Part 2
I woke the next morning to the sun streaming in through the open window. I was slicked in sweat despite the chill in the room. I tried to sit up but was immediately floored by a crushing headache. I felt deathly weak and collapsed back into the mattress. My bedside clock read, Sat 10.32 am and beside it, I noticed a handwritten letter. I opened it, and in perfect calligraphy that could have graced a wedding invitation, was a short note from Hymee.
'The sun will rise in 10 minutes so I will have to leave you soon, although I wish I could stay longer. I held you all night willing your spirit to survive the virus that even now courses through your blood. That you are reading this is proof that we have been successful and that everything we have worked for to reveal your dark self is possible. That you are able to understand these words is also proof that you have not lost your mind, and as to the last point, I can safely say that you are not a monster, my dear.'
'By the time you read this, no doubt Briggs and Mortimer would have sent someone to check in on you as I have given them clear instructions to make you their highest priority. They will be able to give you some of the answers to your questions or at least help assuage the fear that I know you must feel. Also, I will rest easier knowing that someone is looking after you. I will visit you soon,
Hymee.'
Just at that moment, the doorbell rang and a concerned voice crackled on the intercom, "Mr Wallace, are you at home?"
It was Natasha -- her perfect English accent was unmistakable.
"Yes," I said. My voice sounded frail.
"I'm going to let myself in, Briggs and Mortimer have a spare key to your properties under the order of a Miss Hymee."
I heard the door grate open and then footsteps on the stairs. The door to my room opened and Natasha rushed in, worry painted on her face.
"They said you weren't well," she said, out of breath from the two flights of stairs. She wore grey seamless leggings and a matching crop bra. Despite my fever, it did not escape me that her figure-hugging leggings rather than hide her sex, accentuated it, highlighting the prominent slit of her vagina.
As if, reading my mind she said, "I was on the way to the gym when I got the call. I came straight over."
She sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on my head. Alarm flared in her eyes.
"You're burning up," she said.
She pulled back the bedsheets revealing my rippled abdomen and prominent bulge in my pants. Barely skipping a beat, she adjusted the sheets to hide my embarrassment and said, "We need to cool you down."
Immediately she was up and off again. I heard clinking in the bathroom and she returned a few minutes later with a white porcelain bowl which she set down on the bedside table. She soaked a cloth in the cold water and dabbed it onto my forehead, before working it over my face and abdomen. She worked methodically as if trained for the job.
"I used to do this for my mother before she died," she said. "She got cancer and the chemo always made her like this. Worse than the disease really. This was the only thing that gave her relief."
Her hands worked gently over my body as she sat beside me on the bed focused on the task at hand.
"Here, take these."
She handed me two lozenge-shaped pills and a glass of water which I gulped down without any questions. She took my temperature with one of those old fashioned glass thermometers which I guess she found in the bathroom and held it up to the light. She shook it and said, "Say arrrr."
I duly complied and she placed it in my mouth.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked when she withdrew the thermometer.
She looked at me puzzled and then with a cheeky grin said, "Well, I wouldn't want to lose my best client now, would I Mr Wallace?"
"Call me Luke," I said.
"Fine, if we're on first name terms," she replied with a chirpy lilt to her voice, "you should call me Sasha. That's what my mum always called me."
"Deal," I said grinning. This was the first real girl I had spoken to who didn't make me feel nervous or somehow insufficient. Her kind face brimmed with compassion, and I realised that if she had not become a lawyer then she would have made the perfect doctor.
Sasha turned up unannounced the next day. She let herself in and bounded upstairs as if her very life depended upon it. The door swung open and I was greeted with worry that quickly transformed into delight.
"Oh you look so much better," she said slightly out of breath. "You were deathly pale yesterday. I was so worried."
She was wearing s similarly tight grey gym outfit and when she noticed my admiring glances she giggled.
"Well I thought it might help bring the colour to your cheeks," she said playfully.
She posed for a fraction longer than was strictly necessary letting my eyes linger on her body. Her crop top showed off her lean abdomen and the prominent bulge of her breasts. Her seamless leggings acted as a flawless second skin setting off her wide hips and half-moon buttocks. Outlined beneath the tight fabric were the thick lips of her vulva nuzzled between the lines of her shapely thighs. She seemed not to be worried by my longing glances and sat down beside me putting a hand to my head. I in turn rested my hand on her knee eager to be closer to her. Again, she didn't mind, or perhaps through professional courtesy, tolerated my small advances, and so I let it ride up her thigh.
"So how is our patient?" she asked, in mock seriousness.
