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

   By BlackNight99

   Chapter Two



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

   " ... 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.  Richard'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 Richard 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.

   "You're going to put me to sleep again," she said, making it a
statement. "One more time, and then I'm going to be your sex slave."

   "No more sleep, Gail."

   She stopped abruptly, and when he turned back to her, he found her eyes
clear, the old Gail looking out of them.  She began shivering wildly,
hugging her arms around herself.  "You're going to do something terrible,
aren't you Richard?  You're about to do something horrible."

   And THAT'S what he had missed!  She was a puzzle-solver!  It was her
profession.  Through sheer intellect, her conscious mind was piecing
together the things that her subconscious mind was hiding.  And now, those
two halves were undergoing a violent struggle.

   He clutched her hand and dragged her the last little way to the couch,
pushing her down and sitting beside her.  "I need you to be brave for me,
Gail.  I need you to trust me."

   "Don't, Richard.  Please don't!"

   He leaned forward and put his lips to her ear.

   "Make me go to sleep, Richard.  Please make me go to sleep!  Make me
sleep!  Put me to sleep!"

   And he whispered: "Remember!"

   She sat stock-still for a long moment, her panting breath hard and
regular.  But eventually, her breathing changed ... slowing ...  and then
it caught in her throat.

   "Noooooo!" she wailed, and she was choked by a massive sob.  Her body
seemed to shrink into itself, collapsing, her back slumping as she bent
forward.

   "Why did you DO that to me?" she wailed, and sobbed again.  Then she
looked pleadingly up into his eyes.  "I put it in a box!"

   "Yes, I know," he told her gently.

   "I put it in a box!  I put a lid on it ... a tight, tight lid, so it
couldn't slip out!  And then I wrapped it up with string, so it was
trapped! And then I pushed it into a corner ... a deep dark corner, where I
couldn't even see it ... like it wasn't even there!  And after a long time,
it just went away.  Don't you understand, Richard?  It wasn't THERE
anymore!" She sobbed again.  "And then, you let it out!" she finished
miserably.  "You let it out again."

   "I had to, Gail."

   "But WHY?"

   "I HAD to!  As long as the box was there, you would never be able to
fall in love ... not REAL love, anyway.  You couldn't even touch a man. 
You could barely make yourself LOOK at one!"

   She shrugged, as if that had no meaning anymore.  The robe slipped off
of her left shoulder.  "What are we going to do now?"

   "We're going to talk about it."

   "What's there to talk about?" she asked dejectedly.  She gazed
helplessly into his eyes.  "He hurt me, Richard!  He hurt me bad!"

   "I know that, Gail.  But you don't have to feel the pain now; you just
have to understand it!  Tell me: Why didn't your mother stop him?"

   "She was asleep ... or she pretended to be.  She wouldn't wake up.  I
screamed and screamed, but she wouldn't wake up!"

   "No, Gail.  You're still looking at it through the eyes of a seven
year-old girl.  Look back NOW.  Look back at it as you are NOW!  Why didn't
your mother wake up?"

   She blinked and stared at a spot in the middle of the living room, as if
she was watching it all unfold again.  Finally, she met his eyes.  "He gave
her some drugs.  She passed out.  She wasn't asleep ... she was
unconscious!"

   "I'm not going to pull any punches here, Gail.  Your mother is a sick,
sick woman ... and NOT a very nice person.  I've never met the gal, but if
I had the chance to examine her, based on what you've told me while you
were hypnotized, I can almost guarantee you what I'd find.  I'm certain
that she suffers from acute nymphomania, combined with crippling self
esteem issues and deep masochistic tendencies.

   "And I'm certain that she was trying to seek sympathy from prospective
sex partners by purposefully aggravating those psychological problems. 
When a woman approaches a man at a bar and TELLS him that she's a
nymphomaniac, and TELLS him that she'll do anything at all that he wants,
then she's TRYING to make the situation worse."

   "Munchausen syndrome," Gail muttered.  "Yesterday, you weren't trying to
figure ME out ... you were trying to figure out my mother!"

   "She had a string of lovers that she'd entertain almost every night ...
different lovers!  But she at least had the strength to give herself to
them only AFTER she thought you were safe in your room.  However, after
that, she had no limits.  Men could do anything to her ... anything. 
Actually, I'm a bit surprised that you were only raped once."

   "I can't make myself feel sorry for her," she said in a small voice.

   "Quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a rat's ass about your mother. 
But I needed to be able to truthfully tell you that your mom didn't
purposefully just lie there while her boyfriend raped her seven year-old
daughter in the same room.  And now, I can tell you that, psychologically,
she NEVER would have done that.  She doesn't even know that it happened! 
If she did, she wouldn't have had the guts to come back to you.  But there
were limits to her `motherly love.' She didn't hesitate to abandon you,
just as soon as you got that letter of acceptance from the college.  And
she didn't hesitate to use you and cheat you, once you were an adult."

   Gail had stopped shaking, and her eyes were dry.  "You're not going to
make me fall in love with some man ... or woman ... are you?"

   He smiled wanly.  "No, of course not.  You're perfectly capable of
falling in love, all by yourself."

   "Then why did you write the contract?"

   "You were crying out to me for help, Gail!  Jasmine made me promise that
when anyone did that, I'd do whatever I could.  I didn't think you'd let me
see you professionally any other way."

   She sighed dejectedly.  "I guess I should get dressed and leave."

   "We're not through here."

   She looked up questioningly into his eyes.  He detected a glimmer of
hope in hers, but her depression utterly confused him.  He cocked his head
a little and gazed at her, trying to solve yet another riddle.

   "Ah yes," she said at last, uncomfortable with the too-long silence. 
"You wanted to ask me some questions in there." She nodded toward the
kitchen.  "You wanted to speak to the real me, not the me inside the me."
Her mouth twitched at its grim corners for a moment.  "Pure psychobabble,
Richard."

   "What is it, Gail?" he asked, taking her hands in his own.  "I've
reached out in every way I can think of, but I still can't quite touch
you." He couldn't seem to make her look into his eyes.  "It's the contract,
isn't it?" And THAT made her look up.  "Yes ... that's it!" he exclaimed.
"You're still clutching at that contract as if it was a lifeline.  You
won't let it go.  Do you actually think that I could have FORCED you to
love someone?  Are you still waiting for me to DESIGNATE a lover?"

   She looked back down.  "No," she said so softly that he had to lean
closer to her to hear.  "I don't care about that any more.  Now, I'm not
really sure that I ever did."

   And he smiled.  "Then it's about ME?"

   She raised her face imploringly.  "I went into that office thinking that
I was going to HAVE to give myself to whoever the therapist was on the
other side of that door!  I thought about it and thought about it, but
there was never a real person in my imagination.  There was never a face.
And then, suddenly ... suddenly ... there was!  And the more I thought
about that encounter ... with ... my sexual master ... every time I formed
a picture of him in my mind ... the more I liked the thought of it being
YOU!  And the more I got to know you, the better the dream got.  You were
the one!  The contract guaranteed it!  My dream was going to come true!"
She paused again.  "You were going to come true."

   She sighed once more.  "I should go," she whispered.

   He grinned.  "And how, exactly, do you intend to pay me?"

   She blinked.  "Pay you?"

   "Twelve hours work, but my tally," he said, with an offhand gesture. 
She looked at him with a mixture of alarm, curiosity and expectation.  "I
think a one-for-one payoff would work," he continued.  She blinked at him.
"No, let's make it two-for-one, what `dya say?" he intoned thoughtfully. 
She looked down and blushed.  "Of course," he said sagely, "we could do it
in shifts!"

   She barked a little laugh.  "Oh, I DID make it sound terrible, didn't
I?"

   And suddenly, somehow, miraculously, she was in his arms, and he was
crushing her to him, his soft lips on her own.  She left her arms by her
sides for a long, surprised second, and then lifted them up, putting them
around his bulk, holding him, clutching him.  He released her and stood,
giving her his hand, helping her up.  Standing, she pressed her body into
his, his hands went around her waist, her arms reached up and encircled his
neck.

   "At the risk of spoiling the spontaneity," he told her breathlessly,
"I'd like to pause to tell you that you are, without exception, the most
desirable woman I've ever seen.  I want you.  I want you very much.  Will
you give yourself to me, Gail?  Not because of the contract ... but because
...."

   "Oh, Richard, of course!" She started running her fingers through the
hair on the back of his head.  "But ... at the risk of spoiling the
spontaneity, I have to tell you that I don't know the first thing about
doing this.  Will your teach me?"

   He gave her a long, deep, passionate kiss, holding her tightly, while
she plastered her body against his.  "You're doing expertly, so far, all on
your own," he said softly, his lips still against hers.

   She felt the belt of the bathrobe loosen, and then his insistent hands
began tugging at the shoulders of the garment.  Without relinquishing the
kiss, she let her arms fall and the robe slip off onto the floor, before
putting them back around his neck.  His hands felt huge and hard and rough
against her sides, grabbing handfuls of her ass, stroking her back, holding
the back of her neck, feeling her hair, roaming freely all over her naked
(oh, so naked!) body.

   And, at last he had one of those huge, rough hands on her left breast,
pressing into it, squeezing it, gently pinching her nipple with his thumb
and forefinger.  She opened her mouth wide to gasp into his kissing mouth,
and was amazed to find his tongue entering, finding her tongue with his
own, jousting with it, stroking it, entering her mouth farther and then
retreating.  When she tried to follow the intruder with her own tongue, he
sucked on it.  Her knees gave way, and she found herself comfortably
protected from the laws of gravity by his petting, stroking left hand
behind her and his clutching, kneading right hand on her breast.  He was a
puppeteer, manipulating her, and she was his plaything.

   Suddenly, disappointingly, she found his hands missing from her body. 
She somehow got her feet beneath her, and while she didn't relinquish the
kiss, she realized that he had done this so that he could remove his own
clothes.  Desperate, she tried to help, and immediately, there were four
hands, jousting for control of the top button on his shirt, getting
hopelessly tangled up.  He moved his hands lower to start work on the next
button at the same instant she did.  He barked a laugh into her open,
kissing mouth, and suddenly they were both laughing uncontrollably at each
other and with each other.  He sat heavily on the couch, and she knelt in
front of him, taking off his shoes and socks, while he finally finished the
buttons unopposed.  Four hands were once again fighting for the honor of
his belt buckle, but eventually, with much straining and giggling and
thrusting of hips, he was as nude as she.

   She stood, and he grabbed her around the waist; and with a laughing
shriek, she found herself being lifted and spun over him, transitioning
somehow seamlessly between the vertical and the horizontal, so that she was
now lying down, trapped between the back of the couch and his muscular
body, which was pressed against her entire length.  He kissed her again,
and she had to fight, momentarily, to maneuver her arms away from her
pinned body and back to their natural place, around his neck.  His left arm
was tucked behind her neck, providing a loving pillow, and his right hand
... well his right hand just seemed to be everywhere!  Touching and
squeezing and pinching and petting and stroking and ....  "Oooohhh!" she
breathed into his mouth, her body arching up into that wonderful hand.

   He lifted his face from hers and stared into her doe-like eyes.  "You
like?" he chided, doing the same thing that had elicited the verbal
response.

   "Oooohhh, Richard!" she gasped, her body once again straining upward,
off of the surface of the couch.  He stopped the prodding exploration of
her incredibly moist pussy, and began tracing around it with light,
tickling fingers.  She took the reprieve to ask a question.  "Richard ...
did you MAKE me touch myself last night while I was in bed?"

   He grinned broadly and gave her a kiss on the tip of her nose.  "Did you
enjoy it?" He stopped tickling and began his little "plunge and stroke"
maneuver that she seemed to enjoy so much.

   "Oooohhh!  I ... Oh, gosh, Richard!  ... Aaahhh!" He stopped again,
petting more gently once more.  She panted heavily for a few moments.  "I
... I had never done that to myself before."

   "Yes, I know."

   She blushed.  He knew more about her than she did herself, she thought.
"I ... I LOVED it!  But ... Oh, Richard!  This is SO much better!"

   The arm behind her neck was gone before she realized it, and while the
exploring right hand continued its assault on her sopping cunt, she was
amazed at the feel of his sucking lips on her left breast.  He would slurp
almost half the tender flesh of her pliable orb into his greedy mouth, and
then slowly let it slip out until only the long, rubbery nipple was trapped
between his gently biting teeth.  He'd hold it there, flicking it with his
tongue, marveling at the odd mixture of sounds she was creating without
conscious thought.

   The last of those sounds (at least the ones created by the nipple
manipulation) was a loud groan of disappointment as he stopped doing it,
and she simply lay there, panting uncontrollably, not thinking about what
he was doing at all, until his tongue suddenly slid along her swollen
clitoris.

   And she exploded.  Her body arched up, so that her head was touching the
couch, but little else of her.  The fingers of both hands were laced in his
hair, and both of her legs had somehow found their way to his back, her
knees on either side on his head.  The muscles of her stomach were
clenching rhythmically, as was her entire pussy.  Slowly, she came to
realize that the screams were coming from her own lips.  But now, he had
finally stopped his licking invasion of her soul, and her shrieks became
heaving whimpers.  Her lungs demanded more air than she was able to provide
them, and bright little lights swirled before her eyes.  She let her body
gently lie back again, limp, useless.

   He crawled back up her thin frame, crushing it beneath his, until his
face was even with hers again.  He kissed her briefly, because she still
had to gasp for a little longer, but then he kissed her again, more
strongly, and yet again.  Something very hard was pressing against the base
of her tummy, and she smiled, knowing what it was.  She licked her lips
after his final kiss.

   "Is that what I taste like?" she whispered.

   "Heavenly, isn't it?" he replied.  "Would you like to rest awhile?"

   "Oh no!" she declared, and tried to rise.  His body had her completely
trapped.  "There's something you have that I think deserves study," she
continued.  She tried again to sit and then laughed.  "Let me up, you big
oaf!" She pounded her small fists ineffectually against his massive
shoulders.

   Laughing himself, he sat up, his feet on the floor.  She paused to kiss
him again, and then fell on her knees in front of him, pushing his legs
apart, taking his stiff cock in her hands, fondling it.

   "I suppose this explodes the myth about black men," he told her,
watching her.

   But she never took her eyes off his stiff member.  She seemed mesmerized
by it.  "Myth?"

   "About size," he said, gently.

   "Size?" she asked, dazed.  She stroked it, petted it.  Without thinking,
she licked her lips.  Her eyes never left it.

   "I'm not that big," he told her, exasperated.

   She glanced up at his face for an instant.  But only an instant. 
"Richard, you've got to be kidding me!  It's HUGE!" She stared at it again,
stroked it again, then scooped up his balls into her hand and gently
squeezed them.

   He threw back his head and groaned loudly.  But he wouldn't let the
subject go.  "They DO come in a larger size," he told her.

   She laughed at that.  "For God's sake, WHY?"

   And that made him laugh, too.  But it was short-lived mirth, as her
mouth was suddenly filled with his throbbing cock, and she sucked it, let
it go, licked, sucked it in again; and then she sat back on her heels,
licking her lips, and looking up at his face quizzically.  He was breathing
too hard to ask her what was wrong.  And again her mouth had sucked him in,
slurping, lathing her tongue around it, sucking some more.

   A laugh burst from her lips around the cockhead, and she sat back again,
an incredulous smile splitting her face.  "Vanilla?" she giggled.  "YOU did
this, didn't you ... Doctor?" She smacked her lips.  "Either you dipped
this monster in vat of vanilla, or you're MAKING me taste this!"

   He smiled nervously down at her and shrugged.  "I ... um ... didn't know
that you'd be ... um ... really doing that to ME," he said defensively. 
"But I ... knew you liked vanilla, and ... um ...."

   She stood and wrapped her arms around him, holding him, laughing.  He
spun her around again, her back on the surface of the couch again, holding
her again.  "You can do anything to me, can't you?" she asked gently, the
smile never leaving her lips, her eyes admiring him.  "You can make me FEEL
anything.  Make me DESIRE anything.  You can do anything you want!"

   "There's only one thing I REALLY want right now," he husked.

   "Oh, yes," she whispered.

   Her legs were already spread for him, and he maneuvered himself above
her, lining himself up.  She reached up and held his face in both hands,
gazing into his eyes, waiting patiently as he found her dripping opening.
He applied pressure, then a little more, and even more.  Her eyes remained
tenderly on his, unblinking, but her lips parted and she began to pant. 
More pressure and more, and the head of his cock pushed into her and her
eyes closed for a long moment before opening again, gazing deeply into his.
Her panting became more pronounced, deeper.

   And now, he was pushing further into her, further and further, and her
eyes closed again, opened, and she couldn't prevent them from rolling back.
As his hips pushed in the last few inches, he allowed his face to lower, as
well, and she let go of his face with her hands and wrapped her arms
tightly around him.

   "Are you okay," he panted gently.

   "Yes," she gasped.  "Can ... can you do me a favor?"

   He took a few deep breaths.  "What?"

   "Would you mind staying ... just like this ....  Ooohhh!  ... just ...
um ... just like this ... forever?"

   And he barked a laugh, pushed himself up with his hands above her,
pulled his cock out several inches, and pushed back in.  The noises she was
making were becoming incoherent again.  She seemingly couldn't figure out
what to do with her hands.  She pressed her palms into his chest for
awhile, then clutched at his upper arms, held his sides, stretched them out
toward his neck, but couldn't quite reach it, then put them by her sides as
she began rolling her head from side to side.  Another orgasm claimed her,
shook her, made her cry out, her cunt clutching at his cock.  It had been
too long for him.  He could go no further.  He thrust forward violently,
making her scream out one last time, and he cried out as well while his
balls contracted and he came and came.  It went on for an unending minute,
and he collapsed on top of her.

   He was concerned about her ability to breathe beneath his bulk, and so
he slowly rolled over in place, taking her with him, until he was on his
back and she was sprawled atop him, as if his body was a piece of large,
firm, fleshy furniture.  She ran her hands over him and sighed.

   They both drifted, contented, happy, for many minutes.  She couldn't
decide, for awhile, whether to let herself drift into sleep or stay awake
to contemplate her happiness.  She felt him stir beneath her.  "What was it
you wanted to ask me in there?" she murmured.  "What did you want to ask
the `real me?'"

   He smiled up at her, then reached up and tapped her on the forehead. 
"Is that you in there?"

   "Oh, I hope so."

   "I was just going to ask you what type of personality you wanted to
have," he said.

   "What?"

   "You, my dear, are a submissive.  I've never encountered such a
submissive personality."

   She sighed deeply.  "Like my mother."

   "Oh, no; not by a long shot!  There is a HUGE difference between
submissiveness and masochism.  Completely different motivations.  So
different that they're covered by different fields of psychology.  One is
Normal, the other Abnormal."

   She burrowed the side of her face into his neck, trying to feel closer
to him.  "So what about ME?"

   "Many submissives don't want to BE submissive," he said gently. 
"Assertiveness is all the rage right now.  I can help change you, if you
want me to."

   She thought about that for a moment.  "Can you make me half-and-half?"
she asked gently.

   "Half-and-half?"

   "I'd love to be a little more assertive at work, but when I get back
home, I just want to be your hypnotic sex slave."

   He laughed at that while she refused to look up, still trying to burrow
farther into the side of his neck.

   "I can't get close enough to you," she said softly.  "I don't ever want
to move."

   "I'm afraid you're going to have to," he said, looking down at her,
forcing her to look up into his eyes.  "You'll have to leave tomorrow."

   She blinked, concerned.  "I will?"

   "Yup.  All we get is twenty-four hours.  It's in the contract."

   In a flash, she was up and running, tall and naked and proud, into the
next room; and he thought that if she had been born an animal, she would
have been a gazelle.  But then, she was back, holding the contract, tearing
it into little pieces.  With a smile, she stretched herself out on top of
him again, pressing her body into his.

   "Now," she drowsed, "where were we?" He laughed and put his arms around
her, holding her close.

   "I've turned into a cliché," he mumbled.  She lifted her head and looked
at him questioningly.  "A successful black man with a gorgeous, young white
woman."

   "Don't you dare say that!" she said seriously, resting her cheek against
his chest.  "We are NOT a cliché!  There is no one like us.  In all the
universe, we are unique."

   "We're not unique, Gail," he said softly, stroking her bare back. 
"We're just in love."