Sorority Sisters: Kimberly Massie
Copyright© 2025 by Emily Wendling
Chapter 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - He conquered football. He mastered science. But he never learned to resist temptation. Dr. Dan Harrison has it all: Ten Straight Super Bowl rings, a Harvard PhD, movie-star looks, and groundbreaking research that could revolutionize therapy. He's the impossible man brilliant, disciplined, untouchable. Until Kimberly Massie walks into his office.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction MaleDom Rough Oral Sex
Dan Harrison stared at the data on his monitor and made a choice. Four patients.
Sessions 44 through 47. All showing personality shifts that should not exist.
Subject 44’s Openness to Experience had dropped 12 percentile points. Subject 45’s Agreeableness had jumped 15 points.
Subject 46’s Conscientiousness had fallen 9 points.
Subject 47’s Extraversion had decreased 14 points alongside the expected reduction in Neuroticism.
The numbers sat there on the screen. They waited for him to acknowledge what they meant. Dan added a note to the file: “Follow up in one month. Likely measurement error.” He closed the file. The decision took three seconds. Three seconds to dismiss what might be evidence that his VR hypnotherapy protocol was altering personality structures in unintended ways. Three seconds to choose convenience over caution.
Three seconds to begin a cover-up that he did not yet recognize as a cover-up. Dan reached for his coffee mug. The white ceramic was cool against his palm. The coffee inside had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago. He drank it anyway. His throat accepted the bitter liquid without complaint. He set the mug back on the leather desk pad and glanced at the clock in the corner of his monitor. It was 2:51 PM.
His 3:00 PM appointment would arrive soon. He should review her intake file. But first, his eyes needed a break from the screen. Dan removed his reading glasses and set them beside the keyboard. He stood up from the Herman Miller Aeron chair. His lower back released a small complaint. Not pain exactly. Just a reminder that he was a middle aged man and had spent the last two hours sitting motionless.
The complaint was familiar. It started about six months after the Super Bowl. After the hits. After the concussion he hid from everyone. After he played the greatest game of his career with a brain that was actively being damaged. Dan walked to the windows. His office was in the corner suite on the fourth floor of Whitmore Hall. The neuroscience building. The windows ran from floor to ceiling and offered a view that people always commented on. Autumn trees in full color. The Hudson River water was moving south. The Catskill Mountains were visible in the distance where the air was clear today.
Dan looked at the view and felt nothing in particular. Trees. River. Mountains. These things existed. They would continue to exist whether he looked at them or not. He turned away from the windows. The office was large. Four hundred square feet of carefully curated academic success. Three walls held built-in bookshelves made of dark walnut wood. Each shelf was level. Each book spine was aligned. Cognitive psychology. Neuroscience. Sports psychology.
Virtual reality applications. Conscious studies. Mathematics texts that he had not opened in years but could not bring himself to remove. The books were organized by subject because Dan organized everything by subject. This was how his brain worked. Categories. Hierarchies. Systems. Everything was in its place. Everything was serving a function. The fourth wall was different.
Dan walked toward his desk and let his eyes pass over the wall behind it. He did not look at it directly. He had not looked at it directly in approximately three years. But he knew what was there. Ten shadowboxes containing ten Super Bowl rings. Framed photographs of him shaking hands with presidents. Eight separate photos of him receiving MVP trophies. Magazine covers. Academic diplomas. A letter from the American Psychological Association. A photograph of him in a Tom Ford tuxedo from a modeling campaign he had done in 2015.
His assistant had hung everything. She had insisted that visitors expected to see credentials displayed. Dan had not argued. The wall served a function. It established authority. It created the impression of someone who should be taken seriously. Dan no longer saw any of it. His eyes passed over the rings and photographs the way they passed over the gray walls. The university’s interior designer had called the paint color “Intellectual Dove.” Dan called it gray.
He circled around his desk. The desk itself was massive. Reclaimed oak with a live edge. Sustainably harvested at great expense. The kind of desk that costs more than a car. On its surface sat his monitor, keyboard, leather desk pad, a single Montblanc pen, and the white coffee mug. Nothing else. No clutter. No personal photographs. No evidence that a human being with a personal life worked here.
Dan’s eyes moved to the coat rack near the door. His charcoal Brunello Cucinelli blazer hung there. He had gotten it during a modeling shoot. He kept wearing it because it fit and he could not be bothered to shop for another one. Shopping required time and decisions about things that did not interest him.
Beside the door, the Barcelona chair sat empty in the corner. Black leather and chrome. Six thousand dollars of unused furniture. The chair was occasionally utilized by patients during their sessions. Dan never had. He walked toward the two Eames lounge chairs positioned opposite his desk. These were where he conducted clinical work. The chairs faced each other at a slight angle. The positioning suggested conversation between equals rather than doctor-patient hierarchy. A small side table sat between them. On the table was a box of tissues and a small digital recorder.
Dan sat in one of the chairs. The leather accepted his weight with a soft sound. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The headache was there. It was always there now. A low pressure behind his eyes that never quite disappeared. Sometimes it was barely noticeable. Sometimes it sharpened into something that made concentration difficult. Right now, it sat at the lower end of the scale. A three out of ten. Manageable.
He opened his eyes and looked at the whiteboard mounted on the wall to his left. His handwriting covered the surface. Neural pathway diagrams. Statistical models. Greek letters representing variables. In the upper right corner, written in red marker:
“SESSION 47 - TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT?”
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