Desire is not civilized.
It doesn't shake hands politely or wait its turn at the altar of decency. No—it growls beneath the surface, teeth bared, pacing the cage we've built, from etiquette and shame. It is the ache behind a lingering glance, the tightening of thighs beneath pressed fabric, the pulse quickening in a room too quiet for honesty. Society dresses it in silk and scripture, but underneath every tailored suit and whispered prayer, desire breathes, Hotly. Hungrily. Waiting to be set free.
I am Dr. Adrian Lush.
Once upon another life, I wore a white coat buttoned to the collar, spoke in symposiums, and taught impressionable minds how dopamine and oxytocin masquerade as love. I tracked erections on brain scans, orgasms through heart rate monitors. I reduced the sacred act of wanting, into graphs and bullet points—clinical, clean, cold. It was a lie dressed in lab approval.
That man is gone.
I no longer sterilize pleasure. I sanctify it.
What I do now has no place in medical journals or boardrooms. My altar is not a podium. It is leather and shadow and heat. And the miracle? A vial. Small. Elegant. Glowing like a captured sun.
L-9.
Nine iterations. Nine delicate, obsessive refinements. Each formula closer to perfection. Not a stimulant. Not a drug that incites lust—it doesn't create the fire. It scrapes the ash away to reveal the glowing ember beneath. It unmasks the beasts hiding behind wedding rings and holy vows, wakes the cravings buried so deep, people forget they ever hungered.
With L-9, shame becomes moan. Denial melts into wet heat. Subjects don't just admit their desires—they become them. And when they finally sob out their truths, slick with sweat and need, they speak in a voice they've never heard before—their own, finally unleashed.
The medical establishment panicked. They didn't fear failure. They feared that I had succeeded. They called it dangerous. Unethical. Addictive. They destroyed my research, revoked my credentials, deleted me from the archives like a dirty footnote in an otherwise obedient field.
But truth isn't erased. Not when it smells like sex and drips down the thigh of morality. Desire doesn't die. It waits—for a crack in the wall. A whisper. A vessel.
Mine was Maria.
The first to kneel. The first to beg. The first to take that glowing breath of L-9 and look at me not like a man, but like a god. And I, foolish and craving, answered her prayer.
Patient Zero.
She was married. Beautiful, in the kind of way that came from being tightly wound—poised, mannered, reverent. Her entire presence was structured, measured, devout. Maria was the perfect wife, the perfect woman. At least, that's what she told herself. What she told me, in our first session, cloaked in polite restraint and socially acceptable discontent. She spoke softly, described vague anxieties, and referenced emotional distance in her marriage. She cried delicately, as though each tear was an apology. But beneath the words, her body betrayed deeper truths—truths her tongue could not yet articulate.
Maria didn't come to me seeking therapy. She came seeking permission.
And like many women drowning in repression, she didn't even realize it at first. She asked the right questions, used the right language. Her tone was deferential, her posture modest, her lips trembling just enough to suggest vulnerability. But her eyes—God, her eyes—searched the room like they were trying to find the thing she wasn't brave enough to ask for.
At first, I did everything I was supposed to. I listened. I maintained distance. I wore the skin of professionalism like a second lab coat. But with each visit, she began peeling me out of it. Her skirts shortened subtly. Her lipstick darkened. The questions turned. They started as curiosities—clinical, hypothetical, innocent on the surface. But by her third session, she was asking me what I thought of dreams involving strangers, hands pinning her wrists, voices telling her she'd been bad.
Each time she asked, she smiled afterward, eyes down, teeth catching her bottom lip. "Just a thought," she'd say.
It was never just a thought.
By then, the air between us had shifted. Every session became a slow, careful seduction. I could feel her pressing into the edges of my resolve, and I began pressing back without even meaning to. I started noticing the way her breath hitched when I leaned closer. The way she squirmed when I spoke in a lower register. I pretended not to see it. She pretended not to show it. But we were both lying.
The fourth session was the breaking point.
It was late. The clinic was silent. My staff had gone home. I remained at my desk, finishing notes that no longer felt relevant. I didn't hear her enter at first—only the scent of her perfume, stronger than usual, rose-sweet and clinging. I looked up to find her standing in the doorway, cheeks flushed, fingers laced together like she was holding a prayer.
Then, without a word, she moved. Slowly. Deliberately. She knelt before my chair.
Her knees touched the floor with grace. Her wedding ring shimmered under the dim light as she placed one trembling hand on my thigh. Her other reached for my belt, hesitant only in the way a prayerful hand hesitates before lighting a candle. She looked up at me, pupils wide, lips parted.
"Just once," she whispered, "I need to feel truly alive."
There was a moment—a heartbeat—where I could have stopped her. Where I could have pushed back from my chair and held the line. But I didn't. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. My hand tangled in her hair as her lips parted further, and when she took me into her mouth, it was like the room changed. She moved with a kind of reverence that made every movement feel like sacrament. She didn't suck me like a temptress. She worshipped me like a god.
When I came, I didn't feel guilt. I felt power. Hunger. Awakening.
She rested her cheek against my thigh, breath shaking, tears on her lashes—not from shame, but from a release long denied. Her voice was barely audible. "Thank you," she said, "for not saving me."
And I knew then—I never would.
From that moment on, Maria stopped pretending.
She returned with lingerie under her modest clothes, with eyes that no longer flickered with shame but with hunger. She asked to be tied down. She asked to be punished. She asked me to show her what it felt like to truly belong to someone who could take all of her and never look away.
I gave her L-9 on the fifth session. Just a whisper of vapor. Delivered through an inhaler shaped like a crucifix—designed for clients like her, those whose guilt was part of their arousal. She kissed the stem as if she were kissing the feet of a savior. Then she inhaled.
The change was immediate.
Her body shivered, slow at first, then violently. Her legs spread of their own accord. Her head tilted back. Her breath hitched into sobs that weren't sadness—they were release. The kind of cathartic unraveling only truth can bring.
She began to speak. Not with restraint, but with urgency. She told me she dreamed of being used in a cathedral, of moaning while stained glass saints looked down on her. She imagined being knelt between pews, choked with rosary beads. She wanted to be undone in the same breath as she whispered prayers.
"Strip me of heaven," she said. "I want to belong to your hell."
And I obliged her.
On the desk, her fingers clawed for stability as she came again and again. Against the wall, her back arched like a bow, and she screamed my name like it was a hymn. On her knees, she whispered her devotion around my cock, tears and saliva dripping from her chin as she begged me not to stop, ever.
She became both subject and muse, patient and lover. Each session built on the last. I studied her like scripture. I fucked her like worship.
By the twelfth session, she had stopped referring to her husband. Stopped wearing her ring. Her body knew my touch better than it ever knew his. She told me she was ready—ready to leave everything behind. She wanted the full dose. She wanted to feel everything.
I gave it to her. She inhaled deep. The vial emptied. And then she collapsed into sensation.
She convulsed on the chair, hands gripping the sides, head thrown back in unfiltered ecstasy. She came once. Then again. Then again—until she went still, breath slowing, mouth forming my name one final time in a whisper.
She smiled.
And never woke up.
Her body was untouched. No sign of trauma. No indication of overdose. Her brainwaves simply stopped—as if they had reached their limit. As if her soul had decided it had finally felt enough.
The authorities demanded I shut it all down. Burn the notes. Destroy the compound. Erase the evidence.
I nodded. I complied.
But I kept L-9.
Because Maria didn't just die from pleasure. She ascended through it. She showed me that desire isn't a symptom. It's not a condition to cure.
It's the deepest, rawest truth of being human. And I have no intention of silencing that truth ever again.
—-
My sanctum is a temple devoted to sensual revelation. Hidden discreetly above an antique bookstore, accessible through a secretive entrance invisible to the casual eye, my world waits in shadow and seduction.
Inside, velvet walls drenched in deep crimson absorb sound, creating silence that feels as intimate as skin-on-skin contact. Dim, golden lighting caresses every surface gently, softly highlighting steel and leather, illuminating curves and shadows alike. The air, heated just enough to feel like a lover's breath, is scented with frankincense and something darker—something unmistakably primal.
An old gramophone rests in the corner, endlessly playing Billie Holiday. Her voice, cracked and mournful, adds an erotic melancholy that heightens every sensation, reminds me that every pleasure carries its own sorrow.
Central to the room stands a leather chair, infinitely adjustable, an altar to human exploration. Around it lie trays of meticulously arranged instruments: silk bindings, delicate sensory tools, gels and oils laced with subtle nerve-stimulating properties. This is not a laboratory; it is a shrine. Every object has purpose, each designed to coax out secrets hidden deep within flesh and psyche.
Above, a mirrored ceiling reflects the naked truth back to those who come here. In that reflection, subjects see themselves clearly—unmasked, unashamed, alive.
My true treasure, however, resides within a reinforced, temperature-controlled vault behind my mahogany desk. Twelve vials of L-9, crystalline containers holding amber liquid that pulses hypnotically under the slightest movement.
Tonight, I cradle the vial like a relic.
Its glow is soft, golden, and alive in the low light of the sanctum—a captured sun pulsing with memory. I turn it slowly between my fingers, watching the fluid shimmer with each subtle tilt, and I feel her again. Not her body, but her presence—Maria, still hovering in the air like perfume clinging to silk long after the wearer is gone. Her lips parting around the crucifix stem, breath hitching as the vapor kissed her lungs. Her pupils dilating, her body surrendering to sensation before a single word was spoken.
I see her in the way the glass catches the candlelight. I hear her breath in the faint hiss of the vial's seal. My body stirs at the thought—unbidden, yes, but not unexpected. A twitch beneath the belt. A warmth gathering at my spine. Remembrance has its own physiology, and Maria has branded herself into mine.
She once asked me, her voice no louder than a prayer, trembling in that delicate post-orgasmic haze, "Is it sin, Dr. Lush… to feel this alive?"
I leaned down, brushed her hair from her damp forehead, and whispered the only answer that has ever felt honest. "No, Maria. It is truth."
That moment still haunts me—not because it was forbidden, but because it was pure. A kind of purity the world fears. It didn't matter that she was married. It didn't matter that she came to me under the guise of therapy. In that moment, stripped of titles and roles, kneeling before me with tears and needing to cling to her skin, she was something rare.
She was herself.
This sanctum is more than just walls and furniture. It is my cathedral of flesh and confession. Here, velvet muffles judgment. Shadows cradle sins. Leather remembers every tremble, every cry, every truth spoken through gasps and release. I do not just observe. I witnessed it. I do not merely treat—I administer communion to those starving for permission to want.
I am no longer a man of sterile science. I am something else entirely.
A priest, perhaps, of the body. A shepherd not of morality, but of honesty. My flock comes to me draped in guilt, and leaves soaking in liberation. I guide them—not away from their desires, but through them. And I do so with open hands, a knowing smile, and the most dangerous sacrament in modern history: L-9.
As I return the vial gently to its velvet-lined cradle, I feel the gravity of ritual settle around me again. I seal the lock. Slide the drawer closed. Let the silence absorb the last whisper of her memory.
Outside, footsteps shift softly on the floorboards. A new patient. New voice. New confessions not yet spoken, not yet whispered into my mouth or moaned into the walls.
They do not know what waits for them beyond that door. Not truly. They think they seek understanding, maybe pleasure. What they will find is freedom. A part of themselves they've never met. A stranger hiding inside their own skin.
And as I turn toward the door, adjusting my cuffs, smoothing my vest, I know this much with complete certainty: the doorway Maria opened within me was not an ending.
It was the beginning. And I have no intention of ever closing it.