“Tired, I guess. Just kind of…worn out, from the chair.” You were groping for some way of talking about it. She must know.

“Any hallucinations? Paranoid thoughts?”

“No, no. I mean—sometimes it feels like I can feel things better, you know? Like, I mean, with my skin. But nothing too weird.”

She smiled broadly. “Heightened sensitivity. That’s not a problem.” The way she said “not a problem” made your spine tingle. You had your shoes and shirt off and you pulled your pants down and were surprised to find your dick was hard as a rock. Like, not surprised surprised, because here you were stripping for Sophie, but surprised you hadn’t noticed.

“Any aversive thoughts about sex or sexual partners? As in, you are worried about sex, or don’t like the idea of sex?”

“Jesus, no,” you said, pulling off your shorts. “Quite the opposite.”

“Oh, good,” Sophie said, grinning again. “Very good.” She came across the room and took your penis in her hands, as casually as if she was testing your knee for reflexes. “So this feels good?” she asked, gingerly stroking from the base of the shaft to the head.

You could hardly talk from surprise. Actually the feeling was like a burning, buzzing throb. Sophie’s taut little breasts danced inside her blouse, and you could smell her smell—like apples and mint. “Yes,” you said.

“Good,” she said, and let go of you. “I won’t do any more of that, because I want to honor the subscriber request.” She crossed to her clipboard and made a few notes. Then she looked up at your face. “Oh, Gary, don’t worry. I still have to do a little concrete measurement to see if your competence has improved. And in fact, I like this way, I tell you why. Remember how our first date was, well, a little bit all about you?” She grinned impishly. “This one will be all about me. Come take off my clothes very gently.”

Cotton. Wool. Satin. Metal, the snick of the bra snap coming open. Skin, the panties moving down the legs, your thumbs brushing her thighs.

“Good.” She lay facedown on the big hospital bed. “Backrub.”

Skin. Warm and breathing. Your fingers could feel the little knots of wrongness. When you pushed too hard, she raised her shoulders a quarter inch, and you backed off. When it was too light, her breathing became irregular, and you pushed in. At one point you almost lost her to sleep, and your fingers started to stroke lightly, like ships dancing. Your fingertips, her pores. Her breathing quickened.

She rolled over. “Look at the clock, Gary,” she said.

“Shit,” you said. “It’s ten o’clock.” An hour backrub?

“Having fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she said. “Breasts.”

And then: “Good. Now with your tongue.”