Chapter 5
LYN
I couldn't just let a problem like that lie.
Sure…I tried. I went out for beers with Riley and I drank water like a good girl.
I laughed, I hung out, I forced my shoulders to fucking sink. I even let myself feel tired, the good kind of tired that usually meant I’d sleep hard and wake up clear-headed. I did not need to go back to the lab. I did not need to go back to the lab.
…I needed to go back to the lab.
I’m on my way back to the lab.
This is the quality that makes me both a great scientist and an obnoxious asshole. The trait that landed me in infinite timeouts as a kid, but also in the most prestigious graduate programs in the galaxy.
I do not let go.
And I’m not letting go of this. Not now.
No one stops me as I go back to Engineering and swipe my keycard, and security doesn’t say a word as I return to the lab. My card works, the little green light on the lock chiming to life. That alone is enough to convince me Rhyss didn’t actually want to keep me out.
Resting was a suggestion, right? And it isn’t like rest is really possible when my thoughts are racing at about a mile a minute.
The lab has this midnight quiet I love, a stillness that lends itself to intense focus.
No sound creeps in from outside…barely even any light.
My station is waiting for me, beckoning me back like, Hey—hey Lyn.
We’re gonna figure this out so fuckin’ fast, you’ve got this.
My computer comes to life at my fingertips, screen flickering, and I can’t deny the sense of relief that comes with actually being able to work.
I access the data, crack my knuckles.
I’m just going to look.
The spike from earlier sits there, a wound in my otherwise flawless readings.
I scroll through the logs, making sure I actually pulled the right input every time and that I didn’t fuck anything up the night before.
Nope…it’s all correct. Neurological data from real pain, translated into something I can feed into my computer.
“It should have worked,” I mutter to myself. “What the hell did I do wrong?”
I glance over at the hardware I’ve been working so hard on, connected to a bunch of small wires, just…waiting. It’s right there, ready to go. It worked for those first few tests. I was right on the verge of figuring all this out, then I got totally sidelined by faulty inputs.
But live subjects don’t provide faulty input.
It would be a textbook mistake, wouldn’t it? Mad scientist shit. I can’t get the thing to work…so I try it on myself. It’s the classic downfall of every H.G. Wells hero, every Mary Shelley villain.
It would be so fucking stupid to do this.
But.
But.
…a pinprick couldn’t hurt, right?
I carefully pick up the translator, gingerly holding it in my fingers. I’ve been manhandling it for months, but now…now is the moment of truth. Now is the moment when I’m going from theoretical to factual.
I press it to my temple; take the wired pad and attach that beneath my ear.
Then I exhale into the mic on my computer, pressing record…because even if I am absolutely not supposed to be doing this, there’s no fucking way I’m not going to record the results.
“Live Subject Test #1,” I murmur into the mic, steeling myself.
“Subject is a twenty-nine-year-old human female with no existing pain conditions.” I pause to grab a medi-cuff from the other side of the computer, sliding it up my forearm and waiting briefly for a reading.
“Baseline vitals within normal range. Initial stimulus will be minimal. Calibration only.”
The rote mundanity of it all steadies me, even as I pick up a lancet from the table.
“Calibration via pinprick to left index finger,” I murmur. “Initializing…”
I jab my finger.
And then pain—
—it only lasts for a second before it just vanishes.
I let out a shocked exhale, then a surprised laugh.
It…it actually worked. And this might have more usage than for chronic pain; it could cure pain altogether.
I put the needle down carefully on the table, then press on the wound…
and once again, it hurts for a split second before stopping completely.
“Holy shi—” I start, only to remember I’m being recorded.
“Test successful,” I say. “Latency at…fuck yes, 200 milliseconds. No spike in the post-interval. I fucking did it.”
I laugh again.
“Sorry for the cursing. This is…really fucking exciting.”
It’s at this point that I should take the damn device off, leave the lab, and go home. Go over the readings with a fine-toothed comb. Get some actual sleep.
But it’s like my whole body is vibrating—and another test can’t hurt.
Especially when ‘hurt’ won’t be part of my vocabulary much longer if I manage to make this work.
I go over to one of my colleagues’ desks, searching for what I can use to safely intensify the pain.
That was the calibration phase…but this is the real test. Then I’ll be done, I promise myself.
I end up grabbing an electrical nerve stim I can use to zap myself, then I go back to my station to put the cuff back on.
“Live Subject Test #2,” I say. “Input is electric shock via subcutaneous nerve stimulator, pain level two out of ten. Initializing…”
The stim snaps to life with a simple press from my other hand—and it’s enough to make me yelp. I hiss through my teeth at the shock of it, then it’s gone. No aftershock. No ache. No lingering burn in my muscle.
I blink, stunned…then excited.
It worked again.
“Test successful,” I say, unable to keep the stubborn pride out of my voice, resisting the urge to add suck it, Rhyss. “Latency at less than three hundred milliseconds. Higher than before but…that’s fine, that’s fine. And no—”
I’m about to say “no spike post-interval,” but all of a sudden I can’t speak.
My voice chokes in my throat…I try to suck in a breath and stutter instead. My hand shoots out to brace me against the desk, fingers curling around the edge.
There’s…something is wrong.
At first, I’m sure it’s a stroke, something neurological. Would it be possible for it to rob my ability to speak? No—no, I’m still language-ing, I’m still thinking in words, so it’s not that. It’s…
My whole body seizes up.
There it is. The spike.
So, so much worse than the initial zap.
Or…not worse.
Not worse at all.
Better.
Better.
Better better better better—
My back arches hard enough that my grip slides off the desk, a broken sound tearing free of my throat when the sensation crests again.
It’s not pain, it’s not a stroke, it’s not whatever the fuck I thought…
it’s pleasure. It floods me completely, heat rushing through me, making me clench my thighs and—
“Oh,” I choke out, and my breath hitches again. “Oh god—oh god—”
Another wave hits, and this one fucking breaks.
The sound that comes out of me is downright obscene, and all recorded for later review, which is great.
My hips jerk forward without permission, and then I’m on the floor, writhing, heat spiraling tight and ruthless as the translator feeds it back, amplifying the misread signal until my vision whites out.
Oh my god.
Oh my god I’m—
I’m coming.
I’m coming.
“What the fuck,” I sob. “What the…oh fuck—”
Again. Again, I’m having a borderline painful orgasm, because the system said no, you’re not experiencing pain, you’re experiencing ecstasy.
I need to get the damn thing off my head, but it’s like all of a sudden my arms and legs don’t work at all.
I convulse on the floor, letting out this disgusting groan, fingers curling—
“Lyn,” a male voice is saying. “Lyn, talk to me—”
Mortified, I look up to find a set of golden eyes, wide and terrified. Rhyss. He’s here, in the lab, touching me while I—
His hands. Oh god, his hands feel so good.
It doesn’t matter that they’re on my shoulders, that they’re not even touching skin, that he’s crouched beside me convinced I’m dying.
No…my brain’s not processing intention. It’s only processing sensation—and I can see him and see that he’s fucking sexy as hell, that he always has been, I can smell this deep, masculine scent that makes me want to—
There it is again.
Another orgasm about to destroy me.
“Lyn, are you having a seizure?” he says. “Gods…gods, why did you do this…”
“Kae…Kaelion, please…”
I wish I was seizing. Seizing would be better, clinical, explainable, forgivable. Seizing would not make me see my supervisor in an entirely new light, in this way where I’m convinced I want to yank his fucking pants off and ride him like a cowgirl.
And I try to respond, to tell him to pull the device off, but instead I make a sound that can only be described as pornographic.
That’s when he figures it out.
One hand braces me while the other glides over my cheek, and I want him to kiss me, I want him to…I want him to do unspeakable things to me. I even try to catch his thumb in my mouth, which is absolutely the wrong move, and he glares at me as he goes for the translator.
He pulls it off.
The sensation stops right away.
My pussy clenches one more time like an unhappy reminder of what a fucking idiot I am, and it’s only then that I realize I’m a complete mess. My cheeks? Flushed. My hair? Wild as hell. My pussy? Wet.
My nipples are so hard you can see them through my bra.
My god.
Rhyss stays crouched beside me, breathing hard, holding the translator like a grenade. His face is flushed, but it isn’t lust…it’s fury, held at bay only by sheer disbelief.
“What,” he says slowly, “was that?”
I press the backs of my hands over my eyes. “Don’t look at me.”
“Too late,” he snaps. “I saw the whole thing, Lyn. In fact—I heard it. Thank you for recording your findings—”
I groan into my palms, half-convinced my shame is deep enough it’ll allow me to tunnel straight through the floor and out of this fucking dimension. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. I stay right here, on the floor, and Rhyss—
His hand is still on my shoulder.
“Lyn, I need you to talk to me,” he says. “Just because the device has been removed doesn’t mean there won’t be residual effects. Are you experiencing any pain, nausea…?”
I peek through my fingers at him. “No.”
He exhales through his nose, clearly not buying that as a comprehensive answer. “Disorientation? Shortness of breath? Inability to control your motor functions?”
I wince. “Only my dignity.”
He stares at me.
“Rhyss,” I start, then pause—because I need the formality right now, so help me god. “Dr. Rhyss. I am fine. I didn’t give myself a seizure. It was just…an unfortunate signal loop with wildly inappropriate effects.”
“Unfortunate?” His eyes narrow. “Lyn, you wired an untested neurostim to your fucking temple, then violently came on the floor of my lab—”
“I’m aware,” I interrupt, hiding my face again. “Oh god. You…I’m going to lose my funding, aren’t I?”
He doesn’t reply at first. Then…he still doesn’t.
I finally chance a look over at him.
“Of course not,” he says. “You successfully rewired a translator to interpret pain into pleasure, Walker. That’s not a perfect test…but it’s remarkable.”
My pussy throbs, and I tell myself it’s an aftereffect of the translator and not that he just complimented me.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
He scowls, brow furrowed. “When am I not serious?”
He looks from my face to his hand, still bracing my shoulder.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I told you—”
“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” he says. “You are not fine. You just experienced an intense neurological event; you’ll need to go to medical.”
“Hell no,” I blurt out. “For what? Intense orgasm?”
His mouth flattens into a thin line. “There could be permanent trauma.”
“The only trauma I’m feeling right now is intense shame.”
His tendrils twitch.
“I just need to go home and get some sleep,” I add weakly.
“You think I’m going to trust you to go home and sleep when I instructed you to do just that and you disobeyed me?” His voice is cutting, cold. “You could have fried your nervous system…you could’ve died, Lyn.”
“And instead I just came really hard. Boo hoo.”
We stare at each other in the silence for a moment too long. I can’t believe the shit I’ve said to him in the past five minutes. I’m still wet.
And he is…
…I’d do it, is all I’m saying.
Rhyss exhales through his nose, an exhausted, controlled breath that’s probably the only thing keeping him from strangling me. Then he stands, extending a hand without looking at me.
“You’re coming with me,” he says.
“What?” I blink. “No. I told you I’m fine—”
“You’re not going to medical, you’re not staying in the lab, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until I’ve run a full diagnostic on your vitals.” His voice is clipped. “You want to keep your funding, Walker? You’re going to do exactly as I say.”
That should not turn me on.
…maybe it’s just a residual effect of my orgasm machine.
“You’re taking me home with you?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because you can’t be trusted not to return to the lab,” he says. “You’re addicted to the work. I’m going to force you to rest.”
I’d be okay with him forcing me to do a lot of things—
Okay.
Yeah.
Residual effects.
I let him pull me to my feet, wobbly and flushed, and try not to wince as the slick between my thighs reminds me of exactly what he just witnessed.
He doesn’t say anything else, just picks up the translator like it’s radioactive and stalks toward the door.
And I follow, because I’ve already blown past shame, sanity, and self-preservation tonight—
Might as well add spending the night with my supervisor to the list.