Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Contract

   By BlackNight99

   Chapter One

   The young woman paused at the entrance of the storefront office building
and regarded the sign beside the door: Dr.  Richard Cordman.  Psychology.
Hypnotherapy.

   She took a deep breath and reached toward the doorknob, then stood,
mesmerized by her reflection in the dark glass that fronted the low
building.  When was the last time she'd dressed like this?  A real dress
... purchased only hours before, chosen almost entirely on the
recommendation of the saleswoman at the mall department store.  Knee-length
hem, fabric clinging to her gentle curves, neckline low-cut, revealing
cleavage that was augmented by the underwire bra (also recommended by the
saleslady, who had taken her client's inability to choose feminine attire
as a challenge).  She had had only $300 in cash - her "pin money," hidden
from her mother (or THAT would have been gone, too!), and the saleslady had
made sure that she'd had enough left over, after the dress and the bra and
the panties and the hose and the high heels, for an inexpensive "makeover"
at the cosmetics counter.  She looked ... sexy.  She hoped, at least, that
she presented that false image.  Another deep breath.  She turned the knob
and walked into the office.

   The reception area was deserted, not surprising this late on a Friday
afternoon.  On the counter, beside the receptionist's window, she found a
clipboard with a form attached, her name scrawled in at the top.  She
picked it up, sat down on the naugahyde-covered couch and started filling
in the blanks.  A few minutes later, just as she was finishing, the inner
office door opened, and the frame was literally filled with the bulk of a
large man.  He looked, to her, like a football lineman.  Big.  Muscular. 
Dark.  She blinked up at him, then quickly threw her gaze back down at the
floor, embarrassed by his penetrating stare and smiling, congenial face.

   "Dr.  Abernathy, I presume," he commented with a voice more mellow than
deep.

   "Gail," she said in a quiet voice, still unable to look up at him. 
"Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice, Doctor."

   "It's my pleasure.  Please come in." She allowed him to hold the door
for her, which posed a small problem as she had to maneuver her tall, thin
frame around his hulking body.  Their bodies rubbed together slightly as
she did so, and she repressed a small shudder.  Then she had to let him
pass again, as he led the way back and into a comfortable, manly office. 
The room held a sofa along one wall, an easy chair in front of a large,
old-looking oak desk, and the inevitable psychiatrist's couch in the middle
of the room.  The blinds were open, and the late afternoon sunlight
brightened the mood.  She took the chair in front of the desk and waited
patiently while he seated himself and spent several minutes reading the
form she'd filled out; then he sat back and studied her unabashedly.  She
found it impossible to meet his eyes, and kept hers on her hands, which
were clutching her knees.

   "I know you, don't I?" he commented, at last.

   This seemed to startle her immensely.  "No!  I mean, no.  No, I'm sure
we've never met."

   He wrinkled his brow.  "I'm certain I've seen you somewhere.  Are you in
TV or something?  A model?"

   "No.  I'm nobody.  I mean, I'm nobody important.  And I've never met
you. I'm sure."

   He glanced back at the forms.  "AH!  I know!  You live in that apartment
complex down on South Grand, don't you?"

   Her eyes shifted.  "Um ... yes.  I live at ...."

   "Yes, I have the address on the form.  I live right next to you ... in
the complex right across the street.  Small world." She said nothing,
staring down at her hands.  He pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and
started writing, talking as he wrote.  "Refuses to be led into normal
conversation." He glanced up, but she didn't react.  He sighed and studied
the form again.

   "You're a `Research Genetic Data Analyst,'" he continued.  "With a PhD.
I'm guessing that you're on one of the WashU genome teams.  Human?"

   THAT made her look up.  The corners of her mouth twitched upward, and
she regarded him with a bit of awe.  "Disease," she answered.

   "Cancer?  Which type?"

   Again she regarded him with wonder.  No one, obviously, had enough
knowledge to ask such questions.  "Prostate," she answered.

   "On behalf of the members of my sex, I'd like to offer our profound
thanks." But now she fell silent yet again, studying her hands on her
knees. He pulled the yellow pad back toward him and wrote, muttering loudly
"All attempts at flattery and humor completely useless."

   "I ... I'm sorry, Doctor," she began, faltering.  "I ... um ... we
really need to talk about how I'm going to pay for your services." She
never looked up.

   "There's really no need to worry about that now," he said confidently.
"I accept all major medical plans.  If you're part of the Washington School
of Medicine, I'm certain that you're covered for whatever ills you might
have."

   "No," she said gravely.  It had been the most emphatic word that she'd
uttered since she'd met him.  Still, she didn't look up at him.  "No.  I'm
not going to let the school know that I'm seeking psychological help.  I
don't want ANYONE to know.  I will not use insurance, or let anyone know
that I'm seeing you.  Confidentiality is fine ... but people have a way of
finding out things, especially if there's a paper trail.  Eventually,
they'll know what I came to you for.  No one would ever understand.  It's
simply too bizarre.  I can't risk anyone ever knowing.  We need to agree on
some other form of payment."

   "Other form?"

   "I don't have any money," she said quietly.

   That made him sit back and regard her in a different light.  "Just so I
understand who I'm dealing with here, Doctor ..."

   "Please, call me Gail.  It's important that you call me by my first
name."

   "Gail.  All right.  You can call me Richard.  Now ..."

   "No.  I think I should call you by your title.  We need to establish a
psychological hierarchy."

   "I'LL be the judge of things psychological!" he told her sternly.  He
sat back again and stared hard at the young, tall, pretty blonde sitting
silently across from him for a long minute.  He picked up the form again.
"Okay," he continued with quiet authority.  "Let me engage in a bit of
earnest observation.  You are probably the youngest PhD I've ever
encountered.  Twenty-three years old.  Definitely the prettiest.  You're a
member of one of the best medical schools in the world, engaged in building
a DNA model that's going to eventually save countless lives.  Money should
NOT be a problem for you ... and yet it is.  Fame could be yours ... and
yet you are one of the most introverted young women I've ever met.  You are
engaged in a profession where RESULTS is the most important thing ... and
yet, when you have a personal problem, discretion is the overriding
factor." He paused again.  "It's time to tell me the reason you're here."

   "First, we should agree on a method of compensation, Doctor."

   "I'll decide what is first!" he said loudly, forcefully.  She jerked her
shoulders as if she'd been struck.  He took a deep breath and continued in
a calmer tone.  "Whatever ails `ye, young Gail, I can guarantee you that
it's nothing new.  I've been in this business long enough to believe that
I've heard just about everything."

   She took a shuddering breath.  "I want you to make me fall in love."

   He blinked.  "Say what?"

   "I consider myself pretty well read.  I've always read at least two
books a week.  I've done that for as long as I can remember.  I recall
reading about a case in which a hypnotist took one of his subjects into
such a deep trance that she was able to `remember' past lives."

   "You're talking about The Case of Bridey Murphy," he said, with a hint
of exasperation.  "There's no definitive evidence that her ability to see
into the past was real."

   "It doesn't matter," she countered, looking up at him at last.  "My
point is that she was placed into a hypnotic state that was much, much
deeper than anything that had been tried before.  Ultra-deep hypnotic
trance is quantifiable.  It's been done.  It's possible."

   "And you think that if I place you into such a hypnotic state, I can
`make' you fall in love?"

   "I know you can," she said quietly.

   "And what makes you think I can do that?"

   "Because I KNOW you can," she countered calmly.

   That made him pause.  He considered it philosophically.  "You think that
if you BELIEVE strongly enough, you can MAKE it happen," he said, almost as
much to himself as to her.

   "WE can make it happen.  Yes."

   Again, he sat back and regarded her for a long minute.  Again, she
couldn't meet his gaze, and let her own fall.  Finally, he heaved a deep
sigh.  "Who's the lucky man?"

   She gave her shoulders a uniform twitch upward.  "It doesn't matter. 
YOU can pick someone."

   "WHAT?!"

   Once more, she jerked, startled.  She looked helplessly up at him, and
for the first time, tears sprang into her eyes.  She opened her mouth to
comment further, but obviously couldn't.

   He couldn't think of anything to say for a long minute.  "Alright, I
HADN'T heard it all!" he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.  He
looked imploringly at her.  "You want to fall in love, but you don't care
who you fall in love WITH?"

   "I know it sounds crazy," she said, trying to bring her tears under
control.

   "Okay.  From the beginning, now.  What's this all about?"

   "We HAVE to talk about how I'm going to pay you first," she implored. 
"I'm in debt.  I don't have any money to spend.  It's one of the reasons I
chose you ...." She stopped abruptly, as if she'd said something she
shouldn't.

   He narrowed his eyes.  "And just why DID you choose me?  What makes ME
your first choice out of all the psychologists in the greater St.  Louis
area?"

   "I read your profile on the internet," she said quietly.  "It's because
of who you are ... and WHAT you are."

   "Oh please," he groaned.  "Please tell me this doesn't have something to
do with my race!"

   "What?" she asked, truly startled.  "Oh.  No.  No, of course not." She
hesitated.  "I chose you because you specialize in hypnosis.  And ... um
... because you're single."

   "Single?"

   "Not married."

   "I KNOW what `single' means!" he shouted at her.  "What difference does
THAT make!?"

   But now she was crying in earnest.  Tears were streaming down both
cheeks as she looked pleadingly up at him.  "I.  Don't.  Have.  Any. 
Money," she said, punctuating each word.  "I KNOW that it's going to take
hours and hours of private sessions to get me into a deep enough trance to
do what has to be done.  Secret sessions!  Hours of them!  What do you
charge?  A hundred an hour?" He didn't answer.  "Two hundred?" Again, he
sat silently as she wept.  "I can't pay you!  And so, I took what little
money I HAD, and I bought these clothes ... in hopes that ... in hopes that
I could look attractive to you.  In hopes that you would find me ... find
me ... desirable.  Sexually."

   "Oh, God, Gail," he muttered quietly.

   Completely distraught, she pulled her knees up to her body, leaned over
sideways against the arm of the plush chair in a fetal position, and sobbed
bitterly.  He let it go on for too long a period, and then he rose,
snatched a fistful of tissues from a pop-up dispenser on the desk, and went
to her side.  He shushed her gently, laying a beefy hand lightly on her
shoulder.  He felt that he'd never been good enough at "soothing" patients.
Finally, she sat up again, miserable, stabbing at her eyes with the
tissues. Not knowing what else to do, he returned to his desk.

   "Gail, you seem to have thought this all out beforehand.  You MUST have
known that I can't become emotionally involved with a patient."

   "It doesn't have to BE emotional," she said quietly.  "And I wouldn't BE
your patient ... not officially.  You could just see me as ... as a friend.
It would just be an agreement between friends.  You know?" She heaved a
shuddering sigh.  "That's what I THOUGHT, anyway."

   He smiled and shook his head in wonder.  "Let me get this straight.  You
want me to see you, as a friend, for hours of hidden, private hypnotherapy.
You want me to MAKE you fall in love with a person of MY choosing.  And
then, in return, you want to give yourself to me sexually ... as a friend,
of course, for ... what?  Some set period of time?"

   "Yes," she answered, a little more firmly, as if for the first time, she
thought that he might actually go along with the scheme.  "Something like a
one-for-one hourly swap.  If it took you, say, ten hours of hypnosis, then
I could ... um ... be yours sexually for ten hours.  You know?  Or
something like that." She sat for a moment in deep contemplation, her tears
finally forgotten.  "Or we could agree on two-for-one, since I don't have
much experience." She blushed.  "Well, actually, I don't have ANY
experience.  I've never actually BEEN with a guy, you know?  I guess that
you'd have to take some time teaching me.  So, we'll make it two-for-one."

   "Two-for-one," he said quietly, covering his mouth with his hand, trying
hard not to laugh.  He cleared his throat.  "And what, exactly, would you
let me DO to you during this little pay-back period?"

   "Anything you want," she answered, earnestly.  "Anything!  I'll do
anything you want!"

   Again, he cleared his throat to avoid laughing.  Was ANY girl really
this innocent?  He put on his most officious face for her benefit, wheeled
his chair to the side, in front of his computer terminal, tapped a few
buttons, and then started typing furiously.

   "Okay, I'll do it," he said, his typing never slowing.  "I'm guessing
that this is a relatively new concept for you ... something that you've
just thought of today.  Tell me what happened."

   For the first time, she smiled brightly at him.  "That's a pretty neat
trick, Doctor," she said.

   "What's that?" His typing never slowed.

   "Typing one thing while you're saying something else."

   "I teach a course at SLU, and this drives my students nuts," he said,
matter-of-factly, his fingers never slowing.  "Writing something on the
board while saying something else.  Not hard to do, but it keeps their
attention.  Now, tell me!  I'm your doctor ... um ... friend ... uh ...
friendly doctor."

   She giggled, then grew sullen once more.  "My mother left me again."

   "Again?"

   "She'd done it before.  While I was still in high school, five or six
years ago.  She took everything.  All the money, anyhow.  She'd fallen in
love with this dork from Paris ... France."

   "I know where Paris is."

   "She just took off.  I was still a minor, officially, and the county
wanted to stick me in a foster home.  But I swung a deal with my
counselors, since I already had enough placement credits to graduate early,
PLUS skip my first two undergraduate years ... and I'd already qualified
for a full ride at Mizzou, and so I just forgot all about her and moved
right into a dorm, you know?"

   He finally stopped typing and worked with the mouse for a moment.  "Yes.
I get the picture."

   "And so, I got through school, there in Columbia, and then through grad
school here, and when I got out, I moved right into the project I'd been
involved with as a student; and they really wanted me, because my thesis
caused this monumental stir where most of the big work was being done in
Copenhagen ... Denmark."

   "I know where Copenhagen is, Gail." The printer against the wall whirred
into action.  He got up and walked over to it.

   "And then, six months ago, she just showed up again.  She told me that
she didn't have a place to stay, and so I let her move in with me.  I could
afford an apartment now, and I had an extra bedroom, and so I didn't really
mind, because most nights, she didn't even come home.  But I was never
really around, either ... not during the days, you know?  I really only SAW
her once a week or so, when we'd go out for lunch, or something.  She told
me that she didn't have any money, and I really had more than I needed, you
know?  So I got her a credit card on my account with her own name on it. 
And then she told me that she wanted to help out more around the place, and
so I let her mail the rent payments, and the utility payments, and the
insurance payments.  And I never really thought about it, you know?"

   He returned to the desk with a single, printed sheet of paper and sat
down again.  "Yes, I know."

   "And then ... and then this morning, she told me that she was leaving
again.  She told me that she'd fallen in love with this guy that had
something to do with lumber up in Toronto ... Canada." She looked up, saw
he was about to comment, and held up her hand to stop him.  "Yes, I know.
You know where Toronto is." She sighed.  "She told me that her new lover
needed money really bad, and that she just HAD to give it to him, even
though it wasn't really hers to give, you know?  And later, after she'd
left, I got this funny feeling, and I started checking things out.  And my
credit card was maxed out ... right to the limit!  And the rent hadn't been
paid in THREE months!  Or the utilities, or the insurance, or ANYTHING! 
And, it's going to take me months and months to get everything back
together, financially."

   "I'm sorry, Gail."

   "But as she was leaving, we were sort of fighting.  And I told her she
wasn't acting very sane, you know?  And she said: `What do you know about
it?  You've NEVER been in love!' And then she walked out, and I sat down,
and I thought about it.  And I thought and thought ....  And I just
suddenly realized ... she was right!  In high school, I'd only gone out on
two dates ... and I was so nervous that I got physically ill!  And then I
absolutely refused.  Never again!  And I didn't.  Not all through college,
even though there were just two years of it.  But I didn't mind, because I
was so busy, you know?  And grad school was just a blur.  And now, I'm
ALWAYS busy!  I mean, I'm only suppose to work eight hours a day ... but
right off the bat, I started working twelve.  And now, everybody just
assumes that's what I'm always going to do.

   "And Mother was RIGHT!  I've never loved ANYBODY!  Not once!  Not ever!
And now ... now I've just GOT to know what it's like!  I HAVE to!  Before I
do anything else ... ever ... before I do one more thing, I need to
experience it.  And I've read romance novels!  I KNOW that I'll probably
just get a broken heart.  But at least then, I'll know that I HAVE a heart
to be broken!  And so, I thought up this plan.  And I want to DO it,
Doctor." She was crying again.  "Please."

   He regarded her tenderly.  "Gail, you don't need hypnotherapy.  All you
really need is to sit down and talk this out with me ... or any other
expert in the field."

   "Please," she repeated plaintively.  "Please, Doctor?  I just know this
will work.  I've thought about it and thought about it!  I just know that
ultra-deep hypnosis exists, and that you can put me in a trance that deep
because I KNOW you can do it.  I BELIEVE you can.  And I'll let you do
anything while I'm in a trance.  Anything at all.  And I'm prepared to pay
in the only way I'm able.  It's going to work, Doctor.  Please?"

   He sighed and slid the paper across the desk toward her, facing her.  He
put a pen on top of it.  "Sign that," he told her.

   Without hesitation, she signed the bottom of the paper and slid it back
across the desk to him.

   He gritted his teeth.  "READ it!" he told her, controlling his anger. 
Once again, the paper slid across the desk's surface.  She dutifully picked
it up and read it.

   I, Gail Abernathy, am hereby entering into this contract with my good
friend, Richard Cordman, in order for him to provide certain services that
I desperately need.  I understand that Richard will place me under
exceedingly deep hypnosis in order to perform these services.  I understand
that the hypnosis sessions are going to be numerous and time-consuming, and
I promise that I will follow Richard's instructions to the absolute best of
my ability while he does this.  I understand that, as part of this
ultra-deep hypnosis, Richard will compel me to fall in love with an
individual of his choosing.  This is what I want.  This will take place
during the coming long three-day weekend of January 14th.  At the end of
these sessions, but before I am compelled to acknowledge my love for this
aforementioned individual, I will repay Richard by becoming his sex slave
for a period not to exceed twenty-four hours.  I really want this to
happen. I desire Richard, sexually, and I long for his sexual control.  I
endorse this contract freely and of my own will and aspiration.

   Yet again the contract slid across the desk.  "Now YOU sign it," she
told him.

   This seemed to catch him completely off guard.  "What good would that
do?" he asked.

   But now, she was meeting his gaze, seemingly without fear.  Now, she
realized that her dream was within her grasp.  "Please, Doctor.  I promise
you that this is the last thing I will ask of you for the next three days."

   He contemplated her; contemplated the contract; then picked up the pen
and signed below her name.

   And so it began.

   --------------------------------

   He rolled back his office chair and stood up.  "Come here," he ordered
softly, sternly.

   Without hesitation, she stood and walked around the desk to him,
standing very close to him, staring up into his eyes, waiting expectantly.
He stepped back a pace and rotated the swivel chair so that it faced her.
"Sit down." She turned and did so.  He pushed the chair toward the desk, so
that she now occupied the position that he had so recently vacated.  She
felt his warmth in the chair.

   Walking around to the front of the desk, he leaned forward and picked up
the newly signed contract.  He folded it twice and put it into the breast
pocket of his sports coat.  He then took a fresh sheet of paper, picked up
the ink pen, and drew a single, straight line down its middle, lengthwise.
He slid the sheet across the desk so that it sat directly in front of her,
then switched on the desk lamp and fiddled with it for a moment.  When he
had finished, the lamp was shining a single spot of focused light directly
on the center of the paper.

   "I want you to stare at the very center of that line," he told her. 
"Concentrate very hard, only on the very center of the line.  I want you to
relax your entire body, and focus your thoughts on the line."

   She leaned forward and looked down at the page.  "Are we going to do it
now?" she asked in quiet awe.  "Are you going to hypnotize me now?"

   "I don't want you to say another word, please.  Do not speak unless I
ask you a question.  Okay?"

   "Okay.  I'm sorry," she responded softly.  She brought her left arm up
and rested her forearm along her edge of the desk, leaning forward across
it, so that her breasts were resting on it as she bent over the sheet of
white note paper.  Then, she rested her right elbow next to it, propping
the side of her face with her palm, staring intently at the dark, thin
vertical line.

   He walked to the window and twisted a rod next to the edge, and the
vertical blinds rotated shut, plunging the office into late afternoon dusk.
The spot of light on the paper seemed to make it glow.  "The line is very
straight," he told her in a voice that was both strong and soft.  "I've
always had a knack for being able to draw a straight line.  Not many people
can do that, actually.  The line is very, very straight."

   "Yes," she whispered.

   "Shhh!" he ordered softly.  She didn't respond.  "You are going to fall
asleep, very soon now.  You know that.  You want that.  You are anxious to
take this first step, but you must be patient.  Just look at the line.  The
long, straight line.  Look only at the center of the line.  Relax.  Now,
take a deep breath." He waited until she had complied.  "Very good.  Now
another.  Good.  Relax, and clear your mind completely.  Your mind likes to
run on and on, just like the line, on and on forever.  But now, I want you
to concentrate only on the center of the line, and let your thoughts stop
there.  The line runs on and on, but that is of no consequence to you.  You
don't care about where the line goes ... on and on.  Just let it go.  Your
thoughts have stopped there.  Right in the center.  Just let them stop. 
Just let them go.  And don't worry about the line.  On and on and on and
on. Relax.  Just let the line go.  Just let your thoughts go."

   She had allowed her head, still supported lightly by her hand, to lower
closer to the page.

   "As your thoughts stop in the center of the line, and as the line goes
on and on and on without you, you will begin to feel at peace with the idea
that the world is going on and on and leaving you here ... here in the
center.  And you know that's alright.  Leaving you here, so relaxed, so
peacefully calm and relaxed.  Just like you do at night, when you go to
bed, and you just let the world outside go on and on, just like the line is
going on and on, while you empty your mind and wait for sleep to come.  And
you are SO tried at the end of such a long day.  And without thoughts to
hinder you, because you've let all of your thoughts go, and the world is
going on and on without you, as you get SO sleepy now.  So sleepy."

   Her elbow was sliding outward, away from the paper, as her face lowered
closer and closer to the page.

   "Let go, Gail.  Just let the world go.  It's time to surrender.  It's
time to sleep." He paused for a long moment until the time was right. 
"Sleep!"

   --------------------------------

   "...six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

   She blinked, confused, not sure, for a moment where she was.  "Oh," she
said, opening her eyes wide, trying to KEEP them open.  "Oh, gosh."

   "How do you feel?" he asked softly, so that she had to strain to hear
his words.

   "I ... um ... I feel ... sort of like when I wake up from a nap, but I
haven't slept long enough.  I feel ... um ...."

   "Sleepy?"

   "Yes.  Sleepy," she mumbled.  The room was dark.  Was she still in his
office?  Yes, she must be.  There was the sheet of paper, sitting on the
desk in front of her.

   "What do you see?" he asked.  Somehow, he was standing just behind her.
He was resting his huge, heavy hands on her shoulders, leaning forward
behind her, whispering in her left ear.

   "The line," she said softly.  "I see the line."

   "And what does the line make you do?" This time, he was whispering in
her right ear.

   "It ... um ... it makes me fall asleep."

   "Yes.  And it makes you SO tired, doesn't it?"

   "Um ... yes.  Tired."

   "And SO sleepy.  So sleepy." This in her left ear, again, so softly that
she could only just hear it.

   "Yes.  Sleepy.  Please?"

   "Please what?"

   "Please make me sleep.  Please?"

   "Sleep."

   --------------------------------

   "... eight, nine, ten."

   She couldn't keep her eyes from rolling upward.  "Oh ... oh, gosh.  I
can't ... um ... I can't wake up.  What's WRONG with me?  I'm so ...."

   "So tired," he whispered in her left ear.

   "Yes."

   "So sleepy.  So very sleepy."

   She tried to blink, but her eyes wouldn't stay open when she wanted them
to.  "Yes.  Sleepy.  Why is it so dark?  I can't see the line anymore."

   "So sleepy," he whispered gently in her right ear.

   "Oh, Richard.  Please.  Please make me sleep.  Please?"

   "Yes.  Sleep."

   --------------------------------

   "... seven, eight, nine, ten."

   It was dark.  She was standing in the middle of the room.  Was it still
the office?  Faint light was filtering through the blinds, but she couldn't
make out anything.  And she wasn't really standing, either.  He was behind
her, supporting her, his arms around her upper waist.  Her arms were
hanging, leaden, at her sides.  She leaned back into him.  He felt ...
good. He was whispering in her ear.

   "Tired ... Sleepy ...  Sleepy ....  Sleep!"

   --------------------------------

   "... nine, ten."

   Her back was pressed into a wall, and his body was pressing into hers.
Her arms were around his neck, and his hands were on her waist.  There was
light here, but it was unfamiliar.  A hallway?

   It was a burdensome effort to talk.  "Oh, Richard.  What have you done
to me?"

   "I'm not allowing you to completely wake up.  Each time I take you back
under, you go deeper than the time before.  Deeper and deeper."

   "Deeper and deeper."

   "Yes.  And now ...." He leaned farther forward, crushing her with his
bulk, pressing his lips beside her left ear.  "Sleepy.  So tired.  So
sleepy."

   "Please."

   "Sleep."

   --------------------------------

   "... six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

   She was sitting in the passenger seat of a strange car.  He was behind
the wheel.  She blinked several times and tried to sit up straight, but she
kept nodding forward.  Apparently, they were stopped at a traffic light.

   "Lean toward me, Gail.  Do it now."

   She tried, but the seat belt wouldn't allow it.  She slipped the
shoulder strap off while leaving the lap strap buckled up, and leaned
steeply toward him.  He did the same toward her, until his lips were
against her ear.

   "Sleep."

   --------------------------------

   ",,, eight, nine, ten."

   She was in bed, lying back against soft, downy pillows.  The sheets were
softer than any she had ever slept on.  They felt absolutely marvelous
against her bare body.  She believed, for a brief moment, that that thought
should be bothering her.  He was leaning over her.  Smiling down on her. 
She struggled to keep her eyes open, and tried vainly to smile back.  He
leaned down.

   He's going to whisper in my ear again, she thought.

   And he did.

   --------------------------------

   " ... four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

   She finished counting, opened her eyes, and stretched languorously,
yawning.  She felt ... good.  Great.  Wonderful.  And she thought: I'm
naked.

   She'd seen the fabric the sheets were made from before somewhere, and it
took her a moment to recall.  It was the stuff a baby's crib sheets are
made of ... a soft cotton knit.  Her nipples rubbed gently against the
cloth as she shifted.  Her arms were on top of the light blanket covering
her, and she reached one hand up, and then down underneath the sheet to see
if she was wearing panties.  She wasn't.  He's seen me, she thought to
herself.  He's seen all of me.  The concept made her blush mildly, but no
more.  She belonged to him, she figured.  She had signed a contract, more
or less agreeing to do anything he wanted for the next three days.  She
knew sex would be a part of it.  She should try to stop being so
self-conscience.  But of course, she wouldn't.  She had always been shy. 
She always would be.

   The room was strange to her, and yet somehow, it brought her comfort. 
There was a border of vines and flowers painted along the top of each beige
wall, an urn of artificial roses on a table in the corner.  Pictures
adorned the walls, though the light was soft, and it was hard to see them
properly.  A woman had decorated this room, she realized.  She shifted her
attention to the bed she was in.  It was a four-poster bed, deep and plush
and soft.  Slung across the foot of the bed was a thick cloth something ...
at first she believed it to be another blanket, put there in case she got
cold.  But now, she rose from the high bed, pivoting to put her feet on the
floor, and she found the thing to be a thick, soft terrycloth bathrobe. 
She slipped it onto her nude form and tied the cloth belt about her waist
in a bow.  It was too long, and dragged the ground slightly.  It must be
one of his robes.

   She approached one of the pictures and stared at it in the soft light of
the bedside lamp.  It was a still-life of some flowers.  There was another,
very like it on the opposite wall.  They were both done in oils.  For the
first time, she noticed a framed photograph on the bedside table, and she
picked it up.  It showed a pretty, dark-skinned woman, slender, physically
fit, sitting in a straight-backed chair with children kneeling all around
her.  One child was standing, handing her a picture.  Her head was thrown
back in laughter, and all the children were laughing with her.  She found
it to be a marvelously interactive photo.  It was the kind of picture that
made you want to rush out and volunteer for something.

   For the first time, she became aware of a delicious aroma, and she
opened the door and padded barefoot down a short hallway and into the
apartment's kitchen/dining room.  It was a large room, brightly lighted,
warm and cheery.  He was hustling around happily, stacking a few dirty
dishes in the sink.  He smiled at her, but acted as if he was expecting her
there.  "Welcome back to the land of the living," he husked in his deep
baritone.  She sat on a barstool and watched him rinse a bowl and put it in
the dishwasher.

   "What's that amazing smell?" she asked, smiling back at him.

   "Friday is Pizza Night," he answered.

   "You cook your own pizza?"

   "Absolutely.  Nothing but the best.  And just the way you like it: thick
crust, pepperoni, onions and green peppers."

   She laughed.  "Is there anything about me that you DON'T know?" she
asked, pointedly.

   "Lots.  But I'm getting there."

   She blushed and looked down.  "What happened to my clothes?"

   "Dress is in the closet," he answered, pointing toward the hallway. 
"Everything else is folded up in a drawer in my dresser.  You'll get it all
back when you leave."

   "Do I really have to be naked, Richard?"

   "You are NOT naked.  That's my very best robe.  But psychologically, if
I can keep you at a physical and emotional disadvantage, I can manipulate
you deeper, quicker.  Professionally, I'm never allowed to do this, of
course.  But you insisted that we NOT be professional, didn't you?"

   She blushed.  "You've seen me."

   He barked a laugh.  "Oh, yes.  Yes, I have." He stopped puttering and
gave her his attention.  "You are an incredibly beautiful woman, Dr. 
Abernathy."

   She blushed even more.  "Stop that!  And anyway, that's not true.  I'm
gangly and skinny and clumsy, and my breasts are too small, and ...."

   "Your breasts are fantastic," he said, trying to sound serious, but
failing to control his look of humorous awe.  "I have NEVER seen nipples
like yours!  They're really ..."

   "Richard!  Stop!" she squealed, laughing.  She took a deep breath and
sought frantically to change the subject; aware, for a few moments, only of
her stiff nipples rubbing against the terrycloth fabric.  "I seem to be
calling you `Richard' now.  Am I mistaken that you've been taking liberties
with posthypnotic suggestions?"

   He grinned broadly.  "Very good, Gail.  I couldn't have `good friends'
calling each other by their titles all weekend."

   "And just exactly where is our contract?" she asked.

   "Good point." He walked over to his sports coat, which had been draped
over a chair back and fished it out of the breast pocket.  He unfolded it,
smoothed it out, and slapped it against the refrigerator, using little
magnetic flowers on each corner to hold it.  "We'll just leave it here, in
case we have to call in a lawyer for consultation."

   She snickered, and was about to comment when a timer issued a loud ding.
He whirled on the oven, opened it, and took out a steaming pizza pan. 
"Wine in the refrigerator," he said to her.  "You like Chardonnay.  I'll
take Merlot, under that cabinet." He nodded to his left.  "Wine glasses
over the dishwasher." She found herself moving before she realized she was
doing so ... following his directions, pouring the wine while he cut the
pizza.  He carried everything into the living room, gave her a tray with
her plate on it, and aimed the remote control at the TV.  They sat at
opposite ends of the sofa and watched "UP," a Pixar flick.  She immediately
found herself immersed in the movie, the food, the wine, the comfortable
setting.  She never once thought about their strange arrangement until
after the movie was finished.  Glancing at the wall clock, she was amazed
to find that it was after 11:00.

   She stood.  "Richard, I ... um ...."

   But he was standing up with her, close to her.  VERY close to her, so
that she stopped speaking and looked up into his eyes.  Slowly, he was
lowering his face toward hers.  He's going to kiss me, she thought.  But at
the last instant, just as she was pursing her lips, he slid his next to her
right ear and whispered something.

   --------------------------------

   "... seven, eight, nine, ten."

   His soft voice echoed from a distance, and she raised her arms above her
head and stretched and yawned and smiled across the room at him as he stood
in the doorway of the sunny bedroom.  His beaming grin broadened suddenly,
and she became cognizant that the bedclothes had slid down, baring her
breasts, her long nipples pointing accusingly at him.  She blushed and
snatched at the sheet, pulling it upward, succeeding in covering only one
of the pale globes, and blushing even more furiously as he laughed at her
attempt at decency.

   "Get up!" he ordered.  "Bathroom's the first door on the left.  Bacon
and eggs in twenty minutes." And he was gone.

   Everything was her brand.  Her exact brand of toothbrush, toothpaste,
cleansing soap.  In the shower, her brand of shampoo, conditioner.  Her
brand of razor, which she felt compelled to use on her legs and under her
arms.  She studied her pubic hair, and trimmed it, using the razor.  He
would be taking her soon, she knew.  She would be giving herself to him ...
trying hard to please him, sexually.  It was part of the contract.  And he
wanted her.  She saw it in his eyes.

   The kitchen was a different place in the sunlight.  He smiled brightly
as she sat down at the table, trying to adjust the robe so that it wouldn't
gap open at the top.  "Coffee?"

   "Just orange juice, please." She waited while he filled her glass.  "Was
that a date last night?"

   "I think it was a date," he replied, dishing out her eggs.  "Felt like a
date to me.  Did it feel like a date to you?"

   "I've only had two dates," she replied.  "In high school.  I threw up
after each of those."

   He grimaced.  "Then I guess it wasn't a date."

   She pointed at a sliding glass door.  There was a small deck beyond the
door.  And beyond THAT, off in the distance ....

   "That's my apartment," she said emphatically, pointing.

   "I told you your building was across the street from mine."

   "Not just my building," she said.  "That's my apartment!  Right there.
That one, on the third floor!"

   "Yes," he said.  Was he acting guilty about it?  "I mentioned that I'd
seen you before.  Right?"

   She looked back down at her food, and they ate in uncomfortable silence
for a minute.  Then, she felt compelled to keep the conversation going. 
From the table, she had a view of a wall she hadn't seen the night before,
which bore a studio portrait of the same beautiful woman who graced the
picture in the bedroom.  "Is she your girlfriend?" she asked him, between
bites.

   His bright smile seemed to slip suddenly; pain flashed in his eyes for
just an instant before he pasted the carefree expression back in place,
obviously believing she hadn't seen the brief transformation.  "That's my
wife," he said, with a cavalier wave of his fork.

   Piecing puzzles together was her profession.  This one didn't take much
mental gymnastics.  If he was still with his wife, he wouldn't risk being
caught with a blonde in the apartment.  If he was divorced, he wouldn't
have her picture displayed all over the house.  Plus, his personal profile
said "single."

   "You're a widower," she said quietly.  "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

   He shrugged.  "It wasn't a check-block on the form," he explained,
refusing to drop the smile.  She could see it in his eyes; he was waiting
for her to ask the obvious question.  She decided that she wouldn't do it,
no matter how curious she was.

   "She was very beautiful," she said, returning her attention to her food.
"What was her name?"

   He blinked at her.  "Jasmine."

   "She was a very lucky woman." She set her fork down and looked up at
him, ignoring his open stare.  "What are you going to do to me today?"

   He blinked again.  Started to speak.  Cleared his throat.  Took a
breath. "I'm afraid it's going to be more of the same old drill for you. 
Asleep.  Awake.  Asleep again."

   "Deeper each time," she said quietly.

   "Yes.  We should be close tonight.  Tomorrow, I'll finish it.  You'll be
ready to fall in love after that."

   "And then, I'll pay you for your services."

   "That's what the contract says."

   "Yes, that's what the contract says." She thought for a moment.  "We
don't have to wait, if you don't want.  I could start paying you today ...
tonight.  I ... could do it in shifts."

   He couldn't suppress the laugh.  "Shifts?  Christ, Gail, where do you
come up with these ideas?"

   She shrugged.  The robe slipped off of her left shoulder.  "It doesn't
make much difference, really.  It hasn't escaped my notice that whenever
you say `Jump,' I do it without even thinking about it.  You've done
something to me.  You've practically made me your slave.  I'm virtually
naked ... and yet I'm somehow almost comfortable with it.  You whisper in
my ear, and I melt into a puddle at your feet.  You don't have to wait,
Richard.  You can have me anytime you want me."

   He rose, and with a quick jerk, he snatched the one-page contract from
the face of the refrigerator, the magnets all remaining in place.  He
slapped it down in front of her.  "I do my part first," he said pointedly.
"I don't expect any `payment' until the job is done."

   "Alright," she said in a small voice.  "Have you given any thought to
who the man is going to be?"

   "The contract doesn't say anything about it having to be a man," he
pointed out.

   She sat suddenly erect, blinked several times, and looked down at the
page.  She couldn't stop her lips from moving as she read.  "Aforementioned
individual," she muttered.  She looked up at him.  "Richard!  I never meant
to have you make it a ...."

   "It's not your concern," he interrupted.  "The `individual' has been
left entirely up to me."

   "But, I'm not a lesbian!"

   "Gail, you're equating love to sex.  For NORMAL people, sex is a natural
follow-on to love.  I guarantee you that if you love a woman ... really
love her ... then sex will just follow naturally." He got up and walked
around the table to her.

   "But ... but ... it's not that I'm opposed to that sort of relationship
for OTHER people.  It's just that I'm not ... I'm not ...."

   He was standing behind her now, and she froze as she felt his hands on
her.  Deftly, he slid the other half of the robe down her arm, and his
huge, muscular hands were now resting on her bare shoulders.  Skin against
skin, flesh against flesh.  He's touching me, she thought.  He's finally
touching me.  She felt his breath against her ear, and her whole body began
shivering in anticipation.  "It's ... not ... your ... concern," he hissed
softly in her ear.

   And suddenly, it wasn't.  "Not my concern."

   "So tired."

   "Tired."

   "So sleepy."

   "Oh, Richard ...."

   "Sleep."

   --------------------------------

   "... eight, nine, ten."

   "Oh, Richard ..."

   "Sleep."

   --------------------------------

   " ... seven, eight, nine, ten."

   She could hardly keep her eyes open.  Oh, when would this ever end?  She
was sitting in a wooden armchair in front of the table, and the tabletop
was covered with scattered sheets of yellow legal paper, scribbled notes
scrawled all over them.  She blinked, and found it almost impossible to
make her eyes open again.  She made out, upside-down, the word
"Munchausen?" The word "Sadist" had been crossed out numerous times, almost
angrily.  "Masochist!" was underlined emphatically.

   "Richard, what ...?"

   But he was behind her.  "Sleep."

   --------------------------------

   She heard numbers, echoing in her own mind, and she was able to force
herself awake.  Groggily, she looked up, and her heart swelled.  Pieces of
yellow paper were balled up and thrown savagely on the floor.  The tabletop
was still covered in yellow sheets, scribbles had been written, slashed
across, corrections written above lines, words in the margins.  Two broken
pencils lay among the literary wreckage.  Richard was bent above a fresh
sheet, writing furiously.  His head was resting on his left hand, the
fingers laced in his curly, short-cropped black hair, as he poured all of
his concentration into his writing.

   "Richard, what's wrong?"

   He glanced up, startled.  Then a look of wonder spread across his face,
and he admired her, open-mouthed in awe.  "Well, aren't YOU the surprising
one?" he said, smiling.  "You're stronger than either of us thought, little
lady."

   And she watched in rapt silence as he dropped the pencil, raised his
hand dramatically before him, his middle finger pressed against his thumb.
"Sleep!" he ordered, and snapped his fingers.

   --------------------------------