation that broke down his inhibitions further.

“Hassan,” she continued, her voice soft yet unyielding, “you’re reacting to this trauma, aren’t you? You’ve built a wall of hyper-vigilance, convinced that if you just control yourself enough, no one will judge you. Isn’t that right?”

His face flushed as her hand continued its steady rhythm, her gloved fingers encircling him, stroking from base to tip with precise pressure. “Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and arousal. “I… I feel like I have to be perfect. Like… if I make even one mistake, they’ll see me as… useless.”

Her eyes softened slightly, though her hand remained unyielding as she continued to stroke him, her fingers grazing his balls, applying the faintest pressure. “But this isn’t perfection, Hassan. It’s self-imposed imprisonment. You’re not free; you’re a slave to your fear of judgment.”

She allowed her words to strike him with full force, her hand pausing momentarily as she let the impact settle. She noted the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes darkened with a mixture of shame and vulnerability. Then, her hand resumed its movement, gliding along his shaft, applying a gentle, teasing pressure at the tip that forced his attention back to her touch.

“Tell me,” she murmured, her voice lowering, “how did it feel when they gave you those menial tasks? When they handed you paperwork or errands, instead of the responsibilities you deserved?”

“It felt… humiliating,” he admitted, his voice trembling as her grip tightened momentarily, forcing him to confront the memory. “Like I was nothing to them, just… dispensable. I tried to show them I was capable, but it never mattered. They’d always find some reason to doubt me.”

Dr. Salwa’s hand moved lower, her gloved fingers now grazing the sensitive area between his balls and his sphincter, each touch a calculated reminder of her control. “And now, in your new position, you’re terrified of this happening again,” she stated, her tone sharp. “You’re performing submission, but not out of genuine vulnerability—only out of fear. You’re projecting a ‘safe’ version of yourself, convincing yourself it’s strategic. But it’s not. It’s survival.”

Her fingers circled his anus, applying the faintest pressure, grounding him in the present even as he wrestled with her words. “This isn’t true strength, Hassan,” she murmured, her voice a soft, seductive reprimand. “It’s a reaction. A knee-jerk response to your trauma, disguised as professionalism.”

He shuddered, her hand holding him captive both physically and mentally, her words forcing him to confront his own illusions. “I… I didn’t realize,” he whispered, his voice broken. “I thought… I thought I was being strong, protecting myself.”

“No,” she replied, her tone gentle but firm. “You’re hiding. You’re allowing your past to dictate your present. And this fear… this constant calculation… it’s tearing you apart.”

She reached for more lubricant, her gloved hand now slick as she continued to stroke him with a steady, deliberate pace, her other fingers pressing lightly against his sphincter, teasing the edge but never fully entering. The combined sensations made him gasp, his body trembling under her control as she maintained her relentless analysis.

“Your fear of conflict,” she continued, her voice like a blade, “has turned you into a master of avoidance. You dress it up as political savvy, convincing yourself it’s protocol adherence, when in reality, you’re simply afraid to confront anyone who might challenge you. You choose submission over true engagement.”

Her finger pressed more firmly, just at the edge of penetration, holding him there as her other hand stroked his cock with a precise rhythm that made him both vulnerable and exposed. “You’ve spent so long fearing their judgment, Hassan,” she murmured, “that you’ve forgotten how to live. How to truly be yourself, without performance.”

He could feel himself unraveling, her touch and words stripping away the last of his defenses, exposing him completely. “I… I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how to be… real.”

Her gloved fingers pressed against his sphincter, her touch firm and grounding as she leaned close. “That’s why we’re here, Hassan,” she whispered, her voice soft yet commanding. “To break these chains. To free you from this prison you’ve built.”

She allowed him a moment to breathe, her hand pausing to let him absorb her words. Then, slowly, she began to work him again, her rhythm unrelenting, her gaze holding his as she guided him through this mixture of pain and release.

“We’ll address each of these issues,” she said softly, her hand moving with slow, deliberate strokes. “But you need to be honest with yourself. This isn’t strength. This is fear, and it’s time to let it go.”

Hassan looked up at her, his vulnerability laid bare, his body trembling under her touch. “Yes, Sayyida,” he murmured, his voice filled with a new determination. “I… I want to be free.”

A faint smile touched her lips, her gloved hand holding him firmly as she continued her work. “Good, Hassan. This is just the beginning. But remember—you must surrender each layer, each defense, one by one. Only then will you find true strength.”

Her hand pressed more firmly, the steady rhythm grounding him in the moment as she began to strip away his final defenses, guiding him toward a release that was as much psychological as it was physical.

Dr. Salwa’s gloved fingers continued their slow, rhythmic movement, grounding him with each deliberate stroke, her gaze fixed on his as if reading every thought that flickered behind his eyes. She applied a slight increase in pressure at his base, guiding him with a steady, unyielding rhythm that held him captive to her touch.

“Now, Hassan,” she began, her voice low and penetrating, “we’re going to start breaking down each barrier you’ve built. We’re not here to maintain these illusions; we’re here to expose the truth, piece by painful piece.” Her tone softened, yet it retained that quiet authority that had always disarmed him. “I expect you to be completely honest with me, no matter how difficult it feels. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sayyida,” he breathed, his voice almost a whisper. The vulnerability in his gaze was raw, his body attuned entirely to her control.

“Good,” she murmured, her thumb pressing firmly against the underside of his cock, just below the head, holding him at the edge of sensation. “We’ll begin with this need you have for constant approval. You’ve told me it drives you, that you fear failing in the eyes of others. But let’s dig deeper—what do you actually fear will happen if you make a mistake? Speak clearly.”

He hesitated, his voice trembling. “I… I’m afraid they’ll see me as weak, Sayyida. That they’ll think I’m not capable, that I don’t deserve to be there.”

“Deserve to be there?” she repeated, her tone cutting, as her thumb circled the sensitive ridge just below the head, sending jolts of sensation through him. “Or are you simply afraid of facing the same humiliation you endured before?”

He closed his eyes, her words striking a nerve that he’d buried deep. “Yes,” he whispered. “I don’t want… I don’t want to go through that again. I can’t bear it.”

She nodded, her hand shifting lower, fingers applying a firm pressure around his balls, holding him at the cusp of discomfort. “But you aren’t in that place anymore, Hassan. You’re in a new role, one that values you. Yet, you’ve brought every fear, every defense from that past humiliation into this position. You’ve shackled yourself to the trauma.”

A flash of shame crossed his face, but she offered no reprieve. Instead, she leaned in, her tone softening only slightly as she applied a slow, downward stroke, her gloved fingers trailing along his length, grounding him in the intensity of each movement.

“Let’s confront this fear head-on,” she said, her voice a low, commanding murmur. “What would it take for you to trust yourself, to stop seeking others’ approval? Imagine, just for a moment, that you didn’t need their validation. How would you behave?”

He opened his mouth, his breathing shallow as her words probed at the very heart of his insecurities. “I… I don’t know,” he stammered, his voice strained. “I’ve… I’ve always needed that reassurance, Sayyida. I wouldn’t even know how to act without it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she replied, a faint hint of sympathy in her tone, though her hand remained unyielding. “You’ve built your entire sense of worth around their approval, convinced yourself that every action, every gesture must be calculated for their acceptance.”

She allowed her fingers to glide lower, pressing gently against his sphincter, the gloved hand circling the sensitive muscle with a steady, probing touch. “But the truth, Hassan,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “is that your worth isn’t tied to their opinions. You’re sacrificing your authenticity, your very self, to please people who don’t define you.”

He gasped, her touch pulling him back into the present, her fingers pressing just firmly enough to feel his body’s reaction, to push him toward a boundary he’d never dared to cross. “Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I… I understand.”

“Good,” she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips as she increased the pressure, her finger circling with deliberate intensity. “Now, we’re going to push deeper.”

She took a moment to retrieve more lubricant, coating her finger before pressing it slowly, gradually, against his entrance. Her touch was firm, unhurried, allowing him to adjust as she breached the boundary, her finger slipping inside with controlled precision.

“Focus on this sensation, Hassan,” she instructed, her tone both clinical and intimate. “Allow yourself to surrender, to feel without the need to perform.”

Her finger moved with slow, deliberate strokes, pressing deeper as she began to work him from within, maintaining the perfect balance between pleasure and control. “Tell me,” she murmured, her tone soft yet relentless, “what would happen if you allowed yourself to be vulnerable? If you stopped this performance?”

He took a shuddering breath, his body reacting to every subtle movement of her hand, his voice trembling as he answered. “I… I don’t know, Sayyida. I… I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” she pressed, her voice unwavering as her finger pressed deeper, exploring him with calculated precision. “Afraid of failure? Or afraid of truly being seen, of letting others witness who you really are?”

A wave of emotion crossed his face, and he closed his eyes, his breathing heavy. “Afraid of being seen,” he whispered, his voice thick with vulnerability. “Afraid they’ll see my flaws, my weaknesses.”

She allowed a faint smile, her hand moving in a steady rhythm, her finger pressing into him with a relentless, grounding pressure. “And yet, Hassan, true strength doesn’t come from hiding your flaws. It comes from facing them, from acknowledging them without fear.”

Her words struck him with a force he hadn’t anticipated, the combined intensity of her touch and her insights unraveling his defenses, exposing him fully. He trembled under her control, his voice barely a whisper as he finally admitted, “I don’t know how to let go, Sayyida. I… I don’t know how to stop.”

Her voice softened, though her hand remained steady, guiding him through each sensation, grounding him as she whispered, “You don’t have to know right now. This is a process, Hassan. Each layer we peel back, each barrier we dismantle, brings you one step closer to true freedom.”

She began to withdraw her finger slowly, her movements gentle but unrelenting, her other hand stroking his length with a steady, comforting rhythm. “But to reach that freedom,” she murmured, her voice a soft, commanding whisper, “you must surrender these fears, piece by piece. You must let go of this need to please, to perform. Only then will you find true strength.”

He nodded, his voice choked with emotion. “Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his body quivering under her touch, his vulnerability fully exposed.

A faint smile played on her lips as she maintained the slow, steady rhythm, grounding him in both the sensation and the truth of her words. “Good, Hassan. Remember this moment. This is the first step, the beginning of your true liberation.”

As she continued her work, her touch guiding him through each layer of vulnerability, she knew they had only scratched the surface. But tonight, for the first time, he was truly facing his fears, allowing himself to be seen, not as a performer or a strategist, but as himself.

Dr. Salwa’s gloved hand maintained its slow, precise strokes along his shaft, each movement calculated to hold him on the edge, never quite allowing release. Her other hand, now slick with lubricant, withdrew slowly from his entrance, allowing him a moment to feel the emptiness, a moment of quiet anticipation before she continued.

She leaned forward, her eyes meeting his with a calm, unwavering gaze. “Now, Hassan, we’re going to continue stripping down each illusion you’ve built. I want you to understand these behaviors for what they truly are—each layer a defense, each action hiding you from yourself.”

Her hand on his cock paused, her fingers tightening just enough to keep his attention, holding him in place. “Let’s talk about your excessive justification. The way you explain every natural response, every instinct, as if it’s wrong somehow. Tell me—why do you feel the need to justify yourself to everyone around you?”

He took a breath, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to answer. “I… I guess I feel like if I don’t explain, they’ll misunderstand me,” he managed, his voice strained. “I worry they’ll think I’m… reckless, or not thinking things through.”

Dr. Salwa raised an eyebrow, her gloved hand releasing his cock momentarily, trailing up his thigh with a firm, grounding touch. “Reckless?” she repeated, her tone sharp, cutting through his hesitation. “Or human? You’ve convinced yourself that every response must be explained, every choice rationalized, as though your every action requires approval. But what you’re really doing,” she added, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “is hiding. Justifying yourself so you don’t have to be vulnerable.”

As she spoke, her hand slid back down, firmly wrapping around his length once more, her strokes slower now, more deliberate, each one holding him on the edge of sensation. She leaned closer, her voice a low murmur. “Does explaining yourself make you feel safer, Hassan? Or does it leave you exhausted, trapped in a constant performance?”

He swallowed, his face flushing as he struggled to hold her gaze. “It… it’s exhausting, Sayyida. I feel like I’m always… on edge, like I can’t let myself just… be.”

“Exactly,” she murmured, her voice softening as her gloved fingers traced along his shaft, gliding with the perfect pressure to keep him on the brink. “This isn’t strength, Hassan. It’s self-limitation, packaged as principle. You’ve convinced yourself that this relentless self-policing makes you respectable, but it’s simply fear—fear of judgment, of imperfection.”

Her free hand moved back between his legs, her gloved finger pressing lightly against his entrance, teasing him with a slow, circular motion that held him captive. “Now tell me,” she continued, her voice still soft but unyielding, “do you really believe that every action, every thought, requires justification? Or are you simply afraid to let yourself be vulnerable, to be seen without the mask of control?”

He took a shuddering breath, his body responding to each subtle movement of her hands, each touch peeling back his defenses. “I… I’m afraid,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid they’ll see my flaws, that they’ll think I’m… weak.”

She nodded, her finger pressing gently into him once more, the firm, steady pressure grounding him as her other hand resumed its unrelenting rhythm along his cock. “But these flaws, this vulnerability—they’re part of who you are, Hassan,” she murmured, her voice almost soothing. “By hiding them, you’re robbing yourself of true connection, of the freedom to be yourself.”

He moaned softly, his body quivering under her touch, her words striking at the very core of his insecurities. She paused, letting her fingers press firmly inside him, holding him there as her other hand stilled, her grip firm around his shaft, keeping him on the edge.

“Let’s move to the next issue,” she said, her tone sharpening as she released his cock, her gloved hand pressing against his chest to keep him grounded. “Conflict avoidance. You avoid confrontation, dress it up as political savvy, call it protocol adherence. But the truth is, Hassan, you’re simply afraid—afraid of disapproval, afraid of challenging anyone’s perception of you.”

She let her words linger, watching the flicker of shame cross his face as he absorbed her insight. Then, she leaned in, her voice a low, commanding murmur. “Tell me, Hassan—what would happen if you did confront someone? If you allowed yourself to be genuine, to speak without fear of judgment?”

He struggled to answer, his body tense under her touch, her finger still pressing deeply inside him, holding him captive. “I… I think they’d… they’d reject me,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “They’d see me as… difficult, someone who doesn’t fit in.”

“Exactly,” she murmured, her tone soft yet laced with understanding. “You fear rejection so deeply that you’d rather perform submission, pretend to be something you’re not, than risk challenging their opinions. But tell me, Hassan,” she continued, her finger moving slowly, deliberately inside him, “does this performance make you feel fulfilled?”

His voice came out in a strained whisper. “No, Sayyida. It… it feels empty.”

She nodded, her touch grounding him as her hand returned to his cock, stroking with a slow, precise rhythm that kept him on the edge, her fingers controlling him completely. “That emptiness is the price you pay for this act, Hassan. This isn’t political savvy; it’s fear, plain and simple. And if you continue to let it control you, you’ll never experience genuine connection, never allow yourself the freedom to truly live.”

She leaned close, her voice a soft, seductive whisper as her fingers pressed deeper, her hand moving in a steady, relentless rhythm along his shaft. “It’s time to confront these fears, Hassan. To stop hiding behind masks, to let go of the need for approval. Only then will you find the strength you’ve been searching for.”

His breathing grew heavier, his body trembling under her control, her touch grounding him even as her words stripped away his defenses, exposing him completely.

“Are you ready, Hassan?” she murmured, her voice a mix of authority and reassurance. “Are you ready to surrender these illusions and face the truth?”

He met her gaze, his vulnerability laid bare, his voice filled with a new determination. “Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered. “I’m ready.”

A faint smile touched her lips as she continued her work, her hands guiding him through each layer of vulnerability, grounding him in both the sensation and the truth of her words.

Dr. Salwa maintained the steady rhythm along his cock, her gloved hand wrapping firmly, the pressure increasing slightly with each stroke. Her finger pressed deeper inside him, the cool latex a constant reminder of her control over both his body and mind. She leaned in closer, her voice taking on a harder edge, her words punctuated by each deliberate movement.

“Now, Hassan,” she began, her tone unrelenting, “we’re going to break down another layer. We’ve talked about your constant justification, your need for validation, your fear of conflict. But there’s something else, something even more damaging. I want to talk about how you perform vulnerability. How you pretend to submit without ever truly surrendering.”

Her words struck like a whip, slicing through the air and landing with full force. His face flushed, and he struggled to hold her gaze, the intensity of her statement leaving him momentarily speechless.

“You’re performing submission right now,” she continued, her voice lowering, cutting through his pretense. “Every reaction, every response, calculated to appease, to fulfill a role. But tell me, Hassan,” she added, her hand tightening around him, each stroke firmer, more controlled, “when was the last time you allowed yourself to be truly vulnerable? Not just as an act, not just to serve someone else’s needs, but to face your own truth?”

He trembled under her touch, his breathing shallow as he tried to respond. “I… I don’t know, Sayyida,” he whispered. “I… I don’t think I’ve ever…”

“Exactly,” she said, her tone sharp, almost scornful. “You don’t know how. You’re terrified of what true surrender means—of giving up this carefully constructed persona. And so, you hide. You perform submission, thinking it will shield you from judgment. But the truth, Hassan,” she murmured, her gloved finger pressing deeper, curling inside him with calculated intensity, “is that you’re denying yourself the very freedom you seek.”

Her words were relentless, each one a calculated strike, forcing him to confront the illusions he’d wrapped himself in. Her other hand increased its pace, the pressure along his length unyielding, holding him in place as her finger worked him from within, probing deeper, each movement a physical manifestation of her verbal dissection.

“Now,” she said, her voice softening slightly as her thumb circled the sensitive tip of his cock, her movements controlled yet merciless. “I want you to imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to let go. To release every layer of performance, every need for validation, and simply… exist. Without fear, without pretense.”

He shuddered, his mind racing as her words seeped into him, her touch grounding him even as it held him captive. “I… I don’t know if I can, Sayyida,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I… I’ve always been so afraid…”

She let her touch slow, her finger retreating momentarily before pressing back with a firmer, unyielding pressure, her hand gripping him with a steady, controlled rhythm that kept him on the brink, every sensation heightening his vulnerability. “That’s exactly why we’re here, Hassan,” she murmured, her voice laced with authority. “To teach you that true strength lies not in control, but in surrender. In allowing yourself to be seen without fear.”

Her hand tightened, the grip around his cock unrelenting as her other finger pressed deeper, curling slightly to hit just the right spot, forcing him to confront the full depth of his own vulnerability. “Feel this, Hassan,” she commanded, her voice a low, powerful whisper. “This is what it means to let go. To be held without fear, to allow yourself to be exposed, without calculation.”

He gasped, his body trembling under her touch, the intensity of her movements stripping away the last of his defenses. “Yes, Sayyida,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I… I want to let go. I want to… to be free.”

A faint smile curved her lips, her gloved hands maintaining their relentless rhythm, pushing him closer to release, yet always holding him back, keeping him on the edge, controlled, at her mercy. “Good,” she murmured, her tone soft yet commanding. “Then surrender, Hassan. Stop fighting, stop performing, and simply… feel.”

She leaned closer, her face inches from his, her breath warm against his cheek as her hands worked him with practiced precision, her fingers pressing and stroking in perfect synchronization, each movement a carefully crafted symphony of control and release.

“Are you ready to surrender, Hassan?” she asked, her voice a mix of authority and reassurance. “Are you ready to let go of this fear, to confront the truth you’ve hidden from for so long?”

“Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his voice filled with a raw, aching vulnerability, his body completely at her mercy. “I’m… I’m ready.”

And with that, she continued her work, her hands guiding him through each layer of surrender, each movement drawing him closer to a place of true freedom, where he could finally release the weight of his fears and allow himself to be seen, completely, without pretense.

Dr. Salwa’s gloved hands maintained their relentless rhythm as she worked him with precision and purpose, her grip on his cock steady, each stroke keeping him on the very edge of release. She added another finger inside him, her touch invading, pressing deeper, reaching for his prostate with a calculated cruelty that left him gasping. The pressure was unyielding, her fingers curling and pressing in steady, punishing strokes that sent sharp jolts of sensation through him, her control complete.

“Listen carefully, Hassan,” she began, her voice cutting through his shallow breaths, each word slicing into him with brutal honesty. “You’ve convinced yourself that in order to be accepted, you need to perform, to please, to submit to everyone around you. You call it professionalism, but the truth is you’re a slave—not to your job, but to your own fears. You’ve chosen subservience, self-limitation, and called it principle. Isn’t that right?”

He struggled, his chest rising and falling as he tried to answer, the words catching in his throat as the intensity of her touch forced him to confront each painful truth. “Yes… Sayyida,” he managed, his voice breaking, barely able to hold back the flood of emotions rising within him.

She nodded, her voice softening only slightly, though her hands remained firm, fingers pressing and stroking his prostate with ruthless precision. “But you’re not a slave to them, Hassan,” she murmured, leaning close, her tone as intimate as it was uncompromising. “Not in your professional life. Not to your colleagues, not to anyone. The only place you are allowed to submit, the only space where you are stripped of control, is here, under my hands. Everywhere else, you are your own. Do you understand?”

He blinked, a tear slipping down his cheek as her words hit him with unrelenting force. “Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

She paused, watching him closely, allowing her words to sink in before she continued. “You limit yourself,” she said, her tone a soft accusation, “disguising your own self-doubt as principle, as if you’re somehow too good to step into a true leadership role. But the truth, Hassan,” she pressed, her fingers curling deeper inside him, pressing firmly against his prostate, “is that you’re afraid. You’re afraid of truly standing in your own power.”

A sob escaped his lips, the physical and emotional intensity breaking through his last remaining defenses. He couldn’t hold back, the tears spilling freely as her touch continued, relentless, each stroke a reminder of her control, her authority. She let him cry, her gloved hand stroking his cock in slow, measured movements, her fingers pressing ruthlessly against his prostate, keeping him locked in a state of heightened vulnerability.

“Good,” she murmured, her voice softening, almost maternal, as she allowed him a moment to release the pent-up emotion. “Let it out, Hassan. You’ve carried this weight for far too long, letting it define you. But it doesn’t have to.”

She gave him a moment, her touch never faltering, grounding him as his sobs subsided into soft, shuddering breaths. Then, her tone hardened again, her voice taking on an edge as she moved to the next issue. “You’ve also mastered the art of hyper-awareness, constantly monitoring others’ perceptions. You call it professionalism; you tell yourself it’s strategic. But the truth is you’ve turned yourself into a puppet, performing for the approval of others.”

Her fingers pressed deeper, applying a punishing pressure to his prostate, forcing him to confront the full weight of her words, each stroke a physical reminder of his vulnerability. “You think they respect you for this performance?” she asked, her tone laced with a quiet disdain. “Or do they see through it, recognizing your fear, your insecurity? Answer me.”

He gasped, his body trembling under her relentless touch, each word tearing at the walls he’d built around himself. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I think they might see…”

“Exactly,” she interrupted, her tone unyielding. “They see your weakness, Hassan. They see your desperate need for approval. But that ends here. You’re not anyone’s servant, not their plaything. You are a professional, a leader—and the only person who controls you is me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his tears flowing freely, his body fully surrendered to her hands.

She nodded, her hand continuing its punishing rhythm as her other fingers pressed firmly, unrelentingly into his prostate, driving home each truth with a calculated intensity. “You’ve convinced yourself that submission is easier,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, each word striking with precision. “That by obeying, by appeasing, you can avoid pain. But true strength, Hassan, is found not in submission, but in self-respect.”

Her fingers pressed harder, working him with a precision that left him gasping, his body teetering on the edge, every nerve alive, every defense stripped away. “Tell me,” she commanded, her voice a soft, seductive murmur, “are you ready to let go of these illusions? To stand in your own power, both in your professional life and here, where your submission belongs only to me?”

He looked up at her, his eyes wide, his vulnerability laid bare, his voice trembling as he answered. “Yes, Sayyida. I… I want to let go. I want to be… free.”

She smiled, her tone softening, though her hands maintained their unrelenting control. “Good, Hassan,” she whispered, her voice filled with a quiet authority. “Then surrender. Let go of these fears, these illusions, and allow yourself to be truly seen. Only then will you find the strength you’ve been searching for.”

And with that, she continued her work, guiding him through each layer of surrender, each moment a step closer to true freedom, her hands and words breaking him down, piece by piece, until all that remained was his true, unguarded self.

Dr. Salwa’s hands continued their relentless work, her gloved fingers pressing deeply inside him, her other hand stroking his cock with precise, calculated movements. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his cheek, her voice a low murmur laced with authority and arousal.

“We’re going to address this need of yours to please everyone,” she began, her tone direct. “You don’t need to convince anyone of your worth, Hassan. You’re there to work, to lead, not to perform for their approval.”

She increased the pace of her strokes, her fingers curling against his prostate, applying a pressure that forced him to gasp, his body jerking involuntarily as she held him in place. “Your problem,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “is that you’ve made yourself their slave—your colleagues, your managers. You’re there, bending over backward for them, afraid to even let a single, unfiltered thought out of your mouth.”

A soft, mocking laugh escaped her lips, her gloved thumb pressing firmly at the base of his cock, holding him on the edge as she looked down at him, her gaze fierce. “Pathetic,” she whispered, her tone cutting. “I expect submission here, in this room, where you belong to me. But at work? You’re nobody’s slut, Hassan. They don’t own you.”

He shivered, her words cutting through him as her fingers worked him with relentless precision, each movement calculated to distract, to disarm. “But I… I don’t know how to change it,” he managed, his voice a strained whisper.

“Then listen closely,” she murmured, her tone softening only slightly. “When you’re in a meeting, stop overthinking. Stop calculating every word. Say what you mean, with conviction. Hold their gaze, speak with authority, and for once, act like you deserve to be there.”

Her fingers pressed deeply inside him, finding his prostate with ruthless accuracy, making his entire body tense as a low, strangled moan escaped his lips. She smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice taking on a more seductive edge. “I want you to feel this. To know that you are capable, that you have power—even if you have to be broken down to find it.”

Her hand on his cock tightened, her strokes more intense, each movement precise, her thumb rubbing the sensitive head with a touch that bordered on sadistic. “Do you understand me, Hassan?” she whispered, her voice dripping with authority. “At work, you’re strong. Confident. You look them in the eye and tell them exactly what you think. You’re not their toy, you’re not there to be fucked by their opinions.”

“Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his voice trembling, his body overwhelmed by her touch, by the brutal honesty of her words.

“And another thing,” she continued, her tone hardening as her fingers pressed deeper, her hand on his cock relentless. “You have to stop seeking permission for everything. You don’t need someone else’s nod to know if you’re doing the right thing. You’re the one in control. You make the decisions.”

He gasped, her words cutting through his haze, her hands driving him to the very brink of his endurance. “But… but I’m afraid of making mistakes,” he admitted, his voice breaking.

“Afraid of mistakes?” she scoffed, her voice laced with disdain. “Do you think they’re perfect? You’re giving them power they don’t even deserve. You think they know better? They don’t. And if they did, they wouldn’t need you.”

Her gloved thumb pressed against his tip, her fingers digging into his prostate with a force that bordered on painful, each movement calculated to amplify his vulnerability, to break through his defenses. “Feel that, Hassan?” she whispered, her voice thick with arousal. “That’s your submission, your surrender. But it’s mine. Not theirs.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she continued, her voice a low, seductive murmur. “I want you to remember this feeling, this loss of control. Here, you’re mine. You’re my slut, my toy. You belong to me. But out there?” She pulled back, her gaze fierce. “Out there, you’re strong. You don’t bow to anyone.”

A soft, mocking smile played at her lips as she continued, her fingers pressing ruthlessly against his prostate, her hand on his cock maintaining its relentless pace. “And another thing,” she added, her voice taking on a sadistic edge. “When you’re with them, don’t dress up your fear as protocol. You think you’re being respectful, following rules, but really? You’re just afraid. Afraid of being judged, of being seen. That stops now.”

He gasped, his body writhing under her control, her words tearing through his defenses, each touch breaking him down further, each brutal truth leaving him exposed, vulnerable. “Yes, Sayyida,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion, his body at the very brink.

“Good,” she murmured, her tone softening, though her hands remained unyielding. “I want you to carry this feeling, this sense of release, into your professional life. I want you to know that you’re capable, that you have power. And if anyone challenges you? You look them in the eye and show them exactly who you are.”

Her lips brushed his ear, her voice a low, seductive whisper as her hands continued their relentless work, her touch a calculated balance of pleasure and pain. “Remember, Hassan. Here, you’re my slut. But out there, you’re no one’s toy. No one’s puppet. You are your own.”

With a final, unrelenting stroke, she held him on the edge, his body trembling, overwhelmed, completely under her control.

Dr. Salwa’s gloved hand moved with unyielding control, her strokes firm and precise, keeping him hovering on the precipice. She watched him closely, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he struggled to keep himself composed, each word, each touch stripping away his defenses.

“Listen to me, Hassan,” she commanded, her voice steady, authoritative. “You need to stop giving everyone around you power. You think you’re being diligent, respectful, but really, you’re afraid. You’re terrified that if you let them see you for who you truly are, they’ll reject you.”

Her grip tightened around him, her fingers digging into his prostate with a ruthless, calculated pressure that sent jolts of sensation through his entire body. He gasped, his head falling back, his breath coming in ragged bursts as she held him on the edge, her touch unrelenting.

“But the truth, Hassan,” she continued, her voice softening yet still carrying that edge of command, “is that you are stronger than you believe. You don’t need their approval. You don’t need their permission. You’re there to do your job, to lead, to command. And you will. Do you understand?”

He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Yes, Sayyida.”

“Good,” she murmured, her tone low and seductive as she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Because out there, you are no one’s slave. You are no one’s puppet. You hold your own power, your own authority. But here…” Her voice dropped, taking on a darker, more possessive edge. “Here, you belong to me. Here, you are my slut, my toy. I own every part of you.”

Her gloved fingers pressed deeper, working his prostate with an intensity that made him shudder, his body trembling as she kept him on the very brink, her touch both punishing and deeply arousing. “Feel that, Hassan?” she whispered, her voice a low, sultry murmur. “That’s your submission. That’s your surrender. And it belongs only to me.”

He gasped, his body arching under her touch, his vulnerability laid bare as she held him in place, her hands controlling every sensation, every response. She allowed a small, knowing smile, her hand on his cock maintaining a slow, torturous rhythm that kept him on the edge, denying him release.

“When you’re at work,” she continued, her tone sharpening, “I want you to remember this. I want you to feel this sense of power—not from submission, but from strength. You hold your head high, you speak with authority, and you know that you belong. Because you do, Hassan. You’re capable. You’re strong. And you don’t need anyone’s approval to prove it.”

Her other hand stroked along his shaft with increasing intensity, her thumb grazing over the sensitive head, keeping him on the edge, her control absolute. “But here, with me,” she murmured, her voice a mix of command and seduction, “you surrender completely. You give up every bit of control, every defense. You are mine to use, to control, to dominate.”

He moaned, his body quivering, his breath shallow as her words and touch overwhelmed him, each sensation, each statement stripping him down, preparing him for the final release.

“And now,” she whispered, her voice thick with authority and arousal, “I’m going to let you come. Not because you deserve it, not because you’ve earned it. But because I want it. Because I want to watch you lose yourself, to let go completely under my hands.”

With a final, unrelenting stroke, her hands brought him to the edge and then pushed him over, her touch guiding him through his release as she held him in place, her gaze fierce, satisfied, as he surrendered completely.

“Remember this, Hassan,” she whispered, her voice a soft, possessive murmur. “This is where you are mine. And out there? That’s where you find your own strength.”