Chapter 2

" ... nine, ten."

And she was awake. Really awake. She yawned and stretched and looked around her. It was dark outside. The table had been cleared of all papers, and it had been set for dinner, two tall candles in crystal holders which hadn't yet been lighted, Waterford wine glasses at each place setting. The steamy smell of garlic and onions mingled with stewing beef. A pan of water was boiling on the stovetop.

"I've run a bath for you," he exclaimed brightly. "Dinner will be served promptly in twenty-five minutes."

"Richard, what were you doing when I last woke up?" she queried.

"Doing?"

"All the yellow paper," she said, looking around for some sign of it all. "All the writing you were doing."

"You were dreaming, Gail."

She stared at him accusingly, but he wouldn't look at her, and there was plenty to keep him occupied with his cooking. Occasionally, he paused to sip a martini. With a sigh, she padded down the hall toward the bathroom, but after a second glance behind her, she ducked into the only room she hadn't yet entered. This was obviously his bedroom. She wouldn't pry, she told herself, but she wanted to do something to surprise him. She tiptoed to his closet and found a freshly laundered, long-sleeved dress shirt, then carried it back with her into the bathroom.

The water was too hot, and she had to add a modicum of cold before it was palatable. Still, its steamy warmth was luxuriously elegant. She closed her eyes and relaxed, then looked down at herself. Her nipples, long and hard, poked above the surface like two islands on a large, flat sea. She grinned. He likes my nipples, she thought. What would it be like, tomorrow? Would he tweak them? Pet them? Suck on them? She shivered. She had no choice, now. She was at his mercy. The contract said so. The contract left her no recourse. She had no say at all in the matter of sex. She was surprised to find that thought very comforting.

The shirt was too big, of course, and she experimented for awhile with the terry belt from the bathrobe, wrapping it around her waist twice before knotting it, then rolling up the sleeves. She had the top three buttons undone, and her nipples poked savagely at the thin, cotton fabric, so that each little movement reminded her of them, made her even more cognizant of her vulnerability, her sexuality. Bunched up around the waist like this, the shirt rode up, and the long shirttail was much closer to the bottom of her ass cheeks than she had hoped it would be. She tried vainly to pull it down, but resolutely decided that she was going to wear this, even if he COULD see her ass. She brushed her hair with long, quick, strong strokes, and primped in front of the mirror for him. Oh, she wished she had just a little makeup from her purse.

There was a knock at the door. "Hey! Time's up! Get out of there!"

She dropped the brush and jerked the door open, stepping forward as she did so, and she stood just inches from him. He had to retreat a half-step to survey her properly, raking his eyes up and down her body. She stood as a soldier at inspection, repressing the same shudder that always seemed to rack her body when men looked at her this way. Men were always doing this; always looking at her; always wanting her. But this time it was so very different. This time she knew, knew completely and unequivocally, that THIS man was going to have her. THIS man was going to take her, and it would be soon now. Only hours away now. Soon, he would be holding her, kissing her, petting her, poking and prodding her, pinching those nipples that he seemed to like so much. The contract guaranteed it. Soon he would be grasping, thrusting..."

"Wow. You look great, Gail." She opened her eyes (when had she closed them?), and looked up into his tender, smiling face. "But dinner awaits!" he announced. "Come along, my dear."

He offered her his arm. She took it gently, without flinching at all (which surprised her), and let him lead her back to the table, let him hold her chair. She sat and tugged at the bottom of the shirt, but stopped abruptly when her efforts caused one of her breasts to pop free up top. Frantically, she turned her attention to this new indignity, poking herself back into the confines to the thin shirt. Blushing crimson, she looked up to find him staring, goggle-eyed. But then he shifted his gaze resolutely away, waited only a second, and took another peek. His lips twitched a few times, jerked upward at the ends, twitched a little more, and then he burst into guffawing laughter. She couldn't suppress doing the same, though Lord knows she tried. And from that moment forward, the evening became absolutely magical.

He served the Beef Stroganov, then dimmed the lights and took the seat next to her, only a corner of the table separating them, the candles transforming their whole world into this one small place in the universe. She'd never been so near a man for so long a period of time, and yet, she barely even thought about that. They talked. And talked and talked. He related a story about how his uncle had taken him camping up in Wisconsin when he was a teenager; hung on his every word about a trip to a graveyard at night and the possible sighting of a ghost; was terrified by his tale of falling through ice on a frozen river. SHE spoke emphatically about her work, amazed again by his questions, his knowledge of medical research procedures. She laughed again. And again. Oh, when was the last time that she'd done that? Had she ever, really been happy? Had she, ever, in her whole life, felt like THIS? She found herself actually touching him ... laying her hand on his to make a point, letting him do the same.

And then somehow, without switching gears in the conversation at all, he was talking about HER. It was so subtle, at first, that neither one of them realized that she had become a part of the evening. Had he ever done such-and-such, she had asked; and he had responded naturally, matter-of-factly that Oh yes, Jasmine had insisted that they go there, do that. And then it was: Jasmine and he had seen this play, or vacationed on that beach. The wine wasn't helping, of course. She had consumed two glasses, and he'd had at least three ... on top of the martinis. And finally, inevitably, he told her how they had met at some fundraiser, how she had worked long hours to put him through grad school, how she had volunteered for this or that cause, how she was always volunteering HIS time on the weekends for functions, how he had always resisted, how those moments had become some of the best of his life.

And then, of course, he came to THAT day. She, a certified social worker, had gone to a small home in a bad neighborhood in North St. Louis, even though HE had told her not to go to places like that unescorted. He had TOLD her! And she WAS with another social worker, of course. She HAD taken precautions. But no one knew that a kid in that house had gone through a gang initiation the day before against a rival group. No one knew that this would be a "payback" day. No one foresaw the two cars driving by the front, spraying the house with machinegun fire. No one could foresee something like THAT!

He'd gotten up by this point, pacing, gesturing, and for the very first time, she had seen hate in his eyes. He declared that they needed more wine, and he rummaged through a cupboard before realizing that there was none left in the house, and so he paced the kitchen for a few minutes while he described the funeral, attended by more than a thousand, even though they had been a relatively private couple. But evidently, she had touched that many lives, he said, shrugging, and he sat back down heavily in his chair.

She couldn't stop herself. She had never been able to bear being near a man before; never been able to touch a man before. But now, she found herself standing, found herself stepping around the corner of the table to him, found herself turning and settling herself on his lap, holding his huge head in her arms, against her breasts, holding him, just holding him. She didn't even flinch when he raised his head and bellowed in rage and impotent frustration and sadness, and she just held on ... held on for dear life.

It took a long two minutes to cry tears that needed to be shed. Then, he stood up, holding her in his strong arms as if her weight was nothing at all, but only for a moment, and he deposited her back on her feet in front of him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen," he told her.

"I put puzzles together," she said softly. "It's my profession. It's just what I do. And there's always a key. There's always ... something ... that is the clue to the whole problem. I think I know the key to yours."

He took a deep breath. "And what's that?"

"If I could build a machine that would take away all of your pain, all of your anger, all of your frustration ... but if the cost of using that machine was that you had to give up just one, small, little memory of her ... just one out of all the ones you have ... would you use it?"

He regarded her in open-mouthed awe for a long moment, and finally smiled down at her and shook his head in wonder. "Alright, Doctor, I guess that does put things into proper perspective." He paused again. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

She smiled up into his tender eyes.

He took a ragged breath. "Okay, let's get on with it, shall we?"

She shifted her eyes. "Get on with what?"

"You are going to feel compelled to do something soon," he told her, tapping her on the tip of her nose. "I don't want you to fight it. Okay?"

"Fight what?"

"Whatever it is," he replied, grinning.

And without another word, he bent down to put his lips next to her ear again. This time, however, before he could whisper anything, she turned her head suddenly, abruptly, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Surprised, he withdrew, standing up straight again, but she arched up onto her tiptoes to follow him, refusing to let go, refusing to take her lips from his. His hands grasped her thin waist, undecided, for a moment, whether to push or pull, and then one arm wrapped tightly around her waist while his other hand went to the back of her head, holding it in place. And the kiss went on and on.

They were both breathing hard when he finally pulled his face from hers.

"Is that what I wasn't supposed to fight?" she asked breathlessly.

But now, his lips were against her ear again. She tried to brace herself, mentally; tried not to let her body shudder with the expectation of the total surrender she knew was coming. "Sleep," he whispered, and she felt her mind falling and falling; felt her body go limp and hang in his arms; hoping desperately that he would never let her go.

" ... ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred," she said softly.

She felt ... wonderful. Slowly, she pulled her arm out from beneath the soft sheet and blanket and lightly ran her fingers over her lips, still feeling his kiss. The bedroom was dark, and she had no idea what time it was, but it was obviously the middle of the night. Her fingers weren't enough, and she gently replaced them with her tongue, trying to remember the taste of his lips.

She sighed. Why hadn't he taken her already? And he must want to, she decided. He had held her, if ever so briefly, and kissed her, even if it didn't last long enough. Who was she kidding? Of course he liked to be kissed ... all men did. And tomorrow (today?), he would have his way with her ... for a period not to exceed 24-hours. But then he would be rid of her; hypnotically transferring her ardor to someone else. Oh, how she hoped it wouldn't be another woman. It might be, of course. He could MAKE her want that. He could make her do anything. Anything.

Another sigh. Who would her new love be? And, as Richard had so ungraciously pointed out, if she really, really loved him (or her), then she would joyously give herself to that person sexually. But would that person find her pleasing? Would that person look at her the way HE did?

What did he find so enthralling about her nipples? She slid her arm back under the sheet, let her right hand join her left, and gently used them to massaged her breasts, simultaneously. The nipples WERE very long, standing dramatically above her smallish breasts, hard and proud. She gently rubbed them with her fingers and felt an electric tingle below them in the breasts themselves. The feeling made her breath quicken, her pulse race a bit. They DID make her feel good. Gently, she pinched them, pulled them with her thumbs and forefingers. That made her feel even better. Would her new lover want to do this to her? She tried to form a picture of him, of what she wanted him to look like, but every time the picture began to form, it was Richard's face that materialized in her mind.

HE would be taking her soon. He would be doing THIS to her soon. Oooohh! Maybe he would want to pinch them ... like this. Or maybe even harder ... like this. Oooohh! She NEVER did this to herself at night, not like she was doing now ... pinching and pulling ... touching herself ... like this. Why had she never thought to do this before? More to the point, why was she doing it now? Oooohh! The shivers were coming more frequently now. Oh, this was ... pleasant. Oh, this was heaven!

But Richard wouldn't stop with THIS, of course. Richard wouldn't be satisfied until he had put his penis into her vagina. Until he had put his cock into her pussy. Why had she just thought those words? She NEVER thought about those words! But that's what he would do, of course. That's what all men thought about. That's ALL they could think about! That's all that they wanted! He wanted to put his cock in her pussy. Right here, into her pussy. Right ... Oooohh! Right ... right there. Right there. Oh, gosh, it was wet. It was so wet! Had she peed a little? But no, it wasn't urine. It was ... slippery. Oily. And it made her finger go in so ... easily. Just slip right in. Slip right out. Slip right in. Oooohh! That was nice. That was really, really ... Her whole body jerked suddenly. Omigosh! What was THAT? She'd just touched it with the tip of her thumb. It was right ... um ... right ... THERE! Oooohh! Oh, gosh! Why had she never noticed that thing before? Because you've never DONE this before, you idiot, she chided herself silently. Why are you doing it now?!? Oooohh! That's why! That feeling ... that ... wonderful ... tingle? No, not really a tingle. Oooohh! Well, okay, it was a tingle, but also more than that, really. Like a pressure. Like a pressure building up in her soul. Right in the middle of her very being.

But she'd forgotten about her nipples! She missed that. Okay, she'd tug and pull on her nipples with her left hand, while she slid her forefinger in and out of her pussy with her right. Slide in. Slide out. Slide in. SO slippery! And now, each time she let her finger slide in, she'd touch that THING with her thumb ... like this. She jerked savagely. The bedsprings creaked. Oooohh! That one was the best one so far. She'd do that again. Oooohh! That was good. That was really, really good. But her forefinger wasn't going in deep enough. Robert's cock would be longer than THAT! She tried her middle finger. That was a little better ... a little deeper. And now (why hadn't she thought of this before?) ... now she could slide her middle finger all the way in ... aaallll the way in ... and now she could use both her thumb AND her forefinger to pinch that ... that thing! And now she could switch nipples with her other hand and pinch and pull the other one. And maybe twist it a little? Ooohhh!

And she was doing it faster, now, and that made it even better! And that pressure was building up, as if her soul was about to explode. And the bedsprings were creaking more now. And ... Oooohh! ... and oh, she hoped that Robert was a sound sleeper and wouldn't hear her ... hear the bedsprings. Oooohh! She would twist the left nipple for awhile like she had been doing the right one. Oooohh! And she was going to do it even faster, because the pressure was just marvelous! Oooohh! And she would ... she would ... um ... she would...

"AAAHHHH!" she screamed loudly, throwing her head back on the feather pillow, arching her back off the mattress. She opened her eyes wide, clamped her lips shut and prayed he hadn't heard that. But she'd forgotten to stop rubbing! "AAAAHHHH!" she screamed again. Oh, fuck it! "AHHH! AAAHHH!" Oh my gosh! She just HAD to make herself stop plunging her finger so rapidly into her sopping pussy! And pinching her nipple so hard! And doing that ... thing she was doing to that ... thing she was doing it to! Oh no! Here came another wave of it, washing over her! "AAAHHH! AAAAHHHH!"

Somehow, she found herself on her knees, her hands still clutching at her nipples and pussy, and her face buried into the pillow, and she screamed out her passion, which was fortunately muffled now. And then she toppled over onto her side, breathing hard, shivering uncontrollably, jerking from time to time, as the feeling mustered enough strength to push itself once more into her body. Her mind was numb with pleasure. Her body seemed to be floating, and she was only vaguely aware that her fluids were so copious that they were forming a puddle beneath her. She should do something about that. She should get up and find some tissues or something. She should ... um ... she ... should...

And she was asleep.

She spent almost an hour in the bathroom and he let her stay in there, shampooing her hair, spending too long in the shower, washing off the dried deposits from her night of self-induced passion, which seemed to be all over her legs and hands ... and even, to her mortification, her elbows. As she dried her hair with the handheld dryer, brushing and fluffing, she smiled to herself. Today was the day. Today, he would take her. Today, the terms of the contract would finally be carried out.

Out in the kitchen, she sat and watched him toasting bagels. The big terrycloth robe kept slipping off of her right shoulder, and finally, she just left it. Her small right breast was only just large enough to keep it from sliding further, stubbornly refusing to let itself be seen.

Richard looked distracted. He tried valiantly to keep up a meaningless banter as he prepared the simple fast, and kept up the chatter as they munched it. Finally, she could take it no longer. Peering over the lip of her orange juice glass, she asked in a small voice what was troubling him. He smiled wanly and took her empty glass, carrying the scant dishes to the sink.

"I've gone as far as I can go without talking to you," he told her seriously.

"Talking to me?"

"Yes. You. Just you. The real you."

"I don't understand," she said, in a voice that was an octave too high. Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong.

"While you are under hypnosis, I'm dealing with your subconscious ... the 'you' beneath the 'you.' Does that make sense?"

"Um ... yes, I guess."

"But now, before we take this last step, I need to talk to the REAL you. I need to find out what you REALLY want. When you're under, you tell me what your MIND most desires. But often, your mind lives in a dream, and you can't have those things in the real world. I need to know WHO you want to be ... at work ... in your personal life ... for real."

She swallowed hard. For some reason, she found she was shaking uncontrollably. "I told you ... I want love. I want you to make me fall in love. And then I'm going to give myself to you. Like the contract says..."

"Oh, come on, Gail. It's time to stop pretending about that stupid contract." He walked to the refrigerator and slowly took the magnets off the page. He returned to the table, sat down and held up the sheet of paper dramatically in front of him. Then, with the thumbs and forefingers of each hand, he held it in the middle at the top and started tearing it.

"NOOO!" she screeched, and she launched herself across the table at him like a linebacker diving for a tackle. Taken completely by surprise, he stood up and dropped the page, which fluttered once before she caught it in both hands, grasping it hard, crumpling it, just as she landed with a sliding THUMP on her belly on the table. Then, she slithered backwards, until she was once more at her place. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. With trembling fingers, she put the paper on the table in front of her and began trying to smooth it back out with the palms of both hands.

He could only stare at her with wide eyes. This action had been totally unexpected. Why hadn't he seen something like this coming? What had he missed? "Um ... Gail..."

"It's torn," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. She kept smoothing it with her hands.

"Gail, we need to talk about this."

"Do you have any tape?"

"Gail, you and I need to talk about the things that..."

"Just a little piece is all we need. It's just a little tear, right here at the top."

"Gail..."

But she wasn't listening to him, he knew. What had caused this? What was the thing that he'd missed? He bent and righted the chair that he'd toppled. Then he walked to a drawer, opened it, and took out a roll of Scotch tape. Without another word, he went to her side and handed it to her.

She smiled brightly up at him. "Thank you, Richard." She tore off a two-inch piece and then took excruciating care applying it to the torn paper. "There. Good as new, don't you think?" She stood and faced him, standing very close.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked her quietly, observing her closely.

To his alarm, she loosened the belt on the robe, and with a gentle shrug, the whole thing slid off of her slender body onto the floor around her feet. "Now, I'm going to give myself to you," she said quietly. "Just like the contract says."

He put one of his hands to his head, his eyes raking her lovely, naked body. It couldn't end like this! He'd missed something! What was it?

"Aren't you going to take me, Richard? I'm your sex slave for the next twenty-four hours."

He glanced down at the paper, and suddenly, he thought he had it. "Oh no, Gail. Not yet. We haven't finished yet, have we?"

She put her arms around his neck, pressing her body into him. "I have to pay you. I have to give myself to you ... completely."

"But that's not what the contract says, is it?" He watched her eyes carefully.

"It doesn't?" her voice was thin, unsure.

"It says right there in the contract ... I have to finish first. We have one more session, and THEN, when I'm all finished, that's when you pay me. That's when you give yourself to me. That's what the contract says." He stooped down, sliding out of her grasping arms, and picked up the robe.

Her eyes slid left and right, panic showing behind them. She let her gaze settle, for a moment, on the contract, but she seemed incapable to reading it. "It really says that?"

"Yes," he told her firmly. She stood, unresisting, as he pushed first her left arm, and then her right into the sleeves of the robe. He tightened the belt around her waist. Finally, he took her hand and slowly led her into the living room.