Their first meeting was on the Internet, a not entirely unusual development.

His work as a speechwriter and advisor for corporate executives and hers as an art critic for The New York Spectator led both of them to the Web with more than a little frequency.

As with so many modern relationships, their first encounter came by way of an email exchanged on a strictly professional basis. Her August 31st story had mentioned an important but wildly overpriced piece of sculpture and attributed its purchase to one of his clients, a rather well-known and somewhat reviled Wall Street financial player. She had made a tiny editorial error, ascribing his purchase as being excessive as he was new to the art market.

The email that changed her life arrived the next day.

'You may dislike my client, you may dislike his taste, but please don't let your haste to escape to the Hampton's for the weekend lead you to conclude that David Trammel is new to the art world. He has been an important collector of major modern pieces since the early 1990s.'

Warmest regards,

Michael Fletcher

Lisa felt her hot temper rise within her. Her reviews were simply not questioned, especially by some PR hack. She looked him up on the Net, finding a few hundred hits and a photo of him at a charity event. Late 30s. A tight blond crew cut. Glasses. An enormous smile. 'Dork. Not my type,' she thought instantly. 'Not artistic, not beautiful enough.' Lisa's taste in men ran to thin, gothy artists and to similarly pretty boys. Fletcher looked like he actually spent time outdoors. She wrote back the next morning, sparing none of her famous wit and venom.

'I am certain you have spent very little time in the Hampton's, being one of a legion of underpaid, whining PR weasels defending boors like David Trammel's atrocious taste. As such, please don't presume to know where I am going for the weekend. As for Trammel's taste, he has been a major collector: of very bad modern pieces.

Have a fine weekend yourself...where's it going to be? The Jersey Shore? Long Beach? Coney Island?'

Lisa Hearn

The New York Spectator

His response ratcheted up both her irritation, though it also had the strangest side effect of leaving her panting and slightly aroused.

'You are quite a precocious little girl, but rudeness went out with the 1990s. Someone should have spanked you as a child.

I summer in Maine, if you must know, in a home that's been in my family for three generations.

And if I may be so bold, at the age of 24 and working for the Spectator, I'm guessing you're staying in a share with a dozen or so friends. Somewhere cramped, sweaty, and filled with trivial and instantly regrettable sexual encounters with arrogant 25-year old brokers from Goldman Sachs.'

Fletcher

She bit her full lower lip and stifled a tiny moment of anxiety. Her confidence and brilliance has landed her the Spectator job. She was an American, but a decade in London as a teenager and in college had given her a polish and poise that let her move seamlessly in the art world. Her editors liked her sharp, incisive wit and what she called her C-grade Art World celebrity.

But this man had just managed...in the space of a few dozen words ... to tear into her careful defenses and her pretense of complete control over men. She was angry and yet her hands seemed to move of their own accord.

She typed back:

'Where in Maine?'

For the next ten minutes she stared at Outlook, clicking the Send/Receive button every fifteen seconds or so. The Spectator's office was sweltering, and she was dripping with sweat. She pushed her brown wavy hair back from her neck and felt a fine line of perspiration running down her back. Her silk dress clung to her small, curvy body. She had kicked her Manolos (a month's salary there) under the desk. When his response arrived, she stared at if for a millisecond before clicking it open.

'A small island near Acadia. Why, trying to wrangle an invite? If so, just ask.'

'Bullshit' she thought, 'He's yanking my chain and hoping I'll ask for an invitation...' At that moment, another email arrived from him.

'A group of friends is coming with me to Maine this weekend. I'm leaving from Signature Flight Support at Teterboro Airport this afternoon at precisely 4:00pm. We will return early Monday morning. Attire: casual. It may be August, but it is Maine, so bring a sweater.'

The remainder of the email contained details about how to get to Teterboro and where to meet the flight. The names on the list included a restaurateur, a New York Times reporter, and a few other names that struck vague chords of memory.

She forwarded the mail to Amy, her confidante and best friend. Amy designed shoes for a midtown fashion house that W referred to as "The next Jimmy Choo's" and was Lisa's closest advisor in a series of iffy and unsatisfying relationships Lisa had suffered in the previous year. Fletcher had hit a sore spot with that, describing almost exactly her summer situation.

Amy answered at once with a torrent of words, "Well, I looked him up on the Net and he's everywhere. This guy is like, some kind of advisor and writer for a bunch of big tech and investment firms...did you know he was a White House speechwriter? I mean, he must be rich or something but I mean...it's not really a date. And those people are all nice, right?"

"But..." Lisa started marshalling her arguments against going.

"But nothing...the share sucks this year and you want to go...so go."

"But it's like...five hours from now! I'll never be ready in time." She looked up at the clock and did a quick mental calculation. "I can just get my nails done and get packed if I really hurry."

"Get your nails done and I'll meet you at the apartment and help you pack." Amy clicked off and Lisa finished her article, emailed it to her editor and ran for the door. A sweaty, terrible cab ride back to her West Side walkup left her in a frenzy. She went to the tiny Korean nail salon near her apartment and relaxed a little and her fingers and toes were painted. The tiny, stocky Korean woman's strong hands massaging her palms and forearms nearly put her to sleep when Lisa's phone buzzed in her handbag.

"Lisa...Michael Fletcher here." Oh shit, she thought, he's going to cancel. But his deep, slightly Southern voice pressed on, "If you're joining us, let me know...we'll send a car for you."

She was surprised how small and delicate her voice sounded. "Oh, yes...I'd love to...I was um...at a meeting."

"Well, good...a car will pick you up at your apartment at 3:15." His tone was crisp and clear and brooked no interruptions. She gave him the address and he clicked off.

When she arrived at her apartment, Amy had produced a blizzard of clothes. They played strategic clothing choice games for ten minutes, leaving Lisa slightly over-packed, but ready by the time the bell chimed. She grabbed her makeup bag and purse on the way out the door.

"Relax, Lisa..." Amy said, "It's a group...good connections, good for the Master Plan."

"I know...but why am I going on the basis of some emails?"

"Well, he's not a serial killer, he's just a rich guy who's invited you to Maine for the weekend."

The bell chimed again, and Lisa sprinted to the car service Crown Victoria. She rested her head against the cool leather seat and napped all the way to Teterboro.

When she awoke, they were pulling into the gates of the general aviation terminal. She saw a group of people standing near a mid-sized twin-engine plane. It said "Piper Seneca" on the nose. The man she knew to be Fletcher was clad in khakis and a black mock turtleneck. He was walking around the plane with a clipboard and gave her the most cursory of looks before continuing. He called out over his shoulder, "Lisa...meet everyone...everyone...meet Lisa...snarky art writer for the Spectator." He turned back to the plane. She blushed from the center of her chest up.

She did a quick round of introductions and played the Manhattan game of tail-sniffing with the others. There were all from the same small tribe of money, media, and politics, though all were older than her by a decade. Alan owned a new Tribeca restaurant with a terrible waiting list and ethereal food. Marcia was a political reporter for the New York Times. Edvard was a Ukrainian banker, apparently a friend of Fletcher's from college. Caitlyn was a wispy, vaguely familiar woman who assessed Lisa with watery blue eyes...when she wasn't mooning openly at Edvard.

'Oh, fuck me,' she thought. 'This is all boy-girl pairings. It is a damn date.'

She watched Fletcher continue his pre-flight of the plane. He loaded their cases and closed the baggage compartment. One by one they entered the cabin.

The plane sat four in the rear in a cluster of seats. Lisa felt a slight pang when she realized she would be sitting in the front of the plane with Fletcher.

"I don't even drive," she laughed nervously, "So I don't think I'll be much help."

He smiled at her with his big, crooked smile and said, "Well, you can have your first flying lesson today then."

She watched him methodically prepare the plane for their flight. His hands moved across the controls smoothly and quickly, working from a checklist. Some clipped conversation with the tower transpired and they were off. They taxied out and moments later they were soaring, airborne. She glanced back at the others and they were in varying states of reading, sleeping, and staring out the window.

She hated what the big headphones were doing to her hair.

"How long will it take us to get there?" she asked, instantly feeling like a kid. "And thank you for inviting me."

They turned Northeast and she could see Manhattan stretched below her. She couldn't see behind his sunglasses, but he smiled a strange smile at her and said, "About three hours. You're welcome...there are just a couple things we should talk about. And some ground rules for when you're at my home."

'Oh, shit...here it comes,' she thought.

"About Trammell..."

She sat up quickly, straining into the seatbelts. So that was it. He was spinning her. A sharp rejoinder leapt to her tongue, but he cut her off. She was not accustomed to being interrupted.

"...he's an ass. I was doing what I am required to do when it comes to managing his image."

She softened instantly. "Well, as long as we agree on that. Is that what you do? Manage images?"

That strange smile again. "I guess you could call me a perception engineer."

"A fancy word for PR, Fletcher."

"Not exactly just PR, Lisa," he replied. "We work on changing deeply held views by engaging in large- and small-scale social engineering. Large-scale social engineering is driven by advertising, politics, public policy."

"And the small scale?" she asked.

"Well, that's more akin to...well...changing one person's beliefs and structures is in a lot of ways easier than changing a culture's. A single person is always vulnerable to persuasion."

She snorted and laughed. "Like brainwashing? Like cults? Sure...but that's not really new...men are vulnerable to certain types of persuasion every day." She purred and stretched in her best sex-kitten act, only to be greeted with that same damn smile again. Though his head moved up and down, she could not see his eyes.

"That's seduction, not brainwashing, Lisa," he laughed. "Any man can be tricked by a woman if he lets it happen. I'm talking about the fundamental alteration of mental constructs and belief systems. I'm talking about convincing a person that they deeply desire something that I want them to desire. I'm talking about modifying their responses to the world around them."

"You're nuts...you're confusing propaganda or advertising with making one person change their life."

"No, not nuts...I know from experience that it's possible."

They bantered back and forth for a while on the subject and she found herself feeling strangely aroused by the conversation. For a man to be so confident and so secure in his abilities was a little frightening to her. Lisa had always been supremely secure in her ability to manipulate men. Sometimes the picking seemed a little slim and the men in her orbit seemed to be too gay, to boorish, or too unavailable, but she had her skills.

Just as she was about to ask what kind of experience, he changed the subject.

"So...now that we're on course, let's teach you a little bit about flying the Piper Seneca..."

The next hours flew past, literally. She learned to handle the plane's controls and read the basic instruments as Fletcher's hand rested lightly on the control yoke. She felt a thrill of pleasure to be flying this odd man's plane.

It was nearly sunset as they descended towards the airport. The island caught the golden late afternoon sun. It was perhaps a mile long and half as wide. Rocky shores and dark pines had a New England beauty all their own. She watched the instruments spin down as they approached the airfield. It was a long, narrow strip of asphalt along the southern edge of the island. A tiny town or settlement lay just beyond the airfield. "That's Fletcher Harbor," he said without a hint of irony.

He landed the plane smoothly and taxied to the hanger. There were a few moments of wrangling with the bags into an old Suburban he kept at the field, then they drove up the hilly slope of the island to his house. Everyone was in good spirits, laughing, joking, and hungry.

The house was an enormous and enormously weathered late Victorian monstrosity perched over the town. There was a wide, flat lawn and a kitchen garden to the side. She could see lights coming on below, and hear the barking of a dog in the descending twilight. Lisa was a modernist girl who's own tastes ran to stark, sleek architecture...but she loved how the house looked lived in and welcoming.

A rather prim and stern Maine woman stood on the porch and greeted them. "Mistah Fletcher, I've set the rooms as ya've asked and now I'll be headed for home if ya don't mind."

"Yes, Mrs. Q," said Fletcher. Lisa had the impression Mrs. Q had been around long enough to turn Fletcher over her knee in the past.

Lisa stifled a giggle, then thought, 'Uh oh...set the rooms?'

The air was cool, almost chilly for August, even in Maine. Fletcher and Alan unloaded the Suburban and she stood with Marcy and Caitlyn on the porch. She'd forgotten the sweater he'd warned her to bring and found her nipples erect under her silk shirt.

"Have you been here before?" Lisa asked them. She was, it turned out in her own room. Fletcher told them to unpack and report to the kitchen.

Marcy smiled broadly, "Oh, since I was a kid...I used to date Mike's brother."

The next hour left her stunned. She stood, amazed as Fletcher and Alan blurred into motion, cooking, laughing, drinking red wine. Delta Blues music played from hidden speakers in the kitchen ceiling. Edvard set the table while telling jokes about Fletcher in college. The conversation flowed around her, over her, centered on her at times. She felt unburdened by Manhattan and amazed at how these people just let themselves go...their work personalities vanished in the creation of a big meal, good music and a late summer evening in Maine.

They moved to the big trestle table in the kitchen. It would have accommodated 20. The breeze through the open windows was blowing just enough to cool the big kitchen. Lisa stared at the food in awe and pleasure.

Alan stood and announced in his mild French, "Following Fletcher's rule: nothing fussy, nothing fancy for dinner. So we make some seared tuna with caramelized onions...we make some frisee salad - eh, with local goat cheese lovely -- ...we bring some afternoon bread from Bouley...we make some of those haricots vert from the back garden -- I want them for my restaurant, tell Mrs. Q to send me FedEx next week - we're making roasted pears with Mascarpone for dessert."

Edvard laughed, "Nothing fancy, eh?"

The meal was a blur to her in many ways. Red wine flowed, stories were told, jokes shared. Surprisingly little of it centered on the kind of office-gossip that she would have heard with the people from her summer share. The other asked her questions about herself, about working for the Spectator, about the rumored sexual tastes of her editors. She felt as at home and at peace as she ever had. Later, she stood next to Fletcher as he washed the dishes. She dried, owing to her perfect nails.

After dinner, they walked on to the large wraparound porch and stood in the cool night air. She realized that she had never been somewhere so quiet. The house sighed and settled. The breeze slid through the pines. A leafy rattle through the garden announced the presence of a cat.

Fletcher sat down on the steps next to her and said, "Lisa, tell me more about yourself." It would have sounded cheesy from anyone else, but his tone held a strange edge. She opened her mouth to give him the "show and tell" version but out came 30 minutes of her true life history. She was astounded at her own candor. She was honest about her terribly unsatisfactory love life, her use of her biting wit to keep people away, her driving ambitions...in short, she told him more than she had told anyone, including during her brief and fruitless sessions of therapy.

When she was done, she felt drained, but strangely at ease.

Fletcher was only a foot away from her on the porch and as the stars came out and the fat waxing moon lit the lawn gently, she found herself feeling a deep, powerful desire to be part of the strange, but seemingly happy world Fletcher existed in. She could hear Edvard and Caitlyn laughing in the kitchen. Marcy and Alan had gone down to the village. For all her ambition, it seemed that she had stepped in to another world, and it called to a deep place in her mind. Manhattan seemed a billion miles away.

"Your story really doesn't surprise me," he said, not unkindly.

Lisa didn't know quite how to take that, which seemed to be disturbingly common with Fletcher. She shivered in the increasing chill. Fletcher stood and said, "Wait here."

A second later he wrapped a warm, heavy flannel shirt around her shoulders. It smelled of pines and the sea and, she supposed, Fletcher. He sat down on the step again, this time much closer to her.

"Why don't you have a big mess of kids and a trophy wife here? Or is this house just a chick magnet?" she asked.

Fletcher laughed quietly, "Because then I couldn't have you here."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"And although this seems sudden," he said, "A woman with a wit like yours needs strikes a deep chord of need in me." She looked sideways at him and noticed his strange half-smile and his eyes peering out into the dark. "Lisa, do you have any concept of what kind of standards I have? I'm not the easiest man in the world to please. Besides, you liked flying my plane." His laughter seemed to end that line of conversation, and more importantly, he turned towards her and cupped her chin in one hand.

Lisa's heart was pounding and her breath was coming in deep, swift gulps.

He leaned very close to her and she saw his eyes playing swiftly over her face. She was now straining towards him, eager and ready for his mouth to touch hers.

"I would so much like to kiss you, Lisa" he whispered.

She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. "Then do, Fletcher."

He leaned almost impossibly close. She raised a hand and ran it through his hair. It was surprisingly soft. She was desperate for the kiss now, desperate for this strange man to take her, to consume her with the same passion he'd shown in his emails, his flying, and in the kitchen. She wanted everything from him and she wanted it now.

"Mmmmm," his deep voice teased, "We've just met, Lisa. Let's not do anything until we're ready."

"No, I'm ready," she whispered almost soundlessly. His head nuzzled her neck and she felt his warm breath on her collarbone.

There was an odd, stern note in his voice now, "No, Lisa...I'll decide when you're ready." For some reason, what she would have taken as rejection or insult from any other man made her practically swoon. She felt a warm, wet flush of arousal that almost overwhelmed her.

"Pl...Please."

At that moment Marcy and Alan came strolling up the hill. She leaned back on the steps, pulling Fletcher's flannel shirt tightly around her shoulders.

A few quiet minutes of conversation followed and slowly everyone drifted inside the house. It was barely 10:30, Lisa noticed. She hadn't been to sleep before 2:00 in months, living the Manhattan party-girl life to the hilt, but now she wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Fletcher and fend off the increasing cold the sea breeze was pushing over the island.

Fletcher closed up the house and dimmed the lights. As she expected, Marcy and Alan said their goodnights. Edvard and Caitlyn followed minutes later. She felt enormously uncomfortable and worried about what to do next.

Fletcher was puttering in the kitchen as she looked at the hundreds of photos of him and his brothers and sisters as children. In shot after shot she saw the same clever smiles, the same bright eyes...four children with every advantage. He emerged a few minutes later and said, "Well, I think its time to call it a night...unless you'd like another glass of wine."

"I would love one," she replied.

She walked into the kitchen after him and saw two deep bulbous Reidel wine glasses on the scuffed and beaten trestle table. A bottle of Sangiovese sat beside them.

"You're scary," she laughed "You seem to calculate every move and every thought I have. Am I that predictable?"

She knew what was coming next. "Yes, Lisa, you rather are."

She sat with him at the table. The wine's character was deep, with spicy notes of earth and berry.

He stared at his glass, "It's young yet...needs a year or so to mature."

"Mmmmm," she said. "It's really perfect for me."

The conversation ran smoothly for what seemed like a long time. He described the house, its history, and the island. She listened to his style, marveling at way of integrating every element of the story. She felt the almost physical effect of his words as she learned more about his life and his history. It was like being carried away on a river, floating and moving past the scenery he painted for her.

"Lisa..." She woke with a start. "Your eyes were closing. Did you want to go upstairs?"

Her mind couldn't parse the information it was receiving. She wanted to sleep beyond words, and felt the weight of the day on her eyelids. They were closing on their own accord, and even while closed she continued to listen to his words.

She remembered him looking at her with an amused expression as she nodded off, over and over again. "Too much wine..." Lisa muttered, embarrassed. She wasn't usually such a lightweight, but strong red wine was putting her right to sleep. She felt Fletcher guiding her up the stairs. She felt herself lowered into the softest and warmest bed she had ever known. She felt Fletcher kiss her forehead and sleep came swiftly.

The next morning she woke to the sound of seabirds outside and the booming of Edvard, Alan, and Fletcher laughing and singing something off-key in the kitchen. She showered, found an enormous bathrobe handing on the back of the door, and puttered downstairs.

Fletcher was dressed in his usual khakis and a denim shirt. She smiled at him broadly. She was puzzling over the fact that he had rejected her offer. She was also puzzled that he had done nothing more than tuck her in.

"Marcy and Caitlyn are down in the village to raid the bakery...so give us a hand," he said. He and Alan were making an enormous frittata, with a mass of broken eggshells as witness. Edvard read news stories from the Web as Fletcher made snappy remarks.

She joined in, hoping that her year off from cooking would go unnoticed. She kept looking around the sunny kitchen at these happy men and wondered just how they did it. She knew they were different in the City, but it seemed to her that if they could live her permanently they would.

Marcy and Caitlyn returned with hot, perfect pastries from the village bakery and breakfast was joined. Lisa hadn't eaten so much in a 24 hour period in a year, but the food and the conversation was too good to resist.

Breakfast was followed by a walk around the island. Her shoes were all completely impractical, but Marcy loaned her a pair of Teva's that she found as unfashionable as they were comfortable. Fletcher loaned Lisa a huge, complex digital camera and they all walked in the warm sun for hours. The end of the trip led them through a picture-perfect village.

'Is this Maine, or Stepford?' she asked herself. It was tidy, perfect, and yet showed few signs of being a summer tourist haven.

All day, she felt Fletcher's attention on her. He spoke to her all day, paying her slightly more attention than she expected. She was enjoying his attention but still confused by his intentions. If he'd wanted to fuck her last night, he could have. She'd had one encounter a year ago involving too many Cosmopolitans and a guy who worked for a big brokerage house. It was as close to rape as she'd ever wish to come. Was Fletcher gay? No. Weird? Certainly.

But she loved the hot tempo of the discussions. From politics to business to music to food, she realized the group was a perfectly balanced and harmonious whole. She felt slightly out of place at times, but when she foundered in the conversation she was gently lifted back in by one of the party.

They ate in the village that night, lobsters and late summer corn. Fletcher knew simply everyone on the island, it seemed, and she gleaned a little insight from overheard conversations. Seven families had owned the island since the 1850s, the Fletchers among them. The village had been a well-kept secret for decades, with its population of just over 400 people. There were clearly people in the restaurant from Boothbay and Acadia, given the scattering of expensive boats in the harbor.

On the walk back, she felt Fletcher's hand slip into hers. She walked close to him, and wondered - not for the first time - why she was here and what Fletcher wanted from her, but the starry night and his warm laugh in the summer evening kept her from thinking too much about it.

The remainder of the weekend was a blur of small pleasures. They walked. They ate. They sailed. Very early Monday morning though, the entire fantasy ended. At 4:30 am Marcy woke her and Edvard drove the Suburban down to the airfield. Fletcher was already pre-flighting the plane. This time, Alan rode up front, and she wondered if she had displeased Fletcher in some way. She had all but offered herself to him again last night, but he had pleasantly declined. She sat in the back of the plane and as New York loomed. She had no desire to return to work. She felt as if the nasty, snappy wit that made her columns must-reads was drained out of her. Fletcher drove her into the City in his Range Rover, taking a series of cell calls from practically the moment they arrived. He may have rested but his business clearly did not. She bit her lip to keep from crying, wondering why he was being so cold to her.

He pulled up in front of her apartment and helped her out with her bags.

She reached out an awkward hand, "Thank you so much for inviting me, Mr. Fletcher. It was lovely."

His phone rang and he gestured at her in a way she could only interpret as dismissal. She cried as she entered her apartment. Amy had left her a dozen messages, wanting status reports, but Lisa was too upset to call her yet.

When she arrived at the Spectator that morning, she looked at her computer and saw fifty messages of the usual business: gallery openings, auction announcements, the usual detritus. But one caught her eye. Fletcher. No subject. Her hand shook as she clicked it.

Lisa:

'You're lovely. Thank you for coming this weekend.

'Dinner. Tonight. Craft. I'll pick you up. 8:30 pm.'

Fletcher.

Dinner that night was as oddly magical as the weekend had been.

Fletcher was warm, funny, and attentive again. He charmed her, knowing little stories about her editors and her publisher. He laughed at her jokes and at her stories. She still couldn't read him. Time for the direct approach.

"So, Fletcher..." she said in her best vixen voice, "Is this going somewhere? After this morning I thought you were going to just to dump me...and now if I know the signs I'd say you wanted to fuck me.

"You're accustomed to having men wrapped around your finger, aren't you, Lisa?" he smiled.

She smiled back. "I have my skills." She conducted a mental inventory of the men she'd been able to control with her wit and her wiles. Fletcher was a frustrating enigma, but she sensed she could control even him if she got him into bed. "I know that men are men and they respond to certain things every time." Her perfectly lacquered nail traced the edge of her wineglass.

"Do you recall our conversation about brainwashing?" he asked. She did, and once again felt the strange rush of warmth between her legs. "Well, your sexual skills are a simple expression of that. You modify a man's behavior with rewards, punishments, reinforcements...it's a primitive skill, but a real form of it."

Before she could respond to the "primitive" comment, he said, "But you're not after that. You'd rather have someone do that for you...you obviously want a man who can not only handle you but can break down some of your little constructs about who is in control."

She felt her temper rising but checked it with a bitter joke. "Oh, yeah...another man who is ready to be the dominant daddy...give me a fucking break. Three minutes after we fuck you'll be begging me to marry you. You're not about to modify my behavior no matter how hard you try. Nice fantasy, Fletcher, but living on your island has given you too many lord of the manor fantasies."

He threw back his head and laughed.

"Well, Lisa...we'll see about that, if you're up to the challenge."

Now she was enjoying the game. "Try me, sport."

On the drive to his apartment she started working him. She kissed his neck and ears as he drove. Her hand rested over his cock, feeling his firm erection. 'Gotcha' she thought. Once a man was hard with her, it was over. She had control.

His brownstone was larger than she imagined. The Rover whipped into the garage and they climbed the stairs into Fletcher's home. It was a slightly more citified version of the casual elegance of the Maine house. He walked her upstairs to his bedroom and they started what she assumed would be the beginning of her triumph over him. She liked him but something has switched on her intense and competitive side. She wanted to ride him, to fuck him hard...anything to make him lose that sarcastic expression and strange smile.

They started kissing intensely. She shimmied out of her shoes and dress. He was clearly appreciative of her body and her confident stance. She felt him press against her, his hard cock applying pressure over her warm, wet pussy. She was very aroused already, and when he slid one-two-three fingers inside her she almost fainted from pleasure. His left hand supported her back while his right played delicately with her pussy. She felt an orgasm building, but he always seemed to sense it and ease off before she could cum.

Suddenly, he marched her into another bedroom and said, "Lisa, are you ready to know what it's like to be changed? To be brainwashed? To be controlled?"

She felt a breathless rush of arousal, "Oh, god yes..." Part of her was wondering where this was going, but the idea was suddenly and strongly appealing to her.

"Good," he whispered. In a moment he was with her on the bed, deep inside her. He continued to speak to her as he pushed her closer and closer to orgasm. "You're going to take a few days off...your publisher is a friend of mine and I've already spoken to him. We're going to spend a lot of time together and I'm going to give you what you want..."

She was breathless, panting, and on the very crest of orgasm now. "What...what I ... want?" she breathed. Even as Lisa said it, she knew that he understood things about her needs and her nature that were hidden deep inside her mind. She knew whatever answer he gave her would drive her over the edge of orgasm and take her to a new and strange part of her life.

He was fucking her now with a deep, slow intensity she found irresistible. He was in complete control of their sex, a situation she had never, ever known before. This was a man who would cum when and how he chose. She felt the orgasm overwhelm her as he whispered, "Lisa, you want something to change in you...you want someone to possess and control you. You want to be defenseless and helpless. You want to genuinely submit to someone for the first time in your life."

It was too much. Part of her mind wanted to snap back at him, to throw this sexist and frankly weird talk back in his face. Part of her wanted to run. But she was helpless to resist the small, triumphant voice in her mind that whispered, 'Yessssss.' And with that, she came with fierce intensity. He smiled in pleasure at her, letting his control go at precisely that moment. She liked the deep thrusts and his sudden cry as he came inside her, and he seemed to take ages to finish.

It was some of the best sex she had ever had. "You fuck like you're nineteen," she whispered.

"Mmmmm, well...I'm glad you liked it."

"Oh, god yes...those things you said...that's the wildest fantasy..."

He stirred in the darkness beside her. "Well, it's not fantasy, Lisa. Not any more."

She nudged him playfully, "The part about my publisher was good...what would you say to him, 'I'm going to keep Lisa for a week and fuck her silly?'"

He leaned over her and smiled in the darkness. "What I actually said to him was that I was taking you away for a week. What I have in mind does involve fucking, but less than you might think...at least at first."

She stiffened. He wasn't kidding. What she had interpreted as fantasy - and found profoundly arousing, which confused her now - was clearly not in his plan. Something he said on the plane...about brainwashing now flooded her mind. He had talked about being a perception engineer. She had admitted to herself in the course of their lovemaking that she was profoundly affected by his sense of control and his command of his environment, but what was he talking about.

"Well, let's get started, Lisa. It's time."

He stood up, and not unkindly pulled her from the bed. She was confused and becoming upset, and more than a little frightened. She was naked and he walked her down a short hallway to a door. As it swung open she noted it was quite thick.

Inside was a room that was as sleekly modern as a London interior designer's fantasies. Her bare feet were cold on the gleaming hardwood floor. The walls were a warm, neutral white color, lit from recessed fixtures. The sole furniture in the room consisted of a dark leather club chair and a simple, modernist bed covered with the thickest and whitest linens she had ever seen. A bathroom stood behind a glass brick wall to one side. It gleamed in white and chrome.

"You're sleeping here tonight, Lisa," he said.

She looked at him in shock. "After we..."

"Sleep well. We're starting now." He walked for the door. She stood naked and alone in the center of the room.

"Starting what? Starting to creep me the hell out!" she shouted, feeling her anger rising.

"Your brainwashing, of course."

He looked at her with that strange smile and closed the door behind him. There was no handle on her side. She felt a rising panic and ran to the door. It was thickly padded and no sound but a dull thump came from her pounding.

She looked around the room. No windows. Ceilings fifteen feet above her head.

The bathroom was another modernist fantasy. A toothbrush and toothpaste sat by the sink. There were no cabinets...no windows. She was now in a full scale panic, pacing the room, shouting his name. She wondered how thick the wall between his townhouse and he one next door must be and whether they could hear her shouting. Before long, she noticed the lights dimming slowly. It was almost imperceptible at first, but the room was certainly becoming darker and darker.

"Brainwashing, my ass. Fuck this," she thought, "I might as well get some sleep." The bed was fantastically comfortable and welcoming. As the lights continued to dim she fell asleep, wondering what to do in the morning.