by Carol Caiton
On a beautiful December morning, armed with her first appointment to see Dr. Zeman, she'd braced for the unknown and drove through the elaborate wrought-iron gates of RUSH. A remarkable amount of personal information had been required of her at their checkpoint, including a blood sample to determine whether or not she was pregnant and whether or not she carried a sexually transmittable disease. As well, signing a nondisclosure form had been required before she'd been cleared to pass through the security sensors, which explained why there was no information about RUSH on the message boards.
Once outside however, she'd paused, startled by the beauty surrounding her. Thick tropical foliage hugged both sides of the wide sidewalk. Ground-covering phlox spilled over a short stone wall in lush bluish purple. Enormous elephant ear philodendron leaves swooped toward the sidewalk beneath swaying palms, and the rich moist fragrance of freshly watered earth mixed with a sweet, heavy fragrance of gardenia.
She spent part of the too-short distance to the administrative offices turning in half circles, trying to view everything at once. The fountains . . . . the banana trees . . . . Small, circular concrete benches sat here and there in shady tropical settings. The security guard assigned to escort her smiled knowingly, patiently allowing her a little time to absorb it all. It was stunning. No wonder Vanessa Boyer made it sound like an exotic retreat. Rachel could have spent the entire day just walking around.
She'd expected Dr. Daniel Zeman to be starchy and self-important and was surprised to find him a personable middle-aged man with whom she was able to easily converse. He did, in fact, remember her in reference to that long ago telephone conference with her father. He was also pleased to learn that systematic desensitization had been a partial success. But he wasn't pleased with her plan to carry it into the sensual realm. It had taken several visits and a private meeting with her father before he agreed to contact each of RUSH's instructors with an overview of her circumstances. It wouldn't be the highly compatible link she'd been hoping for, but it was a start. It got her foot in the door, so to speak. And if she made progress with an instructor, maybe they'd allow her, later, to apply for a link.
After that, she was presented with yet another stack of legal documents outlining the conditions under which Dr. Zeman would supervise her undertaking and one of those conditions nearly caused her to back down. A number of people would be permitted to observe her progress, from security personnel to the board of directors, the instructors who agreed to work with her and, of course, the doctor. Thus, all those of people would have free license to watch while another man touched her intimately and sexually. Eventually, if she saw this through to its conclusion, she'd have to remove her clothes. Would they exptect to observe, as well, while she struggled to engage in intercourse?
She threw up three times while trying to mentally prepare for that possibility. Was she strong enough to see it through? Or would the emotional battering overwhelm her?
When Dr. Zeman introduced her to the small panel of men who agreed to consider working with her, the bogeyman suddenly had a face. Three of them. All three were handsome faces and it embarrassed her to sit before them, knowing they were familiar with her background.
They were instructors at a sex club. What did one teach at a sex club?
Each of them had questions for her. In a small conference room at RUSH's medical center she shook hands with all three and promptly forgot their names.
As expected, most of their questions focused on her experience with systematic desensitization. The man on the left with sandy-brown hair wanted to know how long she could tolerate an embrace.
"Comfortably . . . between three and five seconds," she told him. "If it lasts five seconds, I'm already planning to back away."
"Describe how it affects you physically and mentally," number three said.
Nervously she moistened her lips. "Physically my adrenals go into overdrive. My heart rate accelerates and my skin sort of . . . crawls. Mentally, it overwhelms my ability to think rationally because breaking contact becomes a compulsion. It's the only thing I can focus on."
"What happens if you don't get away fast enough?" the first one questioned. "How do you react after, say, ten seconds?"
"In the beginning, I didn't know how to judge when to pull back. I was a child and I didn't understand—" She broke off, took a breath, and started again. "I screamed at whoever held me to let go and I ran away. I don't know how I'd react now because it's been years since I've had prolonged contact."
The third man rose from his chair, walked around the table and, without a word, held out his hand.
Immediately her heartbeat picked up. But it wasn't because she was about to be touched. It was the knowledge that she was going to be put through some sort of test. He wanted to see her reaction for himself and it sent a stab of fear through her to think she might fail.
Rising from her own chair, she stood before him and placed her hand in his. All of her attention was centered on one of the breathing patterns that sometimes helped.
"No," he said, breaking into her concentration. "Don't detach. Focus on my hand."
Focus on his hand?
She looked up into eyes so dark it was difficult to tell if they were black or brown. She wouldn't last more than five seconds.
But he slid one finger up her palm to the inside of her wrist, traced a slow gentle circle over her skin. Then he trailed a path back down, skimmed his finger across the center of her palm, and stopped.
She waited. It was only when he simply stood there holding her hand that her pulse began to increase.
He released her, stepped back, and raised an eyebrow in Dr. Zeman's direction.
"Seventeen seconds."
She turned sharply and looked up at the instructor. "I don't understand." Then a slow, delighted smile bubbled up from inside. "Thank you! I don't know what you did . . . how you did that, but thank you!" She was so flustered, so astounded, she could barely get the words out.
He walked back around the table, resumed his seat with the others, and the questions continued. They asked about hypnosis. They asked about the dark period when she retreated into a silent world. They wanted to know if she'd taken any self-defense classes. No, she hadn't.
Dr. Zeman sat through the entire interview, listening and taking notes. It lasted nearly an hour and a half and when the three instructors pushed back their chairs and stood up, the middle one asked, "How long did it take you to reach five seconds?"
She stood as well, slipping her purse strap onto her shoulder. "Three years," she answered. And in that instant she knew she'd lost him as a prospective bogeyman. The other two paused to look at her and she wondered if she'd lost them too.
She left the conference room with Dr. Zeman and he walked her to the reception desk.
"That went well," he said and she knew by his tone of voice that he felt the same encouragement she did.
Ten days later Mason met with her and said one of the three instructors had arranged to meet with Dr. Zeman and discuss an approach. Only one. His name was Dalton Cooper. She couldn't remember which of the three faces matched that name, but Dalton Cooper might be all she needed.
Again, when she arrived back home, she went to her room and wept. Another hurdle surmounted. Another step closer.
Weeks had passed since her first meeting with Mason and now she'd been granted a sort of extended guest status as defined amidst pages and pages of legal jargon that, Mason plainly told her, was in place to protect the corporation and its employees.
There were restrictions. A lot of them. But she signed everything— every document Mason set before her. Throughout the property she'd have access to the training center, Medical Services and the administrative building. A microchip security device had been implanted in her arm and, as requested, she'd been put under so the procedure had gone smoothly.
The chip was programmed to restrict her from access to the venues in the entertainment sector as well as all other paying membership facilities.
Also, since she was scheduled to meet with Dalton Cooper on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons, the implant would save check-in time.
Today was to be her first session with him. The blond-haired guy from the koi pond was no longer at the front of her mind. She was nervous, excited, and afraid as she made her way along the main promenade. Jungle surrounded her on both sides and signposts identified the various buildings with brass plaques mounted on stucco pillars or on columns that anchored beautifully crafted wrought-iron gates. Eventually she located the one that read Training Center and turned in.
The walkway was a bit narrower and the jungle formed a canopy overhang in places. She spotted the biometric scanner embedded in the stucco wall and pressed her palm to the glass, smiling when the doors immediately opened.
At the reception desk she asked for directions to Classroom C and a helpful attendant led her through a maze of hallways and arches. It was two o'clock. The time for backing out had passed.
CHAPTER 4
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. The rest of her life was riding on this exercise. Would it lead to hell or redemption? The hope—the yearning she was afraid to set free . . . . And the anxiety—the looming fear of failure and an almost overpowering dread of what lay ahead . . . . All of it had to be repressed, forced away from conscious thought before she could proceed, before she could pass through the door, disguise in place, and appear as though she looked forward to whatever happened next.
Drawing a slow, deep breath, she turned the handle and scanned the room even as she crossed the threshold. She was searching for the face of the instructor who had agreed to take her on, praying it was who she hoped it would be.
And there he was, standing with a small group of men, his black-brown eyes locking on her as she came forward. Dalton Cooper—the instructor who had taken her hand and somehow, by some miracle, stretched five seconds into seventeen. He was a stranger, as tall and powerfully built as Nathan, but the relief she felt at seeing him subdued her inner torment and brought a genuine smile to her lips. Since the day of their interview she'd wanted him to touch her again. She wanted to know if her response, if that extraordinary lack of panic, had been some sort of freakish accident.
Making her way around the rows of desks, she approached and held out her hand. "Hello again. Thank you for agreeing to help me." Her eyes spotted Dr. Zeman next and, surprisingly, Mason, along with a fourth, unknown man. "Thank you—all of you—for giving me this chance."
"Rachel," Dr. Zeman said, "this is Jeremiah Case, RUSH's head of security."
She walked over to shake his hand as well. "It's nice to meet you."
"And you." He held a device that resembled a large remote control with a display screen. "I'll be present for your first few sessions, gauging your stress levels and fine tuning your microchip. After that it won't be necessary."
"Okay. Thank you for explaining."
"All right, Dalton," Dr. Zeman said, "why don't we get started."
Dalton Cooper nodded once and stepped forward. "Leave your things on one of the desks and come to the front of the room," he told her.
She removed her jacket as the other three men sat down. It surprised her to see that the room was an actual classroom.
"You have a lot of hair," Dalton commented. "From now on, do whatever you need to do to keep it up off your shoulders. And wear an exercise leotard. Sleeveless. No tights, no underwear, and no shoes."
A chill passed over her. No underwear. Just a thin layer of form-fitting spandex. But she nodded. "All right." Then she gestured toward her purse. "I carry a clip with me. Do you want me to use it today?"
"Yes."
He separated from the others and walked toward the whiteboard at the front of the room. Then he watched—they all watched—as she twisted and folded the length of her hair until she could fit enough of it inside the claws of the clip to keep it off her back.
Heat crept into her cheeks. She tried to block the others from her mind as she slid out of her shoes and walked to the front of the room in her socks.
"We're going to take this in stages," Dalton said. "We'll go slow so we can both learn what works and what doesn't."
Again she nodded. "Okay."
"But I'm going to throw a surprise or two into the mix so we can see how you respond."
This time she wasn't as ready to agree. In theory she had no problem with what he proposed, but this was a sex club and today was only the first of their sessions. If the surprises he had in mind included intimate caresses, she wanted time to ease into that.
"Nothing to worry about," he assured her. "I told you we'd take it slow. And I'm going to give you a safe word. If you feel yourself starting to panic and I don't detect it, say the word 'red.' Easy to remember. Say the word 'red' and everything stops. I'll back off, give you time to recover, and wait for you to tell me when you're ready to start again. Okay?"
"Yes," she agreed. "Okay." And there was no hesitation this time.
"All right. Face the whiteboard and let's start."
She did as he told her, staring at the smooth white surface.
"Put your hands on the board at shoulder height."
She nodded and felt the first light touch of a finger on her upper arm.
"Focus on the way each caress makes you feel," he murmured softly.
The finger disappeared.
"Don't disengage," he told her, and the finger was back, stroking a gentle path up to her shoulder.
Gone again.
Then grazing slowly from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.
Gone again.
"If I touch you here—" He ran the outer length of his index finger along her jaw to the area just behind her ear, paused, and caressed. "—where do you feel it?"
"I . . . ." She blushed. Then she considered the part of her body affected by his touch, and that broke her focus. "Red!"
The touch vanished.
"Take your hands down and turn around."
She inhaled, braced, and turned. In his other hand was a digital stopwatch.
"My first touch lasted five seconds. The next one, seven, and the last . . . ." He held the watch where she could see it.
"Twelve," she whispered, utterly awed. She raised her eyes to his.
"We could have gone longer, but you would have started focusing on the vaginal sensations, caught yourself, and overreacted. Now you know to expect it. Okay?"
"I . . . . Yes."
"Ready to try again?"
"Yes." And she was.
"Okay. Turn back around."
She did as instructed, the inevitable failure she'd expected beginning to dissolve.
He used two fingers this time. They brushed her shoulder then lifted, as though only to draw her attention to that spot.
She waited.
They returned, gliding lightly over her collar bone. So lightly. Slowly. Then they lifted again and she scarcely breathed, waiting for the next touch.
When it came he paused at her shoulder, hesitant, as though asking permission. Then he drew a soft circle there. Paused. Another circle. Just a tender brush of fingertips, a whisper of emotion so poignant, so unexpected, she tried to absorb it, define it, feel more of it. And each time he lifted his hand she waited for its return, waited until gradually his touch began to come as a relief that soothed the anticipation of it.
He trailed a slow path to her neck, turning his fingers so the backs stroked a small area beneath her ear. Up. Down. Up. Pausing. Then a butterfly-light brush of his thumb along the outer shell of her ear.
When his fingers slid gently along her jaw, she closed her eyes and turned toward the source of emotion. It was the caress of a lover. A touch she'd never known before in her life.
He lingered there, gently stroking, pausing, removing his fingers, then stroking again. And the sensory communication was so softly powerful, the pleasure so piercing and unfamiliar, tears filled her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.
How long had she been standing th
ere, hands braced on the whiteboard, heart beating steadily with beauty and joy? She'd expected a rasping abrasion of her senses and instead, this stranger, a man who communicated with her on a plane never before known, was giving her the gift of herself.
Her tears burned her eyes. A sob welled up from within. She wanted it to go on forever and she wanted it to stop. The sensory overload was so profound she couldn't contain it.
"Red," she whispered achingly, barely getting the word past the hollow in her throat. Red—the signal to call an immediate halt to a nightmare that never transpired.
At once he withdrew and stepped back.
Lifting her hands from the whiteboard, she turned and wiped the tears from her face. He was surprised by them. She could tell by the single raised eyebrow.
"How long?" she asked, her voice still clogged with emotion.
"Four minutes, thirty-eight seconds."
A new flood of tears spilled down her cheeks and she grappled for control. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She walked over to her purse, reached inside, and pulled out a tissue. But the tears wouldn't stop.
Four minutes. Four wonderful, glorious minutes.
"Rachel?" Mason rose to his feet.
She shook her head. "I'm okay. It's okay. It's just . . . overwhelming. In a good way," she assured him. "But I can't . . . absorb anymore right now."
She turned to Dalton Cooper and smiled through the tears that kept sliding down her cheeks. "Thank you. Thank you from my heart. I just need . . . some time to filter it in. Time to adjust."
She was babbling. And she couldn't stop crying.
Four heavenly minutes!
"I'll try to go . . . the full half hour next time," she told him. "And I'll dress the way you asked."