The Contract Ch. 01

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.

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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!"

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"...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."

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"... 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."

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"... 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!"

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"... 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."

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"... 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."

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",,, 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.

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" ... 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.

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"... 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?"