Chapter 12
LYN
My boss told me to touch myself for science.
It’s not like I’m shy about it, not really.
With my friends, I’m the girl who will take you to go buy your first sex toy, who encourages getting intimate with yourself, who says yes, dude, you should figure out what gives you orgasms and tell your partner everything.
I’m not squeamish. I’m not prudish. I believe that sex is good, that intimacy is great.
But…and this is a big, massive but—I’ve never been scared I won’t come.
Because I know how to make myself come. I know how to tell other people how to make me come. And right now…right now, my body feels like a stranger.
Which is why I’m currently staring at my bedside table drawer like there’s an evil clown inside, not vibrators.
I took way too much time getting ready for bed tonight, trying to delay the inevitable.
I moisturized every inch of my body. I shaved.
I plucked my eyebrows. I gave my hair some extra love, raked through leave-in with my fingers, twisted it into coils, and tied on my silk scarf like that was the most important thing on my agenda.
Which…let’s be clear, it absolutely was not.
Because underneath all the lotions and attempted self-care is the low-level panic of what if it doesn’t work. What if it isn’t just Kaelion’s touch that sends me into overdrive…what if I can’t even come without him? What if my brain no longer knows what to do with pleasure?
Or worse—what if it does work, but only when I think about him?
Or worse worse—what if I can’t come at all unless he’s touching me?
This is so stupid. It’s science. This is for data. This is about understanding the aftereffects of my exposure to a new piece of technology. That’s all. It has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been curious about him for a long time, that I’ve half-joked about fantasizing.
Okay…yeah, it’s hot how he bosses me around. How annoyed he gets with my recklessness.
When we’re bouncing ideas off each other and it’s like no one else has ever understood me until him.
I growl and yank open the drawer, then I stare down at my small but mighty collection: a couple vibrators in varying shapes and sizes, a little bottle of lube, one well-worn bullet with a button that only works half the time.
The rabbit’s seen better days, but it’s reliable. I reach for it, then pause.
Should I log this?
Make a spreadsheet?
I take up some more time grabbing my tablet, scrolling through and creating a new document for dictating the experiment. Once that’s set up, I lie back with the rabbit in one hand and my tablet in the other…and I press record.
“Trial #1,” I mutter. “Subject is a twenty-nine-year-old female recently exposed to experimental neuro-tech. Test objective: determine baseline self-stimulation response post-incident. Tools: pink silicone dual-stim rabbit, mid-grade. Lubricant: water-based, unscented.”
I pause, staring at the ceiling.
“This is insane,” I whisper. “This is…completely insane. And I’m dry as the fucking Sahara.”
I click the toy on.
The hum is familiar and comfortable, making me feel like maybe this will in fact work. My body remembers what it means when a vibrator turns on; it anticipates pleasure with a little twist in my lower belly, increased heartrate, a touch of heat on my cheeks and between my thighs.
That’s good.
“Subject is experiencing initial arousal,” I murmur. “Heartrate is elevated, as is…” I glance down at the comm on my wrist. “...as is body temperature. Physiological reactions are normal. Beginning test.”
I drag the vibrator along my inner thigh, letting the anticipation build the way it always does. Still normal. Still exactly as usual. Good…good, yeah this is good.
“Contact with inner thigh produces expected anticipatory response,” I murmur. “Increased sensitivity. No pain. No abnormal feedback.”
I angle the toy higher, brushing over the crease where my thigh meets my hip, then back again, teasing. My breathing deepens on instinct, my hips shifting just a fraction into the mattress.
“Fluid production is normal,” I say, in the least sexy way possible. “Making contact with the clitoris—”
The first real contact makes me gasp, my back arching as sensation blooms. My toes curl. My jaw drops.
“Oh—okay,” I breathe. “Okay, yes…yes, that’s so good—”
The toy buzzes steadily, the rhythm achingly familiar. I rock into it, slower at first, then faster as the pleasure builds. Heat pools between my legs, spreading outward, tightening everything in that delicious, inevitable way.
“Stimulation intensity is high,” I manage. “Response is…robust.”
God, it feels so close, so good. That sharp edge of pleasure hums beneath my skin, that familiar gathering tension winding tighter, tighter… I chase it, adjusting pressure, angle, speed—let the toy slip inside me, pushing deep. Every muscle clenches.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes…yes—”
I start to fall—
But I don’t.
I don’t…I don’t fucking fall.
The sensations ease, but the orgasm doesn’t fucking come.
I try it again, ramping up, building, building…
“Orgasm ineffective,” I mutter, because how the fuck else am I supposed to say it? “Attempting again while fantasizing about external…external stimulus…”
I trail off as I let images of him come to mind—as I imagine his calloused hands on my thigh, as I give myself permission to picture where else he might have scars, old tech. I imagine his tongue on my throat, his tendrils on my breasts, his cock pounding into me.
“Oh fuck,” I curse. “Oh shit…yes, yes, I’m coming—”
No I’m not.
I don’t.
Not even thinking about him.
I growl in frustration and pull the toy out, tossing it hard enough that it flies onto the floor and vibrates in a circle, rattling the wooden boards. This is…it’s fucking humiliating. My thighs are slick, my heart’s still racing, my whole body aches…and nothing. No release. No relief.
Just more desire.
I sit up and yank the scarf off my head like it’s somehow part of the problem. My curls spring free, soft and damp where the conditioner hasn’t dried. I tug on my hair as if that’s going to help, my body pulsing with leftover need.
I want to scream.
Instead, I mutter, “Trial one complete. No climax. High arousal, escalating frustration, mental fatigue. Conclusion…this fucking sucks.”
I turn off the recording and drop the tablet on the bed.
Then I just sit there.
For way too long.
I could cry. I won’t. But I could. It’s not even just about not coming, it’s about not feeling in control.
Not being able to predict or command my own body.
That’s always been my one constant—no matter what else is happening, I know my body.
I know my pleasure. I know how to chase it down and take it when I want it.
Now…I’m locked out. Like I’ve forgotten the language, the syntax, the way the signals used to fire cleanly from brain to nerve to pulse to yes, yes, yes.
I reach for my comm on the nightstand, and before I know it, I’ve pulled up Kaelion’s contact card. I have his number in case of emergencies…and I’ve never used it.
Right now, I want to.
I want to tell him hey, the experiment doesn’t work but I’m all fucking wound up and I need you to fuck me. I want to cross every ethical boundary for the sake of getting off. I want to lie in his bed and talk all night.
I want…fuck me, I want to lie in his bed and talk all night.
That alone is enough of a reason for me to navigate away from his contact—going to Orin instead, my reliable hookup whenever I just want a warm body inside me instead of a vibrator. He doesn’t mind it; it’s a mutual using situation.
And I need that right now.
lyn
hey. you up?
orin
yeah, what’s wrong
I pause.
lyn
nothing’s wrong, i’m just horny and want to get off, and vibrators aren’t working.
orin
you want me to come over?
lyn
yes. no strings.
orin
duh
lyn
asshole
He doesn’t respond right away…then another message comes through.
orin
be there in 20
I drop the comm face-down on the nightstand and press my palms over my eyes.
What the fuck am I doing.
This is not the responsible, professional, emotionally well-adjusted choice.
This is not the kind of thing I should be doing when I’m already confused, raw, and running data on what might be the most sensitive neurological issue of my life.
This is not a variable I should introduce into the study. This is—
—just sex.
It’s just sex.
I slide out of bed, moving automatically.
Strip the sheets. Replace them. Not because they’re dirty, but because I don’t want Orin to lie on sheets I’ve already writhed on trying to picture someone else.
I don’t want Kaelion’s ghost in the bed with us.
I don’t want to know whether Orin smells it on me.
I change my sleep shirt to one that feels neutral. Wipe under my eyes. Sweep up the rabbit where it’s still whirring pitifully on the floor and toss it back in the drawer without looking.
I don’t light candles. I don’t set the mood. I don’t give a damn about setting the mood.
When Orin shows up…we’ll try. I’ll run another test.
And if it doesn’t work?
If it doesn’t work, I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do.