"Non-demand penetration," he emphasized. "You are not expected to respond."

She didn't pout, but the movement of her bony neck and shoulders had the effect of pouting. "Why non-demand?"

"Because this exercise is to prove to you that you can again be entered totally and without pain, and nothing else has to be proved."

She blinked at him. "I hope I'm all right, Paul. I can't imagine having that awful tightening with you."

He tried to maintain some kind of professional stance. "If our exercises have gone well-and I think they have-there should be no problem."

Nan lifted her legs onto the bed and pushed herself against the pillows at the headboard. Brandon walked to the bed and lowered himself beside her.

"What do I do now?" she inquired innocently.

"We'll start with frontal caressing, taking turns, to get ourselves into the mood."

"I am in the mood, Paul," she said simply.

"That helps."

"I'm wet down there." She offered a shy smile. "Not difficult. I've been looking at you."

Somehow, he sensed, he had to slow her down. "Fine. But before we start, I'd like to say a few things."

"Whatever you want."

"Your only prolonged relationship with a male has been with Tony Zecca. As a result, you may still have some negative body images about yourself."

"I think maybe you've helped me overcome them. I feel more attractive now."

He concurred. "You are attractive. At the same time, with Tony you had no pleasure, only pain, and no orgasms."

"That's true."

Brandon went on doggedly. "With Tony you turned off all your physical receptors, experienced no joyous physical sensation. My goal, in our program, has been to get you in touch with your own sensuality."

She smiled less shyly. "I'm positive you've succeeded, Paul. I've never felt ours was an artificial relationship only. Even though this is paid for, and we talk to a therapist, I felt from early on that what's between us is something more. I've stopped thinking of you as a surrogate." She hesitated. "That's good, isn't it?"

Brandon wasn't sure if he was perspiring, but he felt as if he were. He wanted to let her know, in these moments, that a vital part of their therapeutic relationship was disengaging themselves from each other soon and being able to say good-bye to all that had been happening between them. This was the time to tell her that, and yet in observing her vulnerability, he could not bring himself to do so.

"Yes," he said weakly, "that is good, and I appreciate it." He paused. "All right, Nan, let's get into our feelings and relax and have pleasure in our relationship. Close your eyes and let's begin."

Brandon began to stroke her, and after that, she stroked him. She was extremely receptive to his touch and had become expert in her caressing of him.

There would be no problem with his erection. He was ready for her.

He looked at her. "All right, Nan. Let's try penetration. Non-demand penetration. I'll lie here, flat on my back. You lift yourself up and get on top of me. Then, very gradually, lower yourself down on me, until I've entered you fully. I won't move. Don't you move either, once I'm inside you. If you have any pain, let me know at once."

Nan nodded eagerly and climbed above him. His erection held, and he braced himself for their first contact.

"Remember, Nan, no thrusting from either of us. Even if you feel like it, don't. Just get used to my being inside you."

She had his penis in one hand as she arranged herself over it and moved it until it touched her vaginal lips, and then she eased herself downward. When his penis slid into her, she continued downward until she engulfed him.

"No pain?" he asked.

"It's wonderful," she said breathlessly. "I feel ecstatic. Let me move a little, Paul."

"No."

"Please . . ."

"Absolutely not."

"But I'm marvelous now. I'm all well. Paul, darling, I love it . . . I love it more than anything . . ."

With his hands firmly on her arms, he lifted her off him and withdrew, and she fell beside him, hugging and snuggling and kissing him and whispering, "And I love you even more. I'll love you forever."

He tried to respond, without being too responsive, and as quickly as it could be done, he brought their exercise session to an end.

Once she was dressed, and at the door, she halted briefly. "The same time tomorrow?"

"Yes, Nan."

"Will it be more, more of the same?"

"Yes."

"But closer to the real thing? I mean, moving?"

"Yes," he said almost inaudibly.

She kissed him. "I do love you," she said.

Peering through the living room window, he saw her drive off. Troubled, he went through his apartment, turning on the volume of the telephones again.

The resolve to overcome his problem-Nan's obvious emotional involvement with him-now had become an urgent necessity. Lingering over his bedroom phone, he lifted the receiver and dialed the Freeberg Clinic. He asked to speak to Dr. Freeberg. He learned that the therapist was out on a business call but would be back in an hour or so. Brandon left word for Freeberg to phone him as soon as he could.

Pacing about his living room, puffing away at his pipe, Brandon brooded over the matter. He tried, in his mind, to clarify every instance of Nan's involvement with him, its seriousness, her determination to block out their professional relationship and regard him as her real-life boyfriend. This could not continue, he knew, and yet he was incapable of telling her it was a professional relationship that would be over within a week. He knew that, much as he hated to do so, he would have to allow Dr. Freeberg to take him off the case and replace him with another male surrogate to wind up the therapy with Nan.

An hour and a half passed before Dr. Freeberg returned his call.

"How are you, Paul?" Freeberg wanted to know.

"Never better."

"Your message says you wanted to consult me about something."

"There is something I wanted to report, Doctor. I-" And then what he had prepared himself to say, what he had rehearsed, became stuck in some recess of his throat.

He pictured Nan being summoned by Dr. Freeberg tomorrow and being told that Paul Brandon had to be taken off her case and that a substitute would appear in his place.

He could imagine Nan's consternation at this unexpected turn of events. Somehow, she would perceive that the man she loved had rejected her. Somehow, she would be frightened by the idea of starting all over with a stranger. It would surely set her therapy back by weeks, if not end it altogether.

Brandon realized that no matter how well Freeberg managed it, this would be a brutal blow to Nan, as brutal as anything ever inflicted upon her by Tony Zecca. Brandon knew that he could not be the one responsible for inflicting more pain on Nan.

"Please go on, Paul," Brandon heard Freeberg say.

"Actually, I didn't want to consult you," Brandon said, "but merely report something to you. It's good news, and I didn't want to hold it back."

"What is it, Paul?"

"Nan and I had our initial non-demand penetration today. I'd say her vaginismus is cured. There were no obstructions. It went well. I'm sure she's cured."

"You're positive?"

"Just about."

"But you haven't tried penetration and thrusting yet, have you?"

"Not yet."

"Try that tomorrow, and let me know. If that comes off well, then we'll be positive she's cured, and you'll deserve congratulations. Good luck."

Good luck, he thought bitterly, hanging up the phone.

He was worse off than before. He hadn't the faintest idea of how he would handle Nan Whitcomb tomorrow.

At least tonight with Gayle he'd have no problem. He wouldn't even hint to her about his fainthearted and evasive talk with Freeberg.

Gayle didn't have to know.

If a tree falls in the forest, and no one hears it, did the tree actually fall?

It had been a happy evening for Brandon and Gayle.

For one thing, Lapin Agile was a cozy restaurant, providing the perfect background for easy conversation. The pianist across the crowded room softly played popular songs of old Montmartre. Three of the walls surrounding them were covered with colorful framed Toulouse-Lautrec posters representing many of the artist's friends from May Belfort and Jane Avril to Aristide Bruant and the Troupe de Mlle. Eglantine.

Most of all, adhering to a promise he had made to himself when he had gone to pick up Gayle, Brandon saw to it that there had been no discussion of their therapy activities. Any references to their jobs as surrogates or to their patients were strictly avoided. He would not allow himself to fall into that trap again. And instinctively, Gayle had gone along with him.

At their rustic wooden table, they had talked about their pasts and their futures, about music, books, movies, about politics, sports, television programs. They had talked, and laughed, about his adventures as a substitute teacher. They had talked about each other, how they felt about each other and what they wanted from their relationship.

Neither could remember, by dinner's end, what they had eaten, only that it had been delicious.

By the time they had finished their desserts, they had fallen into silence, holding hands across the table and speaking only with their eyes.

Tonight, Brandon told himself, was finally the night so long postponed. He was eager to have this breathtaking young woman in his arms and make her a part of him, as he would be a part of her. At last he broke the silence to tell her so.

She nodded. "It's what I've been wanting, too, Paul. Let's go back to my place."

Once in his car, he drew her closer to him and headed toward her house.

Throughout the drive, both were quiet. Brandon could feel his heart quickening with anticipation, like that of an excited schoolboy.

Parking in front of her bungalow, Brandon brought her to him, kissed her avidly, and whispered against her ear, "Let's go inside."

While Gayle was straightening her dress, and smoothing her hair, Brandon went around the car to open the passenger door and help her out.

As she stepped down beside him, Gayle said offhandedly, "There was something I meant to ask you. That patient of yours, the one who has a crush on you-I keep forgetting her name-"

Brandon squirmed uncomfortably, took Gayle by the hand, and started her up the walk. "Nan," he said, barely audible.

"Did you say Nan?"

"That's right."

"I wanted to ask how you made out with her. Was it difficult to break the news to her, that you had to terminate her?"

Playing dumb, Brandon guided Gayle up the three steps to her porch.

She stopped before her door to hunt inside her purse for the key. "Did she take it badly?" Gayle resumed.

Brandon decided he would have to face up to the inevitable and admit the truth. "Gayle, I just couldn't tell her we were winding up."

"Oh, no?"

"I couldn't do it one on one, Gayle. It would have been like executing someone. I just couldn't get around to it, so-"

Gayle, key in hand, was ominously still. "So you reported what was going on to Dr. Freeberg?"

"I started to. In fact, I called Dr. Freeberg to discuss the matter."

"Well, what did he say?"

Brandon was finding this even more difficult than he had expected. "He didn't say anything . . . because I didn't tell him anything."

Gayle's expression was one of incredulity. "You didn't tell Dr. Freeberg that your patient has fallen in love with you and expects to have a real-life romance with you?"

"Gayle, I couldn't. I simply couldn't. It would have been inhumane. To have reached the point I have with her, and then back off and let Dr. Freeberg tell her another man would take my place-it was impossible for me to do."

Gayle stared at him. "And exactly what point have you reached with Nan?"

"I-we-I think we've overcome her vaginismus."

"You mean you're fucking her?"

"Not really. It was only non-demand penetration."

"You're fucking her," Gayle persisted with rising anger, "and you're loving it, and she's loving it and in love with you. And you're doing nothing about it."