The Contract Ch. 01

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."

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"... eight, nine, ten."

"Oh, Richard ..."

"Sleep."

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" ... 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."

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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.

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