Hypnotizing the Babysitter Ch. 03

Dawn was still a question mark. I didn't know what drove her. It was now obvious that she had always been denied the things in life every woman wants. Love, sex, intimacy, desire; this was the first time any of them had ever been within her grasp. And, since I hadn't been proactive enough to suggest these things, her subconscious had done it for me ... yet it had also given her the impression that everything was my doing. But it went much further. The submissive attitude, the need for domination and constant direction ... where had it all come from?

I had always been a little bit on the conservative side when it came to body piercing. Oh, a pair of earrings is nice, I suppose; but beyond that, I saw it as a form of self-mutilation; and in the past, I think that my first reaction to seeing any form of it (lips, tongue, nose, etc) had been slight revulsion. What I was on the cusp of doing right now was putting a stop to ALL of this folderol. I really liked Dawn, and I especially liked what we were doing ... the sex, of course, but the intimacy most of all. No ... I loved this girl! Yes, by God, I loved her! And as an added benefit, she was a girl who really loved ME. (Why did I need that so badly?) But, I had been lying to her all this time ... or at the very least, withholding the truth. Now, she had done something I didn't particularly like.

I still hadn't solved this riddle that was Dawn. I REALLY wanted to tell her the truth ... ALL of it. But ... should I tell her my true feelings about this right now? Would it solve anything? Would it help me understand her, or would I be using it only as an opportunity. Was it just selfishness on my part? For whatever reasons, I made a choice.

"Dawn ... um ... it's not what you think. They're ... uh ... great! I'm just concerned that you're in pain. They're really ... sexy. But it must hurt a lot."

The worry melted from her features. "Oh, sir ... do you really like them? They hurt like the dickens yesterday, but there was almost no pain today ... until I hugged you. It's just that they're ... always THERE, you know? I think that's what they're really designed for ... making a woman remember something sexual ... all the time ... every second. Oh, gosh, sir ... I missed you SO much! Do you think we could ... um ... I mean ... Would you like me to ... uh ... do something for you? I could ...? I mean, I would do ... ANYTHING for you, sir!"

I laughed and grasped her shoulders again, turning her away from me so I could wrap my arms around her without fear of touching her nipples. She leaned back against me while I worked on the button of her jeans. "I want you naked, woman. Now."

She giggled and bent to peel off the last of her clothing, then straightened and pushed her back into me, resting her arms on mine as they snaked around her waist. "Now I can call you my Master again," she sighed. I led her upstairs and stripped out of my travel clothes, stretching out on my back in the center of the bed. She mounted me and rode me slowly while I stroked and squeezed her breasts, never actually coming into contact with the nipples or the rings. She was very turned on. After a minute or two, she picked up the pace, bouncing down on me hard. I let go of her globes and put my hands on her waist, slowing her down, forcing her to set up the cadence I wanted; and, of course, she complied immediately. Her huge mounds began an almost liquid undulation, the little rings clattering quietly, and I found the sight mesmerizing. I touched her in the places that I knew would shatter any remaining control she had, and she responded as I expected, gasping, moaning. A few minutes of inscribing circles around her clitoris with my fingertip brought on a moaning, screaming orgasm, and I was glad Tina wasn't with us, giving us the freedom to make as much noise as we wanted. When I came, it was soul-shattering.

Afterward, she lay in my arms and told me about her ordeal in the tattoo/piercing parlor in Portland (which she'd found through careful research online; four-star feedback, she told me). She said that the whole experience had been excruciatingly embarrassing ... much worse than the actual pain from the piercing. She had been instructed that "posts" were more popular right now, but rings were recommended for first-timers because they caused less inflammation after the procedure. She had to soak her nipples in saline solution twice a day for a week, leave them open to the air as much as possible, and I wasn't supposed to suck or pull on them for at least two weeks. She was immensely proud of them, and her sense of sacrifice melted my heart.

We rested, and eventually, she fell asleep; but the travel (and my jumbled thoughts) had me wide awake; so I gently extricated myself from her and put on some clothes. I needed some sort of plan of attack to get to the bottom of things, and I decided that a cup of coffee couldn't hurt. As I passed her room, however (her old room, that is ... the one she had occupied before I demanded that she spend her nights with me), I heard a strange, slow, rhythmic beeping, and I went in to investigate. It turned out to be her cell phone, protesting that the battery was down to a one percent charge. I rummaged through her dresser until I found the charging cord, and I took it into my office and plugged it in. A half hour later, I was back in my office again with a large mug of coffee, intending to look into the insurance company that issued that mysterious check; but instead, I found myself investigating her phone. It was blinking madly, and a little exploration (with a phone I wasn't familiar with) revealed that she had five missed calls, five voicemails and two dozen unread text messages. There was only one phone number programmed into its directory: "Work." While I was examining it, it rang.

"Hello?"

"Who ...? Who IS this!? Where is Doctor Hernandez?"

That gave me reason for pause, but I answered fairly quickly, in spite of it. "Say ... I have an idea. Why don't we start this conversation over. You called me, so you should identify yourself first. Etiquette, and all that."

"You won't strong-arm ME, sir!" the caller screamed. "Where is Dr. Hernandez? I'll have you know that you are interfering with matters of national security!"

I laughed loudly at that as I disconnected the call. Idiot. Only politicians and screenwriters used that line. Not even the men and women at DHS say that. The phone rang again immediately.

"This is Dr. Jameson. I'm the Head of Projects for Applied Sciences in the University of California System. I want to speak to Dr. Hernandez." I could hear the strain in his voice.

"Alright now, Doc. Much better. I'm Reggie Torrance. Please ... call me Reggie. And I'll just call you ..." I let the sentence hang.

"Listen to me you ...!"

And I hung up on him. It was almost a full minute before it rang again. "Reggie," he said in a terse voice, "I am George. May I please speak to Dawn Hernandez? She was supposed to call us several days ago, but failed to do so."

"Dawn isn't taking your call today, George," I told him very politely. "It might have something to do with the gizmo that she invented and then you stole from her. Or, perhaps it has something to do with the way you controlled her psychologically, or the way you demanded ... and received ... sexual favors. It might have been the way you took everything you wanted from her and then kicked her out of your establishment and sent her packing across the country. Yes ... that might be the reason she wound up hopelessly depressed, severely suicidal and completely unable to function in society."

There was a strange sound from the other end, and for a moment, I wondered if perhaps he was having a heart attack. I found myself considering whether I would find that distressing, and I decided I would not. "I ... I ... had no idea, I swear," he stammered. "It wasn't me! I didn't do that!" There was a pause. "Oh, God. I didn't know ... but I should have. I was responsible. It was my project."

"George," I said genially, "I do believe that we're getting somewhere now. Let's play twenty questions, shall we? Keep it very brief. What did she invent? And don't tell me that I won't understand. Just tell me."

I heard his deep sigh. "It's a module for a long-distance Martian surface explorer. You see, two dozen universities around the world are ..."

"Yes, yes ... political budget cuts," I interrupted. "Put the scientific R&D burden on the universities. I know the drill. WHAT module?"

I must have beaten him into submission. He answered automatically. "Navigation."

"And you gave the assignment for that little project to ...?" When he didn't answer right away, I prodded. "Come on, George. You couldn't have given it to HER. There must have been a senior staff professor involved. Who is the villain in this little drama?"

"Dr. Werner Bielman," he said dully. "He isn't employed by the University System anymore. It took me about a week to realize that the module wasn't his, even though he'd already patented it. He was demanding a million dollars for it ... but he couldn't even explain simple differences between the blueprints and the hardware ... didn't even know how to turn the thing on ... and the software sequences were completely beyond him! I got our legal department involved to nullify the patent and have him fired. I only then found out about the investigations into allegations for sexual harassment from various female students and faculty members ... and the gambling debts. He fled the state. If ... if she wants to press charges of some sort, I can try to find out where he went."

"What she wants, George, is to be left alone."

This seemed to fire up his previous indignation. "So you can have her to yourself!" he spat. "Who do you work for? A private lab? Beltway bandit? What do you have her doing?"

"Actually, she's currently babysitting my four-year-old daughter."

He made a few sputtering sounds into the phone. "You ... you can't be serious! Just from my conversations with her over the past few weeks, I've come to realize that Dr. Hernandez possesses one of the most acute scientific minds I've ever encountered! You can't possibly shutter such raw mental talent!"

"Funny thing about mental talent, George ... It's been my experience that scientific minds aren't particularly acute when they're dead. And she came pretty damned close." I gave him awhile to let that sink in. "Now ... tell me why she's so important to you. You already have her module."

He cleared his throat nervously. "We have the device ... and even though we know it works ... we have a LOT of questions about HOW it works. It took me awhile to figure out that Doctor ... that Dawn was responsible for it. You see, when I made her appointment to Bielman, it was understood that the assignment would be in lieu of her doctoral thesis."

"Very smart," I said levelly. "If she was the one who came up with it, you could easily convince her that the rights were to be retained by the university."

"No! I mean ... I guess, in a way. It was Bielman's project! But ..." He sighed. "Reggie, I really had no idea that he'd ... I mean, I'd heard some rumors about womanizing, but ... I mean, I didn't think that Dawn ... What I'm trying to say is that Dawn isn't very ..."

"Attractive?"

"I was going to say desirable. That sounds so lame. Oh, God, what have I done?"

"What you've done, George, among other things, is provide me with a few answers. Thank you for that, anyway. Please don't attempt to contact Dawn again. If it is HER wish, she'll contact you. Goodbye." I disconnected the call, turned the device over, took off the back and figured out how to remove the battery. I heard a toilet flush somewhere, indicating that my babysitter was now awake, and I left the pieces of the cell phone in a heap on my desk while I went to find her.

She was coming out of the bathroom attached to our bedroom when she saw me. She'd put on a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, and I could see the outline of the rings through the material. She came to me and wrapped her arms around me, hesitating only a little as her breasts pressed into my chest. "Oh, sir ... our ... nap was wonderful." She sighed. "Sir ... do you think I'm a slut? My mother told me once that sex hurts ... but that it was a duty ... something that a wife had to do, and that's all. I didn't think any man would ever want to do it to me. But ... now ... now, it's all I seem to be able to think about. I never thought it would feel so good, or that it would be ... fun!" She stiffened, suddenly realizing that I was not returning her hug. She pulled away quickly and stared up into my serious face. "What is it, sir? What's wrong?"

"We need to have a talk, Dawn. I want to discuss something important."

"Oh, my gosh!" she exclaimed softly. "It's time, isn't it?"

"Time?"

"You're going to send me away, aren't you? You've gotten tired of me, and you want me to leave, don't you?" She was silent for several seconds. "Sir ... thank you SO much for letting me love you this long!"

"Enough!" I barked loudly. She jumped, then lowered her gaze and stood before me, arms at her sides, silent, meek. I tried to get my thoughts in order. I knew I had all the pieces of the puzzle now, and I had to steel myself to play my part in this final act. "Strip!" I commanded.

She looked up, baffled. "What?"

"Get nude. Now. Do it." She rushed to do my bidding, wincing as she pulled the tee shirt over her breasts. She regained the same pose, sans clothes. "Go down to my office," I commanded harshly. "Sit in the chair in front of the desk. Go."

She hurried from the room. After the first two steps, she reached up with both hands and cupped her breasts, trying to keep them from bouncing and putting strain on her nipples. I watched her for a few moments, then went over and picked up the necklace and put it in my pocket. Downstairs, I pulled my executive desk chair around to face the one she was sitting in. I sat down and pushed mine until we were as close together as we could possibly be while facing each other. Her eyes were uncertain and frantic. A single tear slid down her cheek from the corner of her left eye, but she didn't reach up to wipe it off.

"Who am I to you?" I asked sternly.

She blinked. "Sir ... Master ... You are my Master."

"I will ask you questions. You will give me answers. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"You have not always answered all my questions."

"I ... I'm sorry, Master."

"Who is Dr. Jameson?"

She blinked, confused. "Dr. Jameson? He's ... He's just a ... He's an advisor. He's in charge of school projects. Not just at my school ... for the university system."

I nodded, satisfied. I could sense from her expression that she realized that I had already known that ... that I was just testing her. "And what, exactly, is the device you invented? Explain it to me."

"It's a navigation system for a long range Martian surface vehicle," she answered. I made a motion with one hand, indicating that I wanted her to keep going. "Are you familiar with ring laser gyros?" she asked.

"Give me the short course. Explain it quickly."

She paused to think. "Any three-dimensional stabilization system will have three gyroscopes going simultaneously, 90-degrees off-axis from each other. Since the early 1990's, navigation systems utilize gyros made from laser beams that are each bounced around a set of three mirrors. A beam is timed in its circuit around the mirrors ... and then later, any difference in that time is perceived as motion in that axis."

She leaned forward toward me, her elbows on her knees and she used her hands to gesture, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was naked. She was really into her explanation, and she obviously forgot to call me Master. "There are two basic errors inherent in any gyro system: initialization and precession. During initialization, a platform ... like an aircraft ... is kept parked, very still. When the gyros are up to speed and stable, at least one of them ... and possibly all three, depending on direction and attitude ... will sense motion. That's the motion of the planet spinning on its axis. To correct that 'error,' you have to enter the precise three-dimensional location of the platform. Commercial pilots enter a very exact latitude and longitude ... and then they enter their precise altitude. If you null out all the motion based on those coordinates, then any motion sensed after that will be the movement of the vehicle itself. That motion is transcribed into a mapping program and you always know exactly where you are. Make sense?"

I nodded and she went on. "Here on earth, we have a very uniform way of defining altitude ... we base it on average, or mean, sea level. But there ARE no oceans on Mars. Instead, they use a topographical datum ... which is difficult to program into a nav system. Our earth nav computers were never meant to deal with Mars' size or rotational speed. We use the same type of Lat-Long grid for Mars, but the size of the grid squares is obviously VERY different. Also, we accept that there will be SOME inherent errors in gyros as time goes on ... that's precession. Today, we can update our systems using global positioning and correct for precession. But once again, there ARE no GPS satellites orbiting Mars."

"So how did you solve your problems," I asked.

"I did it through triple competing-yet-complimentary software arrays running simultaneously on separate processors which triangulate and average out the errors based on known terrain locations."

"Okay, Dr. Hernandez, you've convinced me. Now, who is Dr. Bielman?"

She looked down inadvertently, then forced herself to meet my gaze again. "Dr. Bielman was the man I told you about at dinner last week. Dr. Bielman was Sir. He was my last Sir."

"But he wasn't your FIRST Sir, was he, Dawn?" She blinked and shook her head very slowly while I continued. "Your first Sir was your father, wasn't he?"

She was wide-eyed and scared. She didn't want these memories anymore. She opened her mouth, shut it again. She swallowed, then answered very softly: "Yes, Master."

"And he was 'Sir' to your mother, too. Wasn't he? Your little 'problem with authority' is too well ingrained to be recent. You've lived this way for a long, long time. Plus ... it wasn't adapted ... it was learned. It was your mother who taught you how to cope, living with him. What was it like, existing with them in that home?"

She shrugged as if her childhood hell was no big deal. "I was ... busy. I didn't come to this country until I was seven. Almost immediately, I was put to work. The weekends were devoted to the church, beginning on Friday afternoon and going until Sunday evening. Plus Wednesday nights. I served food, did dishes, cleaned. All the other times, I worked in the hospital ... the church hospital ... doing "volunteer work" every day. Bed pans, laundry, washing sheets and doing floors."

"And your father forced you to do these things? What kind of man was he?"

She smiled at that. "He was devout. Atheists might use the word 'gullible.' Whatever the case, he wholeheartedly believed that it was necessary to keep me and mommy ... and all women ... in our place."

"And what place was that?"

She looked up at me mildly. "For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything."

I gawked at her, but she continued. "Of the woman came the beginning of sin, and through her we all die." She took a breath. "Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn any thing, let them ask their husbands at home: for it is a shame for women to speak in the church." She paused for a second. "For the man is not of the woman; but the woman of the man. Neither was the man created for the woman; but the woman for the man." She contemplated me lightly. "Would you like me to keep going, Master?"