We enjoyed each other in my room. We enjoyed each other inside the magical gem, which was a most luxurious boudoir. We enjoyed each other on the beach, when no one else was around. We enjoyed each other many places.

I say we enjoyed each other, because that was how it seemed. Her every move was calculated to drive me to utter distraction, and if she was not enjoying herself, she gave no sign. Even her eyes, which had once sent such mixed messages, seemed to have aligned themselves with the rest of her.

As the month wore on, my doubt began to reassert itself. But she gently chided me and urged me on, not letting me stop to think too long or too hard.

But finally I had to know. “These things we’re doing,” I whispered to her one night. “Are they wrong? Do you want to stop? Answer me honestly—that’s an order.”

She stiffened just for a moment—then she relaxed. “I…don’t know,” she said. “At first I didn’t want to, but now…”

“Now?” I prompted.

“Well,” she murmured. “Have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?”