Chapter 25

She had a headache, as she often did on Mondays, for the last two months, which was not helped by the episode with Sid Buchanan, nor by the blackmailing phone call she had had from the evil Priscilla before leaving. In short, things were pretty miserable. Mark was still standoffish, and she wondered if he really remembered what he had seen through clouded eyes. He had commented that that night he had had a dream that she and Buchanan were having sex beside him in bed, and she knew that that was a subliminal memory of what he had truly seen. Apparently the recurring mental image had put him off sex again and he had spent the last three nights fitfully staring at the opposite wall while she burned for his attentions.

Perhaps that was the source of her headaches, the lack of affection and loving attention. And sex. There was a nagging idea in the back of her mind--there had been for two weeks--to call Dr. Hemmings and see if he could remedy what ailed her.

Desirée picked up the phone and dialed his number. The receptionist, who only worked three hours each morning, made her an appointment for that afternoon at three. She wondered if she should tell him about Buchanan, what the awful man had done to her, and if she should have an examination. She shuddered at the thought that she might be pregnant by him, and wondered how he would find out--as he had sworn he would--if Dr. Hemmings found out. Was Hemmings on Buchanan's payroll somehow? She supposed that was possible, but she would have to trust the pastor. Even if she were pregnant, she doubted that she could even allow herself to consider an abortion, the only remedy, for she had to admit to herself that, though it had started technically as a rape, she had responded willingly out of her own weakness. She could never punish a poor fetus for her own sensual weakness.

"Come in, Desirée," Dr. Hemmings bade her as he opened the door to the waiting room. He ushered her in to his consultory and she sat before the desk. Sitting across from her he folded his hands on the desk and looked at her benevolently.

"What seems to be the trouble?"

"I don't feel at all well." Her lovely face was unable to hide her distress as she said, "I think I might be pregnant."

Hemmings, behind his mask of benevolence, was scarcely able to suppress his reactions. He felt himself breaking into a hot sweat as the jealousy burned its way up his spine and into his scalp. Damn it to hell! She had reinitiated her sexual relationship with her husband. He tried to control his emotions, knowing that the situation, with respect to him, was as difficult as it could be. He, Hemmings, had a wife himself and was the pastor of the local Baptist Church and he well knew that these feelings he had for this luscious young woman, this girl, really, were hopeless. Still, knowing that anyone, even her politician husband, had had his penis in her filled him with a rage that was all but impossible to contain.

He was afraid that his voice trembled when he said. "When did intercourse take place."

Hemmings thought she choked when she said, "Four nights ago."

Rising, Hemmings took her by the hand over to the examining table. "Raise your skirt and remove your underwear, Desirée," he said, taking a small tray from the shelf. While she readily complied, he watched her bare the charms he had not seen for much too long, when Dr. Braun had come in to give her a hypnotic suggestion, for Hemmings' benefit. At that time, just weeks ago, his heart had been shredded with jealousy when he had come in to the treatment room and found that Braun, in addition to his fee, was sampling the merchandise, his cock thrusting deeply into the innocent girl's vagina, which she had just exposed.

"Hold your skirt up in front, Desirée," he said coming around in front of her. "Spread your legs and urinate into this sampler for me."

Desirée was totally trusting as she parted her thighs and let him place the tray under her creamy-haired pussy; it was part of the suggestion Braun had planted in her brain. "Go ahead, my dear," he said and watched as she released the flow, watching the healthy, amber stream fill the specimen tray. With a tissue he dabbed at the damp fur.

"We'll test this," he told her. "In the meantime, I'll examine you. Please sit on the table."

Desirée sat up and looked at his face as he slid his naked finger into her pussy.

"You're a bit dry," he said, massaging her clitoris and poking gently inside her until her secretions made it possible to delve into her vagina and finger the pout of her cervix. "Seems all right to me," he said, "but we'll have to check the urine sample." He kept his finger in her pussy-hole, feeling how it warmly gripped him.

"I detected that you were unhappy at the idea of a pregnancy."

She looked away and he saw tears. He decided to get to the bottom of this. Without removing his middle finger from her sweet, wet grip, he put his other hand on her shoulder and said, "Sleep."

Immediately, her chin dropped onto her chest and her eyes closed. Just as Dr. Braun had devised, she went instantly into a state of hypnosis. Braun had made her submissive to almost anything that followed a light hand on the shoulder and the word "sleep", as long, of course, as it was done in Hemmings' voice. The doctor still burned with resentment that the lustful psychologist had helped himself to the joys of Desirée's delicious body during the induction, but not being a violent man and since the whole process had been highly illegal, he had done, and could do, nothing about it.

Now the lovely, blonde young choirgirl sat on the examining table, her legs spread, exposing her intimate charms, her body defenselessly slumped there. His finger still buried in her hot vagina, he began to stroke in and out, listening happily to the moan of pleasure that his touch was eliciting.

My darling Desirée, he groaned inwardly. You don't remember our time together, but I do. And you're mine. Mine forever!

Hemmings' cock throbbed and burned in his pants. It had been such a long time since he had experienced the supreme pleasure of her body. It had been a month before her wedding and she had no memory of it, for Braun had expunged that through hypnosis. But he remembered the unbearable thrill of sex with her. She had come to him in a moment of weakness and he had helped her quiet her own desires, but now her mind was clear of anything that would nag her conscience. At least, as far as he knew.

Now was the time to find out what was really bothering the girl.

"Desirée," he said quietly. "When I count three you will open your eyes and you will be aware of all around you, but you will answer all my questions and do everything I tell you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dr. Hemmings," she replied quietly.

"All right then. One, two, three."

Desirée's eyes opened and her head came slowly up. She looked at him calmly, with trust.

"Why do you cry, Desirée?" he asked gently, gently frigging her slippery vaginal channel with the finger that seemed unable to withdraw itself from her inner sweetness. "What is it that upsets you?"

Desirée's face trembled and tears squeezed out between her closed eyelids.

"Mark doesn't love me anymore," she murmured. "And I need him."

Hemmings went on fingerfucking the darling young bride. "Can you tell me why you think he doesn't love you anymore."

Desirée groaned with the feelings his finger was arousing in her. "He won't touch me, not since--since--" Gasping, she squeezed her legs shut on his hand and he felt a gush of warm fluid against his palm.

She was one of those women who actually ejaculated, Hemmings thought, remembering the way she had soaked him when he had made love to her the first and only time, a month before her wedding. She didn't remember that herself, for Braun's hypnosis had expunged the experience from her memory, but Hemmings would never forget it. That was why she had been given instructions to come to the office once a week, so he could repeat the event. But what with her long honeymoon and her travels with the husband on the political trail, she always seemed to be out of town on Mondays, the day she had been told to "report" when she was in Pickford's Meadows.

But now he had her here and he was going to make the most of the situation. Desirée's squeezing thighs suddenly scissored open and allowed him more freedom of movement.

"Since what, my darling?" Hemmings asked softly.

"Since--Oh I don't think I can say the words."

"Go ahead. You must."

"Since Lobo came again to our room."

Hemmings caught his breath. Lobo? Again? "He came to your room? When?"

She thought, and the pain showed in her beautiful features. "Almost two weeks ago."

Hemmings stilled the motion of his hand between her legs. "Tell me about it. Everything."

Desirée swallowed.

"Relax," he said soothingly. "Relax and tell me everything. Everything."

She started out slowly. "Mark and I were making love. I wanted to share something really special with him and I was going to... put my mouth on his... his penis. But Lobo came through the window. Attacked Mark. Would have killed him. I had to do something to pacify the wild dog, so I gave myself to him. That's why he was there. To take me. At first it was horrible, like the first time, ugly, perverted. But Mark was watching and it started to feel good. So good. Oh, it felt so good!"

Desirée leaned back on her hands and pushed her vagina onto Hemmings' hand, but he didn't oblige. He had to know before she got going too hotly.

"Go on."

"Oh, Mark hates me now, because I got so turned on and liked the dog fucking me. The next morning I got something in the mail. A video tape. I went to Priscilla Devereaux's house and something must have happened there, because I saw myself on the video tape, making love... to Clete Anderson."

Hemmings' eyes opened wide. That bastard Clete Anderson! Taking advantage of his darling! Was there no limit to outrages? How could Clete Anderson dare to fuck his choir soprano?

"Go on, go on!" he urged.

"Before we went to the party at Sid Buchanan's, I got a call from Priscilla, telling me she had a video tape and that she was prepared to use it if I didn't do exactly as she said."

"And what was that?"

"She didn't say, not yet, but I know it will be something horrible. I think she hates me." Desirée's bosom began to heave as she choked out the rest of the story. "That night, at Buchanan's house, when Mark passed out in a drunken faint, Sid sneaked into our bed and did it to me, right beside Mark sleeping. He might have made me pregnant!"

The girl, in deep distress, fell back and, covering her face with her hands began to sob so that he thought her heart, and his, would break. He had to do something about this. If not, she could end up in a nuthouse, which, he was sure, would make Priscilla Devereaux quite happy. Hemmings knew her motives for the blackmail. It was to break up Desirée and Mark, which did not really fit in with his own plans.

"Listen to me, Desirée, listen to me now," he said in a soft but insistent voice. "I want you to listen to me. You are going to forget everything that has happened. Forget Lobo, both times that he mounted you. Forget the whole episode. Forget Clete Anderson and what he did to you, and forget Buchanan. Those things are just bad dreams. They will become less and less vivid with each passing day, just like any dream, until, a week from now, you will forget them completely. You'll forget everything you've ever done with any male, human or canine, besides your own husband. You'll forget everything that has ever happened in my office here in the last three months. The memories will slowly dissipate, until you won't be able to remember a thing about them. And you will forget the video tape. Do you understand?"