“Hello, is that CMHD, sorry, I mean Maskell HD?”

“Yes, this is the switchboard for Maskell HD, who do you wish to speak to?”

“Erm, I guess Personnel, just whoever’s in the Personnel Office.”

“Certainly, putting you through.”

There were a couple of clicks and then another woman’s voice came on the line.

“Maskell HD Personnel Office, how can I help you?”

“Erm, yes, hello. I was wondering if you could tell me if you have a Monique Chase working for you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give out details of our staff over the phone. What’s this in connection with?”

“Erm, well, I know she worked there four years ago…”

“The company’s only been in business since last year.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I meant with your previous company CMHD.” Monica said, feeling rather flustered now.

“We don’t hold their records, since the shake-up they’ve gone to archive.”

“Right, okay. It’s just that, I should have said this from the start, it’s just that I’m Monica Chase and I work in law too, and I keep getting mail for her. This happened four years ago and I got it sent on to her and so I was wondering if you could give me the address to do the same now, a lot of stuff for her has suddenly turned up. Has she gone to work for another company; gone back to France?”

There was a pause and Monica wondered if the woman was going to put the phone down on her, dismissing Monica as some crank, but then she spoke again, clearly having taken advice. “I’ll have to put you through to our level manager. Please hold the line.”

There were more clicks and Monica held her breath, wondering if she was about to truly uncover something about Monique Chase or simply be brushed off. Despite what Harcourt had said, sitting at home this morning she had become more sceptical about his story of another life. She had become determined to find out whether this Monique had actually ever existed and whether she was still around and somehow Monica was just fantasising about being in her life. Then the line cleared.

“Monique Chase?” A middle aged man came on the line.

“Yes, that’s what I’m calling about.”

“No problems. I’m Malcolm Reynolds, level manager in Personnel.”

Monica was immediately excited, she was glad her efforts were paying off.

“We’ve received your application for the claims counsel post. I’m pleased to say that a letter inviting you for interview will be going out today, but to speed things up I can tell you it will be here at headquarters at 10.00 on the 26th. Is that alright for you?”

“Erm, ah.” Monica was thrown, this was so far from what she had expected that she had no idea what to say. “Er yes, that’s erm fine, I’ll see you there.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Thank you, bye.”

“Goodbye.”

As Monica sat back from the telephone she quivered. She thought over how she had handled the call and how it had turned out to have such a different outcome to what she had anticipated. She was a little suspicious. How could it be that Monique Chase, she clearly did exist, was applying to Maskell HD at the same time as Monica was asking after her? What had she been doing in the past four years? Had she gone off into another company in the restructuring or was she simply applying internally for a post? Had Monica now upset all of that? She guessed it did not matter too much as Monique would get the letter with the details at her home address. Then again, had something else happened? Monica was not certain about what she could have been getting up to whilst in her fugues. What would happen if she had had one or more while sleeping? Would she know that she had done?

Now Monica began envisaging a different scenario. Maybe in her confused state she had actually sent an application into Maskell HD, writing as Monique, detailing that woman’s career experiences instead of her own. Monica knew she had no chance of getting an interview with her record, unless she had applied for a legal secretary post, but had not this Mr. Reynolds said something about claims counsel? From her own work, she knew that was a high-level post, with a salary probably three times more than what she earned. This could be embarrassing. She guessed she could call it off, saying that she was ill or had got another post. However, part of her was intrigued. If she showed up on the day, would there be the real Monique Chase there or would it just be her deluded self? She knew she had to find out and go on the day. If it was just her, then what did that say about her sanity? Was she becoming schizophrenic?

Unnerved, Monica phoned Harcourt’s number but just got an answer phone. She remembered what he had said about mainly visiting people in their homes or elsewhere outside the office. Maybe that Tom acted as his driver or assistant too. For now she would just have to wait. She reassured herself that at least working with Dr. Harcourt she was addressing the issues. With no ability to progress things, Monica felt at a loose end. She had no idea how to fill the rest of the day. She walked over to the window and gazed out at the small car park which sat behind her flat. It had stopped raining, but was still dull and her face was reflected in the glass. She contrasted her hair and her skin with that of Monique wishing that some of her physical attributes would leak into her life rather than just her memories. Suddenly Monica was filled with a new determination. She remembered what she had thought about buying some stockings. It might be a nice way to pass the day. Rather than trudge to the bus stop she called a taxi and was soon on her way to the nearest department store.

Monica manoeuvred the shopping bags ahead of her into the flat. She scurried to the living room where she dropped them on the floor. The day had turned out to be pretty good. She went to her small bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. It might have been an extravagance but the results seemed excellent. Monica had found that not only did the department store naturally sell stockings but also had a hairdresser and beautician in house. Now she hardly recognised the woman in the mirror, well not as Monica, more as Monique. Her hair had been purged of its colour and bedraggled waves and now was smooth and sleek in her natural brunette shade. Her face was painted subtly. The make-up woman’s ideas had seemed to fit with Monica’s own. One bag was packed with moisturisers and revitalisers that Monica had been assured would banish the blotchiness from her skin, something the woman seemed to be surprised to see in a woman of Monica’s age, but had been polite about.

Monica was also the proud owner of a few new items of clothing. She had had fun selecting the stockings and had taken up the beautician’s suggestion and now had beautifully waxed legs that would prove no obstacle to sliding into them. The stockings had started a bit of a frenzy on Monica’s part, no doubt encouraged by the shop assistants, who like, the hairdresser, were keen to have some business on a grey mid-week morning. Monica had bought a garter belt and some silky lingerie all in black which she somehow remembered Monique liking. Now that she was back home, however, she was less confident. She had no idea when she would get the chance to wear these; she lacked skirts and dresses short enough to expose her legs anyway. She guessed in that position Monique would have signed up for another shopping trip to get something suitable or at least surfed the internet to buy it online. Then as she emptied her bags she came to the skinny jeans. They were a pale blue shade and fitted very snugly. She had remembered how as Monique in her fugues she had enjoyed being wrapped tightly in her clothes. When she had slipped into these in the changing room, for a moment she wondered if she had dropped back into that woman’s life and it had taken a while for her to realise that she was experiencing them for herself and not through someone else. Of course, if Harcourt was right, and she had in fact been Monique, then presumably it was not too surprising to find that she had retained some of the tastes from her former life.

With a little more confidence Monica rested the jeans on the bed and began taking off the long brown corduroy skirt she wore. It was soon followed by her mauve, rather shapeless, blouse. Seeing the underwear beneath revealed she decided to substitute them too. Even without a place for the stockings there was no reason why she could not enjoy the bra and panties. As the cool silk was pulled into place she wondered why she had never bought something like these before. They made her tingle and she was eager to get into her new clothes. First she pulled the tight powder blue sweater over her head, glad when her newly styled hair smoothly fell back into place. She liked how the ‘v’ just stopped short of her cleavage hinting at what was below, though given how tight it was, there was little to imagine. Monica wondered if it was the bra or something else, but she was certain her breasts were smaller than this, though it was difficult to tell beneath the loose blouses and teeshirts she had favoured.

Putting on the jeans brought back the pleasurable sensation as well, if not better than the first time. With them in place she strode around the room, admiring how good they made her bum look. Monica always worried about her body shape, but she guessed that not owning a car and always tramping to and from bus stops was a good form of ‘incidental’ exercise. The smooth leather ankle boots finished off the style the way the shop assistant, at the time rather unconvincingly to Monica, had insisted they would. Monica gazed at herself in the long bedroom mirror hardly believing the woman she saw standing there. She was surprised how a morning’s work and expenditure well within her budget had made her look so different. As she swept her long hair back behind her ear, a gesture she recognised had been Monique’s in the fugues, she felt as if she had suddenly been transported to the top of a high building. This outfit would not have embarrassed Monique and so, was that proving that Monica had once been her?

Unsteady on her feet, Monica walked back to the bed and sat down. Maybe she had overdone it this morning. There was time for a rest, she had had a nice lunch in the store. She was not needed anywhere for the rest of the day. Not bothering to undress she lay down properly on the pillow. Now the real, distinctive and increasingly familiar sensation came and she knew she was dropping into a fugue; into Monique’s life.

Monique sat up. She had been reading on her sofa and must have fallen asleep. It had been a busy week tackling the Dominelli file. She stooped to pick up the novel she had been reading, or rather re-reading: ‘La Reine Margot’. She loved all of Dumas’s books and how he wove romance and drama so well together. The movie had been good too, she had the French DVD; Isabelle Adjani’s costumes had been a delight and the photography and the passion both made it a film she could often revisit.

For now she felt a little restless. It was Saturday, unusually she did not have a date lined up. Carl was in Singapore this weekend, and whilst he was good at the sexual side she was beginning to think she needed a change to keep things fresh. For a moment she pondered whether she should head up West to a bar; it was certainly an option. She glanced down at what she wore, she was sexy enough dressed like this, her clothes seemed to hug every contour of her body: the skin-tight midnight blue trousers of a kind of velvety suede and the bustiere top, like a soft corset, in black patterned with silver tendrils. However, she had the urge for something a little more: a tight sheath dress that hugged every contour, bright make-up and her hair cascading down one side of her face. That thought and her imagination of the man she could catch dressed like that, made her pulse race. Now she knew what she needed and headed to her bedroom.

Monica stopped. She realised that she had been swept along by Monique’s assumptions and thinking. She had not read anything in French or watched a French movie even subtitled, since she had left university. She certainly did not think about heading to a bar for a casual sexual encounter; her idea of a good Saturday night in was a takeaway and a DVD from the local rental store, which certainly lacked a ‘world cinema’ section. Well, at least she recognised that this time when she had dropped into Monique’s life she was not going to have to get to grips with the sexual side of things. She knew she had really only just been able to cope with what she had witnessed yesterday, was it only the previous day? That alarmed Monica for the moment, the fugues now seemed to be coming closer together. Then she felt a little relieved that the one the day before had been triggered by Dr. Harcourt and had not happened spontaneously.

Now, Monica thought, she needed to get more information about this Monique. At least she had an inkling about the name of the sandy-haired man, Carl, she imagined. That was unless Monique had had another man simmering on the side or picked up someone else in the time since Monica had visited. She had no idea how much time passed in Monique’s world between each time Monica came; she was not even certain whether she was experiencing these events chronologically or in some random order. There was what appeared to be an office off the living room and Monica headed in there. There was a small filing cabinet, fortunately unlocked and she was quickly able to track down useful snippets. She learnt the address of the flat and tried to memorise it. She also found out that Monique had been Mrs. Levene and that her divorce case, as Dr. Harcourt had suggested, was going on with harsh words being thrown in both directions.

Monica walked from the office, not for the first time, thrown by what these fugues were showing her. It was if they were allowing her to piece together the puzzle bit by bit. In some ways she had been right about these being a vision, though they were about something hidden in her past rather than a view of what was going to happen in the future. That in itself convinced her, though, that she could not have been Monique. Monica began to think that rather she had been chosen as the instrument to unearth what had happened to this woman four years ago and bring it to light.

Feeling happy with what she had learned and her guess at the reason for her coming into this body meant she relaxed a little. As she did, she felt Monique’s wishes beginning to flood over her own, but she had no desire to resist as they felt very nice. That meant soon she was again heading towards the bedroom with the aim of exercising one of her favourite sex toys. Monica had never owned a vibrator, though she knew some of the women at university had had them. To her there was something rather peculiar about shoving a vibrating bit of rubber into your most intimate parts and she had shied away whenever she had run across any advertising for them online or in magazines. Now, however, she realised there was a stronger urge overwhelming her squeamishness. This body, the one she was currently riding in, knew the pleasures of vibrators from long experience and it was just what it fancied right now.

For a moment, Monica wondered if she could escape from this fugue but part of her also realised she was curious. Given the strong demand from women for sex toys, these days even from shops on the high street, there must be something in them. As before with being penetrated by Carl and his tongue, she felt a little less uncomfortable than she would have done facing these issues in her own body. Though, saying that, everything seemed as real as if she was experiencing it herself. The bedroom was pretty surprising. It was dominated by a large double bed like none that she had ever seen. It seemed to consist of stainless steel frames of thick bars rising to chest height at either end and slung behind them like a large hammock was a broad sheet of leather. There was a slim mattress and the cover was of red velvet with sheets emerging from beneath it that surprised Monica. She guessed they were not impossible but this was the first time she had ever even conceived of leather sheets let alone seen them. Monique clearly had something serious about that particular style and Monica realised that the leather jackets she had seen her in were only the surface signs of a deeper interest.

Monica’s guess was reinforced when she slid back the door of the wardrobe. Some of the clothes she recognised, but there were a range of leather dresses, skirts and trousers as well as jackets and coats. Black was the key colour, though there were other dark shades and even a jacket and skirt in bright red. Below this range of clothes poked out the toes of innumerable pairs of boots, their colours matching the leathers above. The rest of the wardrobe was filled with more standard, though certainly stylish clothes, the tops, skirts and dresses of the kind Monica had experienced wearing when she had filled Monique’s place.

At the end of the wardrobe was the box that she was seeking; her ‘box of delights’. She unlocked the large casket to reveal a collection of toys, vibrators of a range of sizes and colours, one that was even worked by remote control; balls that she knew would slip inside her pussy to tease her as she moved throughout the day, even what she somehow recognised as a ‘butterfly’ to rest against her clitoris and buzz her into deep excitement. Monica knew it would take her more than a month of Sundays to exhaust the pleasures that these devilish devices offered. The variety and number seemed to reassure Monica and she let Monique’s sensibilities guide her to picking up the one that would be just right for how she felt now. It was long, curved and purple, with a secondary piece arching out from the main stem that Monique’s memories told her did wickedly good things to her clitoris.

A little apprehensive, though driven on by curiosity and the constant input of Monique’s desires, Monica went to the bed and slumped onto the velvet counterpane, deciding to leave her first encounter with the leather sheets for another night. Thinking that she pondered her confidence that she would get another fugue which would return her to this place. Slowly Monica unbuttoned her tight trousers and gently moved the silk of her panties aside. The pussy lips she found there were open and waiting, damp from the slick juice issuing from inside. Tentatively Monica turned the vibrator the way she felt was right and gently eased the soft rubber with such a hard core into her body. The secondary head nuzzled against her clitoris. This felt good and Monica sensed her muscles relaxing to welcome it in. Then she realised the head was on her g-spot and she almost convulsed at that. With shaking hands she reached for the buttons on the base and shrieked not with fright but with the jolt to her senses that switching it on brought. Simultaneously deep inside her, at the lips and on her hard clitoris there was the delicious buzzing. Monica felt in that instant like a slave to that machine, willing to do whatever she could to facilitate its pleasuring of her. It seemed to take bare moments before she was shaking uncontrollably, grasping hard on the base of the vibrator as if to totally impale herself upon it and derive the greatest sensation from this wonderful machine.

Slumping back, exhausted as if she had been hit by a wave, Monica lay panting, her body sweating, totally convinced about why vibrators were so popular and her own need to buy one just like this as soon as she could.

Then Monica felt as if something had changed. She opened her eyes and she was back in her own flat at the other end of London from Monique’s. The afterglow of Monique’s close encounter with the vibrator still coursed through her and she found that her jeans were opened and her hand was buried deep in her pussy. Monica felt a burst of guilt. In Monique’s life, the settings she inhabited, so many things seemed permissible, exciting and yet allowed. Now, though, Monica’s mind was weighed down by the sense of having been dirty, a kind of guilt that drove her to shower herself without touching her skin. The words of disapproval from years past seemed to echo in her ears. Showered, Monica did not put on her jeans again, somehow feeling they were tainted by the way she had let herself go when wearing them. The snug sexiness of them had clearly tipped her over into doing something that, whilst not strictly wrong, was certainly a little seedy and she had no desire to revisit that feeling.

Monica’s old mobile phone warbled from deep inside her bag. She looked around the small open plan office in which she worked, self-conscious about being seen to take personal calls during working hours. For the moment, however, everyone seemed to be elsewhere, so she fished the phone out. She did not recognise the number but answered all the same.

“Hello?”

“Monique, it’s Dr. Harcourt. I was just responding to the message you left yesterday.”

“Oh, yes, sorry about that.”

“No, no need to apologise. I’m just sorry I could not call back sooner. Are you free to talk?”

“Erm, yes, yes I am, I think everyone’s out at lunch.”

“Okay, what was concerning you?”

“Erm, it was just that yesterday I made a phone call to Maskell HD, you know the company that came out of CMHD, the one I know Monique works, worked, for, to see if they had a record of her.”

“Did they?”

“No, with all the changes, they apparently don’t hold the archives of the previous company.”

“Okay, but that does not rule out that Monique worked there.”

“I suppose not. I guess they are cagey now about data protection and so on. There was something else though.”

“What was it?”

“Well this was the thing that really worried me. Erm, I’ve applied for a job with them.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I didn’t apply.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me. You didn’t apply for a job with Maskell HD? They’re a law firm you said? You work in law.”

“Yes. Erm, but not at that level. I must have made my application while I was asleep or in a fugue or something. When I phoned asking about Monique Chase, they thought I was her, they had my, her, application with them already. So, in one way it is good, because I will go there when she’s due for the interview and see her for real, but what worried me was that I am sending out things in her name when I am in a fugue. Is that schizophrenia?”

“No, no. The only Monique Chase who is going to turn up on the day of the interview is you. It is not surprising that with a growing recognition of who you once were that you are taking steps to get back to that life.”

Monica swallowed, now seeing her shopping trip in a different light.

“But, I don’t really accept that. I know where I have been for the last four, six, ten years, and I’ve never been Monique.”

“Okay, okay. We need to address this calmly. As you know your condition can be exacerbated by tension. We seem to be making progress. We opened the sluice gates a little this week and it is no surprise that there will be a rush of memories. However, but that will soon stabilise, and, remember, it is better to let these things out gradually rather than either flood you with them or keep them dammed up until they burst through all at once. That was what your mind has been telling you with these fugues. You once were Monique and you need to let the elements of your old life into your current one for the sake of your mental health. Don’t resist your mind’s attempt to recapture your true life or you’ll exacerbate your condition rather than resolve it. Surely you want to be the woman you were meant to be?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

Monica remained hesitant, thinking that Harcourt was underestimating the challenges that experiencing Monique’s life, even in small chunks, was presenting her. It was certainly thrusting hard questions at her about the scope of her sexuality, something she had never really addressed.

“Right. I suggest that we make an appointment early next week. In the meantime make plans to attend the interview, I think you need to face up to the reality of this and seeing that there is no other Monique Chase with your own eyes will help with that.”

“Okay.” Monica conceded, though increasingly certain that she would meet this woman and that in itself would resolve the fugue problem. Maybe by then she would know what message it was her destiny to communicate to Monique.

Monica opened the door of her flat. As she had expected, it was Dr. Harcourt.

“Good to see you Monique.” Harcourt said, not concealing his pleasant surprise at Monica’s changed appearance.

“Come in Dr. Harcourt.”

Monica was put out that he always called her Monique now, but accepted that he had done a good deal for her and she was loath to damage the working relationship that had developed between them by correcting him. Harcourt had been right, she felt much more relaxed being seen by him at home rather than at his surgery, no matter how pleasant he had made it.

“Come through.” Monica said leading him into the smaller living room where she had already set out tea.

“Thank you.”

Harcourt sat and poured tea for himself and Monica realised that though she was in her own home, the doctor was making sure to signal that he was in the driving seat during the session.

“I’m glad to see the changes you have made, your hair, your appearance. They seem like the Monique you were describing.”

“Erm, er, do they? It was not that intentional, I just had time spare last week when I took that day off and I guess I realised I could try some of the things that Monique did with her hair and that. It’s not that I’m being influenced by her. I have to confess she does look good and I felt like doing something to cheer me up a little.”

Monica felt rather guilty about admitting she had made some changes and dared not mention the lingerie or the jeans. The skin treatments did seem to be working wonders though and she knew she could not conceal that from Harcourt.

“Well, I’m glad, it fits with the strategy I mentioned of letting elements through gradually.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Now, please relax and we can get started with the full session right away.”

Monica liked the fact that Harcourt made a real attempt to keep everything relaxed. He did not refer to her ‘treatment’ or to her as a ‘patient’. She guessed, that as he had mentioned before, part of what he did relied on getting the person he was working with to relax and medical terminology could have the opposite effect.

“Okay.” Monica complied; she was already sitting in her favourite armchair.

All morning Monica had felt irritable about this session. Partly she wanted to get across all that she had found out about Monique’s divorce and where her flat had been yet that was mixed with concern about what Harcourt putting her into a trance would drop her back into. She was keen to find out what the message was that she had to communicate to Monique and was concerned that she was just going to see another disjointed piece of Monique’s life when the doctor put her under hypnosis. She was uncertain too whether he was driving her to see particular things. Was it simply random that she had witnessed Monique having a torrid encounter last time or was it because Harcourt seemed to think her sexual identity was in part to blame that he had driven her to witness that kind of event?

“Are you relaxed?”

Monica nodded. As with the previous occasions when she had met him, Monica realised that she could not deny that she felt her concerns fading when Dr. Harcourt was in her proximity. She guessed that was a valuable skill for a doctor and one, no doubt, that had helped Harcourt become a success in his speciality. Maybe she was being hard on the man. She had no proof of her take on the situation and he, in contrast, had worked at this kind of thing for years.

“Before we start…”

“Yes, there were just some things I wanted to say that I learnt about Monique Chase during my last fugue.” Monica jumped in, suddenly eager to get over what she had to say and also to delay Harcourt’s triggering of a fugue even if just for a few moments.

“When was that?”

“It was the one I had before I phoned you.”

“You’ve had no more since then?”

“No.” Monica noted Harcourt’s expression. “Is that a problem?”

“Whilst I recognise that the fugues may cause concern for you, it is important that now that we have identified that they are memories from your former life leaking through, we do not obstruct that flow.”

“But, you’re going to hypnotise me today? You’re going to bring on a fugue?”

“Yes, certainly, but I want you to ensure you relax at other times and let these incidents come if they want to. It is in your best interests.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“That’s good.” Harcourt’s manner seemed to soften. “I know it can be scary, disorientating, but you need to let the pressure off so the dam can hold for now.”

“Erm, er, yes. I did not really think of it like that, rather these turns, these fugues as being something I should fight against.”

“It’s like lancing a boil, only once what’s inside causing the tension is released can the proper healing begin.”

“Yes, I am sorry. All of this has rather turned my life upside down, it is sometimes difficult to cope, not knowing when I’m going to step into Monique’s boots.”

“You’re doing so well though and I am sure it will soon all be over. For now, just continue with telling me about what you saw during the last fugue. Did you get confirmation of the date? Did you find out more about the divorce? Any other details?”

“Yes, all of that. These were events of four years ago, I guess in the weeks running up to when I started at Blackburn & Frost.” Monica concealed the fact that she believed they had also been leading up to something mysterious in Monique’s life that would soon be revealed. “I have written down her address. It was a flat in Docklands, I intend to go out there at the weekend and see if that gives me any more clues? Is that the right thing to do?”

“Yes, yes, certainly, the more you can connect with life back then the better. It is the right way forward.”

“Oh yes, and there were lots of letters about her divorce proceedings. I don’t know what her husband did but I guess he was a lawyer too and so was skilled at making things difficult.”

“So you think Monique was in the right?”

“Certainly. She was not a greedy woman, she had built up a good income herself, she was only seeking what she was due. I would have done the same in her position.”

“I am pleased to hear that.”

“Right.”

Monica fell silent, realising she had rather played into Harcourt’s hands with her last statement. It would certainly fit his explanation because of course if she had been Monique in the past naturally she would behave the same way as her.

“Well, this is all good stuff. I am glad that it is confirming what we thought had happened. It might be of use to find out who might have ordered or requested for you to be mind controlled or who might have done it themselves. However, we might never know that. You probably never saw it coming at the time and the person who did it might have been unknown to you or they could have used some device, some music, something infecting your computer and even with vivid memories you’d only see that aspect, not who was behind it.”

“Yes. I can understand that.”

For a dizzy instant Monica wondered what it would like to give in and accept Harcourt’s explanation that she had been Monique and had had that life snatched from her by her ex or someone working for him. She did not know if she could cope with being thrust back into such a lifestyle, even if could be brought about. Then she wondered that if Harcourt was correct and her former life began leaking through whether she would begin to notice recovered skills and knowledge sufficient to make her a leading lawyer. Whilst she had always been content with her lot and had no ambitions in that way, there was an excitement about gaining such knowledge and using it to trump some of the more patronising lawyers she occasionally came into contact with.

“Were there any other aspects? Did you discover anything else?”

Monica felt almost that she was coming to the end of the test Harcourt had set her and felt a lot of concerns had been lifted.

“You mean sexual aspects don’t you? I still argue you’re wrong on that.”

“Well, even if you stick with the daydreaming theory, many people daydream about sexual activity. If you accept the line which I am taking, and I feel you must recognise the evidence you keep amassing for that interpretation, then it is not surprising that sex is a feature. Whoever arranged your mind control was primarily motivated by revenge or your ex-husband’s desire for revenge. You say Monique was sexually active so one element of exacting revenge was to eliminate that pleasure from her life. Added to that was what I said about needing to keep you hidden in a backwater.”

“But she seems obsessed. She has a box this size filled with sex toys that I never could have imagined. Her bed has shiny leather sheets. Her wardrobe is crammed with clothes, not just the designer stuff but all sorts of things, leather mini-skirts, long boots. If I had not known she was a lawyer I would have thought she worked as a whore.”

“Okay, it might be a shock to you as sex plays so little part in your life. However, it is not that extraordinary. I am assuming Monique is the same age as you?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“And four years ago you were twenty-four. You had no illnesses?”

“No, I’m pretty healthy, she’s more than that, she’s fit, I’m sure she uses a gym and all that.”

“Right, so what we are saying is that a young, successful, married, very fit and healthy woman enjoys sex. She likes to wear sexy clothes. She is now divorced and has some sex toys of the kind no doubt you can buy in the average high street store these days.”

“Yes, if you’re looking.”

“So put like that, it doesn’t seem that outrageous does it?” Harcourt gazed at Monica for a few moments as she blushed furiously. “Well, whatever they did to your mind they seemed to have replaced the attitudes of a twenty-first century woman with those of her great-great-grandmother. Such a contrast between your current views and the ones you had four years ago may help us to make breaks in the impasse.”

“Won’t they provoke conflict?”

Harcourt smiled. “No, whilst someone can comparatively easily change the mind’s perspective on things it is harder to erase the body’s memory.”

“So what are you saying?”

“If your body once gained pleasure from sex, lots of sex, casual sex or kinky sex or promiscuous sex, sex in leather and short skirts, it is going to find a way to enjoy it again.”

Monica said nothing, feeling embarrassed all over, somehow guilty too at the pleasure she knew she had gained from the silk lingerie and being seen in those tight jeans and the thoughts of possibly investing in just a small vibrator for those dull evenings. There was no way she could admit it to Harcourt, but his supposition seemed correct.

After a few moments pause Harcourt spoke again. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Monica replied with a little more certainty. She had got across what she had wanted to communicate and felt better for it. She understood, however, that rather than help her oppose Harcourt’s view of what had happened, she was beginning to be swayed by his perspective. She now realised too that she was actually looking forward to seeing through Monique’s eyes again. Maybe she had been a bit stubborn in not admitting that the encounters had been pleasurable and no matter what she got up to as Monique, by now she was certain she would return home safely at the end of it.

“Concentrate on the tip of the pen.”

Monica did as she was commanded.

“As I count down from twenty, you’ll find yourself falling into …”

Monica staggered a little as she found herself in a hot crowded environment. She was startled. Rather than the quiet wine bar or the interior of her flat she had expected, she realised she was in a nightclub, the kind of place she had not visited since the early days at university when she had gone along with the crowd. It took a little getting used to and she stepped to the side to take in all that was around her. The room was filled with scantily dressed women and men in sodden teeshirts. She was on a gantry overlooking a circular dance floor. A screen dwarfing the DJ filled the far end of the room and showed a hypnotic spiral of colours. Monica felt surprisingly excited. The music was loud and the atmosphere sticky, but somehow that gave her a sense of release. She stood there, finding herself beginning to move with the heavy beat as courage built within her to go to the dance floor and enter the maelstrom.

Monica looked down at what she was wearing. She had on a cropped top and matching hotpants in purple foil over which she had pulled a tight black fishnet shirt and a long matching skirt that hung from her hips. Knee-length go-go boots in glossy purple vinyl finished the outfit. Monique was proud that she was sexy, cool enough for the heat of this place and yet retained a real style. She looked boldly at the men passing her as if daring one to come and chat her up. Getting no bites she decided it was time to dive in. Within a minute she was on the dance floor, feeling like a single electron in a huge flow of electricity. Maybe some would say she was too old for this, but she recognised that the greater the demands of her everyday life the more she could enjoy cutting free this way.

Monique was lost in the long moment, shaking her head rhythmically from side-to-side pounding her fists into the air. Then she felt a body pressed close to her, one that remained and did not pass on by as most did. She span round pleased to see a man, probably five or six years younger than her and with a bold stare. His eyes hungrily took in the sight of Monique’s body accentuated by the strips of tight shiny clothing and her skin hardly covered by the mesh she wore. Monique was impatient and she thrust her hips forward brushing her mound, held so tightly in the hotpants, across the bulge of the young man’s cock. He was slender but not weedy, dressed in a tight, ribbed white jersey and dark baggy cargo pants. His hair was short and light, spiked up with gel. His face seemed intense, but in the right way, connecting with the music, but also enjoying the sight and now the feel of Monique rather than leering over her.

“Monique.” She said as she timed her movements perfectly so as to lean in close to his ear.

“Jules.” He replied.

Monique smiled and he responded in kind, again suggesting to her that, despite his cool exterior he was unlike many of the moronic males she encountered in clubs. She always believed that it is difficult to fake a sincere smile. Then his hand snaked daringly around to the small of her back pulling her against him, meaning that their dance was instantly synchronised, a sinuous, sensuous movement. Monique felt a buzz. This man knew what he wanted and was able enough to correctly read the signals she was giving off. Ironically, she realised, someone less confident would have unnerved her more.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Monique nodded, distantly recognising he was speaking French. That seemed of no concern and she began to push him back from the dance floor with her hips and gently with her hand. The moment his back touched the wall, she pressed her lips on his and then was forcing her tongue inside. She tasted the pizza and the beer he had had but that was nothing to the delight she was getting from the passionate kiss she was giving to a stranger in a public place. She recognised that she was effectively showing off, but she did not care, it gave her such a pleasurably wicked feeling.

Jules was good, he gave gentle touches to parts of her body that hinted there was more on offer if she wanted and that he was familiar with a woman’s body and what it might enjoy. Monique in turn found threads to pick and smooth close to where his nipples were obvious in the tight material. Then she pulled him in again tight, as if marking him out as her item for tonight.

Struggling to the surface of the rollercoaster ride Monique had sent her on, Monica realised she was feeling just as intoxicated by what was happening as Monique had intended for herself. She was enjoying the chance to look sexy, that was something she recognised was becoming an appealing, even an addictive part of riding in Monique. The sloughing off of concern, of the worries of the week ahead, of the things that had irritated in the week past, losing all of that was such a nice sensation. Here, where the senses were assaulted by vision, sound, the scent of bodies and the sensation of their closeness, worry and concern could not push their way in.

Taking a little more control Monica tried to determine where she was and what was going on. As Jules led her to the bar she realised it was not just him but the bulk of the clientele who were French. She was in Paris dealing with a case and had relished the opportunity to club in the French capital. She had the run of a company flat for the duration, but tonight she had a real hunger to end this encounter with sex the way it had started, fast and rhythmic with minimal speech. She wanted it somewhere close to this club; she imagined it would be against a nearby wall and that was just the flavour of what she yearned for now.

They were quickly at the bar and Jules bought the pair of them alcopops. Monique loved the sense that at lunchtime she had been in a sharp business suit sipping some of the best wine available and this evening she was kitted out as an ardent clubber chugging down sticky sweet alcohol. She made sure she kept Jules close to her, partly because that made her feel even hornier, as she occasionally brushed against the erection that had not faded; partly because she knew it would make him feel good to be seen, with, even if she said so herself, a foxy woman. Monique let him do the talking. He had just finished as a student, shared a flat with his brother and a cousin and hoped to travel to India before getting a job. Monique nodded and laughed appropriately, but found she genuinely liked this young man. At least he had plans and ambitions and that was always something she liked in the people she mixed with.

Asserting herself again, Monica was all rather dazed by what she was witnessing and what Monique was doing. She was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying it though she remained highly self-conscious of how she was dressed. To counteract that unease she tapped into the exhilarating feelings of freedom that Monique had stirred up and found them so good. They also tempered her concerns about Monique’s intentions for this man, because, by now, Monica knew the Frenchwoman well enough to be able to guess them.

“Would you like to go somewhere quieter?” Monique prompted.

Jules nodded, downing his drink quickly. Whilst he went off to the toilet, Monique headed to the cloakroom. The purse strapped to her wrist seemed ideal when you were wearing as little as this. In return for her token she was not too surprised to receive back a violet fake fur jacket. It felt good against her scarcely clad body as she slipped into it. Then she felt hands grasping her hips and turned to see the grinning face of Jules. He pressed a warm kiss at the nape of her neck and Monique gave a pleasurable shiver in response. She wrapped her furred arms around him and pulled him tight so she could grind her crotch against his and disappear into the pleasant assault of his tongue entwining with hers.

Minutes later they were outside. Monique had little inclination of the time or even the season. It was dark and it was not raining. Monique felt a real urge to get this man inside her. She realised that the heady brew of the club atmosphere, the speed her blood was running at after the dance and the alcohol, were all firing up her libido.

“In here.” Monique nodded to an alleyway a short way from the club.

“No, not just yet.” Jules said surprisingly firmly.

Monique hesitated, she had been in more than enough sexual situations to know if things were turning the wrong way and in Jules she did not see that.

“You’ve got a favourite spot?”

“Of course, and you’ll like it a lot more than here.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

It was not that surprising when twenty minutes later Monique found she was breaking into the Tuilleries Garden. Having hitched up the mesh skirt she found the acrobatics of getting in not that difficult to pull off. This made the second time that she had had sex here and she could see why Jules liked it. It was a lot less spooky than the Rodin Garden where the statues seen in weak light always looked intimidating and there was less likely to be any intrusion than in the Carrousel Garden. Monique found that the delay in satisfaction had increased rather than diminished her desire and by the time they had abandoned the wide pathway for a soft lawn, her heart was beating fiercely, driven by the hunger in her sex.

Monique rolled on to her back feeling the grass against her legs through the mesh of her skirt. It was cooling and provided a nice counterpoint to the heat she felt elsewhere. Jules was knelt beside her and she wondered at his hesitation until she realised he was sheathing his cock. She guessed however fiery Jules’s ardour might be, he recognised the risks of an encounter with an older woman who thrust herself at him. That was one thing Monique liked about French men: they managed to combine romantic notions, good sex and practical approaches. Not for the first time did she wonder what she had seen in Robert, maybe it was that he had had those characteristics blended with English sensitivities.

Then Monique felt her skirt swept away and her hotpants tugged down. Beneath she wore just a thong and she quivered as the cool night air swept across her hot body. For his comparative youth, she found Jules in no hurry and he toyed with her in a wonderful way, her pussy lips and her nipples, soon released from their holding top, both received attention. So, by the time Jules’s rock hard cock began probing her sodden sex she was almost shrieking her demand for him to plunge deep into her.

As Monique sunk so deeply into the pleasures of being taken by a virile in a park, Monica found she was able to emerge. She guessed there was little that she could do to alter this scene. That was surprising her as she had assumed that as time passed she would gain more control over Monique’s actions in these fugues, rather than less. Perhaps as she came closer to finding out why she was being shown these scenes it could be not risked that she took Monique’s body off in another direction and so miss out on the vital piece of information. Maybe it was because Monique’s sexual urges were so powerful that they rendered Monica impotent to intervene, in contrast to when she was simply having a drink in a café or wandering around her flat. Monica ran back over all that she had witnessed in what must have been two or three hours. She had no sense of what that meant in time back in the real world. She knew that in a dream a whole lifetime could pass in what was just a matter of minutes for the waking world.

Though she had felt all that Monique had felt and could ‘taste’ the alcohol and now Jules’s flesh, it had all been so alien to what Monica knew that likened it to suffering insomnia in a foreign hotel room and being stuck with only a single movie in an incomprehensible language to watch. She had never simply picked up a man for sex, a habit Monique seemed to take for granted. Monica had never sex outside a bedroom and certainly could not comment on the Paris parks in which were the best to indulge in it. It was all so different to her experiences, her knowledge and, thus, so difficult to cope with. However, as she thought it through, Monica guessed that even if she did intervene it would bring little benefit. What would happen if she snatched away from this stranger who was busily thrusting into her? Would he get angry, violent? And anyway, Monica knew little of Paris and taking over here might simply get her into greater trouble from some other source.

This was good; she was enjoying it. Those thoughts from Monique intruded into Monica’s ponderings. Then Monica wondered, maybe she was being wrong in trying to curtail Monique’s activities. Surely there was nothing wrong in really engaging with them, not being the passive passenger gazing at the back of the driver’s head, but someone in the front seat fully experiencing the journey being taken. She remembered the pleasurable sense of liberation she had felt back in the club. Maybe she could enjoy this sexual activity too.

In the past when Monica had found a man who took a little time to address what she liked, it had been reasonably good. Most of her partners at university, and there had been one per academic year, and a bonus one at the time of the graduates’ ball, had come so quickly that she had hardly got going before they were sliding off her and asking her how good it had been for her. Monique, in contrast, certainly on this occasion, and with Carl too, had been well warmed up long before the intimate physical interaction had begun. As a result, she had to admit, oh, that was good, very good, she mentally begged Jules to continue doing it, oh, yes. Breathless in her mind now, Monica had to admit that as a result the sensation was a great deal, ah, ah, ah, oh my God! Knowing that for now she could do nothing but give up the fight, Monica let herself slide completely into the realm of Monique’s senses and regretted not getting there sooner as the searing light of the sensation rocked her body and she rippled against the soft earth, unafraid to sing out her pleasure to the dark.

Monique lay on her back with Jules breathing heavily beside her. His hand reached out and grasped hers and as their heart rates slowed, they silently watched the thin clouds splitting to reveal stars through the gaps. As her body calmed down, Monique felt cold. Jules rolled a thin cigarette. Monique rarely smoked, knowing what it did to anyone’s health and how it knocked out any chance that a man could smell her perfume before she arrived. However, she recognised that for now it represented companionship and as she breathed in she tasted the hint of cannabis that was probably the last of Jules’s stash for now. That gave a nice cap to the sensations she had felt tonight.

“It’s two thirty.” Jules said.

“Late, I guess.”

Monique could not remember where she had to be tomorrow but guessed she could delay turning up until at least eleven or twelve. However, she imagined Jules must be at the end of his energy supply and she had no desire for him to lose any job he had by pitching in late, too exhausted to concentrate. Monique sat up and they indulged in some kissing, knowing that the evening had been very good and seeking to imprint this night in the garden into their memories.

In less than half-an-hour, Monique was out of the park and speeding back to the company flat. She had wanted to drop Jules off but his prime concern had been concerned to get her home safely. She wondered if rather than heading to bed, he actually was planning to return to the club to see out the rest of the night, catch up with and brag to his friends. She would not blame him if he did. Monique was soon clambering up to the apartment. The company had more modern places, not that this one was not modern inside, but it was housed in a nineteenth century building. It had the skeleton of an old iron lift running through the core, though the car and the mechanics inside were the latest. Monique loved it because she could indulge in a range of fantasies of old France from being a turn-of-the-century actress to a resistance fighter sneaking hours with her lover to a sixties revolutionary plotting for free love. Monica could appreciate this side of Monique and knew she would enjoy staying somewhere like this too where she would be able to look out across Paris’s rooftops.

As Monique walked into the dark flat she sensed she was not alone. It could be the case that there had been a mix-up and someone else from the company had just been allocated this flat too, but there was another possible explanation. She flicked on one of the small lights in the lounge and pushed open the door to the bedroom. In the weak illumination she could see the head of a man in his forties peaking out from beneath the duvet. She recognised him immediately. This was Guillaume, a Swiss who acted as her ‘copain de baise’, what the Americans termed more crudely a ‘fuck buddy’. She had rung him the week before to say that she would be in Paris. Fortunately that coincided with some work he was doing in Rouen and he had promised to come down. In her eagerness to club, Monique had forgotten the arrangement. However, as she walked to the bathroom, shedding her mesh shirt, and cropped vinyl top, she began planning how she could re-arrange all tomorrow’s meetings to later in the week.

Monica was not overly surprised, though rather put out by what she was seeing. Why could she not be fuguing into the body of a responsible woman rather than this, this, person who seemed to want to have the cock of every man she met inside her and was unable to focus on much else, well, except her desire for fashionable clothes and a taste for French literature? Was this some kind of punishment, to be shackled to someone mentally who had such different views on things from herself? Increasingly the only similarities between the two women seemed to be their age and their names, little else. Then again, maybe Monique would not have been happy about someone rather more restrained than herself riding around in her head. In addition, this was all in the past; these things that had already occurred, so did morality or anything else really come into it? Monica told herself she had to keep remembering that all she was seeing was a replay of events that had happened. She had some control, but little more than you would have to speed up or slow down a DVD you were watching or to switch on the subtitles or uncover the ‘Easter eggs’ in it.

Monica found this difficult to accept, probably because she felt and tasted and smelt as well as saw and heard everything that Monique experienced. She guessed that this was really the ultimate in home entertainment, though possibly at the cost of losing your sanity: live in someone else’s body for a while; do what they do, or have done. Monica guessed she had to be grateful for small mercies, she could be slipping into the life of a house-bound incontinent old woman sitting in bed all day, waiting to hear that vital piece of information from the man walking past her flat. Instead she was expanding her knowledge of sexual practice by the week and had had a pleasant tour of night-time Paris without the cost or the trouble of the flights. She wondered if there was some mileage in writing a piece for a woman magazine on something like ‘diary of a modern businesswoman about town, this week: Paris – how I slept with two generations of men in a single night’. Monica chuckled to herself.

Monique unzipped the go-go boots and Monica admired their shine and how Monique could get away with wearing them. Monique surveyed her face in the mirror and rather than tiredness it betrayed the consequences of a good orgasm. Monique teased her hair out of the two ponytails which hung either side of her face and let her long hair fall freely onto her bare shoulders. In moments she was naked and running a hot shower. The water was really welcoming and seemed to massage any weariness from her muscles. She wiped shower gel on to her body, liking how it made her skin glisten so.

Then the door opened and she saw Guillaume appear. He was naked and she ran an approving eye over his body. He had been in the French army in his youth and he still showed the strength of a legionnaire, softened by years which seemed to have done nothing to dent his libido or his stamina. Dark black hair only occasionally touched with silver covered his body and sometimes Monique enjoyed that different sensation of her furred man against her smooth skin.

“Did my cat enjoy running along the rooftops?” Guillaume asked in French.

Monica wondered where she was getting all this French vocabulary from or whether she was truly just hearing dialogue that was being replayed for her viewing. She tried an experiment.

“Yes, yes, I did.” Monica said in English, though toned with Monique’s accent.

“Ah, with some American tourists, perhaps?” Guillaume switched to English too.

“You know me, Guy.”

Monica returned to French, acknowledging she had that control. Maybe she remembered more French than she had realised. She recognised her conversations had not been that involved; it might be tougher carrying on a business discussion. Then again, if Harcourt’s theory was right and she had been Monique and had lived the scenes she was witnessing now, then, of course, with the break down of the ‘dam’ her fluent French knowledge would increasingly come out. Thus, Monica worried that what she was seeing and doing here was just strengthening Harcourt’s line of diagnosis.

For the moment, though, Monica’s thoughts were dismissed as Guillaume came into the shower and gently cupped her naked hip.

“Some P9?” Guillaume asked cryptically.

Monica had no idea what he was referring to and guessed it was some code between Monique and her ‘copain’.

“Yes, please.” Monique said softly and stepped closer so the wet tips of her nipples brushed tantalisingly over Guillaume’s chest and the head of his penis butted against her pussy lips.

Guillaume grasped Monique’s waist and they met for a kiss. The feel of his strong hands running over her body made slick and responsive by the warm water and the gel, was a delight. He bent his head to tease her nipples with his tongue whilst his cock experimented at the entrance to Monique’s sex. She knew she was wet down there and not just from the shower water. For a moment Monica thought she was going to be entered once again standing up and realised what P9 might designate if a ‘69’ was head-to-toe. Monique of course knew what it indicated, but also realised that keeping their footing could be tricky and as Guillaume’s fingers traced a line down her slippery, taut belly to the triangle of her hair, she knew he too was aware of the risk.

Monica had never had a man’s fingers enter her, certainly not for reasons of pleasure. He slipped one then two inside her and it felt nice. Unlike a penis they had the opportunity of more than one course of action and she felt them probing into different areas around her g-spot and she simpered at the sensation. She realised she should be doing something in return and something told her to grasp the base of Guillaume’s cock in her slippery hand. She stretched out her ring finger to gently stroke his perineum and was pleased when she heard a grunt of pleasure. Monique’s memories guided her in the best way in how to give ‘hand relief’ and slowly, tentatively she began doing what she felt was right.

The growing warmth in her pussy meant she missed a couple more fingers slipping inside her creating something like a large, squirming cock knocking in such a mind-blowing way against her many points of excitement simultaneously. Then she felt Guillaume begin thumbing her clitoris and she had to grit her teeth not to shriek the result of that sensation in the poor man’s ear.