Clinical Trials

by Radclyffe

  Oh dear. I need to get to the gym more. I’m clearly out of shape. No wonder my stress-reduction biofeedback patterns are erratic.

  She jumped as a knock sounded at the door, and her heart rate, low under any circumstances as a result of her daily two-hour workouts on the cardio circuits at the gym, skyrocketed to an unprecedented eighty beats per minute. She half stood as she called, “Come in.”

  The door swung open and Robbie Burns stepped in. Blond, blue-eyed, rangy and lean in low-cut Levi’s and a navy blue rugby shirt, she looked confident and relaxed. Grinning, she said, “Hey. Reporting for duty.”

  “I didn’t know you considered it work,” Van riposted before she could stop herself. It wasn’t her habit to engage in casual conversation with the study subjects. There was just something about Robbie that disrupted her usual modus operandi.

  “Well,” Robbie remarked, her grin spreading, “usually I don’t consider coming a chore.”

  Van frowned. “You haven’t given any indication that your performance during the study periods is significantly altered from your usual—”

  Robbie laughed. “Hey, relax, Doc. I was just kidding. After the first time, when I was a little embarrassed just at the beginning, I’ve been performing pretty much the way I always do.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put it that way.”

  Robbie tilted her head, observing Van curiously. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, of course not.” Van colored slightly, then looked down and hastily gathered her papers. “Shall we get started?”

  “Sure. Can’t wait.”

  As they walked down the hallway together toward the lab, their shoulders inadvertently touched. Van stepped hastily away, aware of a faint tingling in her arm. Curious. She must have unusually strong galvanic skin conductivity.

  Robbie gave Van another inquiring look, but said nothing. Once inside the lab, Robbie automatically moved to the large reclining chair, stripped down, and settled beneath the white sheet. She watched as Van assembled the various monitors and began attaching electrodes.

  “What’s on the agenda for tonight?” Robbie asked as Van slid a hand beneath the sheet and applied the sticky pads across her chest, ending just below her breast. Her nipple came to attention as the edge of Van’s hand brushed over it several times while arranging the leads.

  “We’re going to begin phase two with the addition of visual stimuli.”

  “Yeah?” Robbie tilted her head back to see Van’s face. I don’t need anything beyond looking at you.

  Van found herself staring into deep blue eyes, mesmerized by the faint flickering of the dark pupils. She knew that involuntary constriction and dilation of the pupils occurred as an autonomic response to sexual arousal, and the small but powerful minicameras mounted in the ceiling had recorded that very same activity in Robbie’s eyes in the seconds before and during orgasm. Van had expected to see that response in Robbie’s eyes, but she hadn’t expected to be so captivated by it. She’d replayed the tape after their first session a number of times to correlate the pupillary response to other biologic indicators, but she’d had to force herself to focus on the data and not on the mesmerizing expression in Robbie’s eyes as she’d come. Even now, when that liquid gaze was merely holding hers, she felt an unusual stirring in her depths. The thermostat must be set too high. It’s very warm in here.

  “Dr. Adams?” Robbie asked softly.

  “Yes?”

  “Um...” Robbie looked down.

  To her horror, Van realized that her hand still rested on Robbie’s breast beneath the sheet. She snatched it away. “Just let me get the rest of these attached and we’ll get started.”

  Robbie sat perfectly still while Van attached the EKG, EEG, blood pressure cuff, and thoracic strain gauges. She tensed as Van reached for the last monitoring device.

  As Van drew the sheet up along Robbie’s thighs toward her waist, she asked, “Is there something wrong?” As she had done during the previous sessions, she reached down to attach the small alligator clamp of the clitoral tonometer and found that her study subject was already in an advanced state of arousal. Robbie’s clitoris was nearly fully erect and glistening with the evidence of considerable excitement. “This is a problem.”

  “Sorry,” Robbie said with a small sigh. “I, uh...”

  Straightening, Van kept her face expressionless, but her tone was involuntarily strident. “Did you orgasm before coming here?”

  “No!”

  “Sometime earlier today?”

  “I wish,” Robbie muttered.

  “I’m sorry?” Van’s tone was decidedly cool as she wondered exactly who had put her—her—study subject in this state.

  “No, I didn’t,” Robbie said adamantly, wondering what the hell had gotten into Dr. Adams.

  “I thought it was understood that you were to avoid situations that would lead to sexual arousal, and particularly pre-orgasmic turgidity, for the duration of study.”

  “Pre-orgasmic turgidity? Oh. You mean a hard-on.”

  “Regardless of the term,” Van said acerbically, “you were to avoid such...circumstances.”

  “I have been—well, except during the night, when I can hardly help it.” Robbie’s voice rose in defense. “I told you at the interview that I’m used to getting off more than a couple times a week. I can hardly be held accountable if I have a damn wet dream.”

  Van’s eyes narrowed. “That’s another issue we are going to have to discuss later. For the moment, however, I’d like an explanation...” She caught herself starting to hyperventilate and ruthlessly lowered both her heart and respiratory rates with a series of biofeedback exercises, then continued, “For my notes. Since your baseline state of arousal is obviously elevated at the moment, I need to account for that in my data.”

  “You were touching my breast.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were touching my breast, and it made me wet.”

  “That’s all it took?” Van’s voice was soft, surprised. You’re so hard. So wonderfully wet. She forgot her biofeedback exercises and her heart rate shot up again. “I barely touched you.”

  Robbie’s eyes found Van’s again. A faint flush colored the psychologist’s neck and the small triangle of skin left bare by her open collar. “That was enough.”

  “Is that...customary?” Do you respond that way when other women touch you? How many women have elicited that response? How many have made you come?

  “No, it’s not customary,” Robbie replied irritably. Even the sound of your voice is a goddamned turn-on. She’d been looking forward to the session all day, and not just because she enjoyed the part where she got to get off with a beautiful woman watching. She liked the way Van would sometimes forget herself and look at her with a tender expression, and very rarely, with one of blatant desire. She knew Van was unaware of it, but it pleased her. She’d been primed for pleasure when she walked in that night, and for some reason, Van was in a bitchy mood. But it didn’t change the fact that she was beautiful and sexy and she made Robbie hot. And the more Robbie looked at her, even with the heat of anger in her eyes, the hotter she got. Her clit jerked as if to remind her she had things to attend to. “And if you want to get that clamp on me before I’m a lot more than turgid, you’d better do it now.”

  Van held out the small clamp. Throat dry, her fingers trembling slightly, she said, “You’d better do it. I’m afraid if I touch you...it will only skew the data further.”

  “Oh yeah.” Robbie drew a shaky breath and imagined those long, slender fingers closing around her clit. Stroking her. She got harder as her clit throbbed in time to her racing heart. “It’ll skew something all right.”

  Van glanced at the EKG trace and frowned. “You haven’t taken anything, have you?”

  “What?” Robbie muttered as she held her clit, which jumped and jerked between her fingers, and closed the small clamp around the shaft at the widest part of the base. The pressure felt so good that her eyes
closed involuntarily.

  “Stimulants of any kind. Amphetamines?”

  Robbie’s eyes snapped open and she glared at the psychologist. “Fuck, no. Why?”

  “Because your heart rate is very erratic and your respiratory rate—”

  “I’m excited.”

  “We’ve established that, but these readings are indicative of a very high level of adrenergic—”

  “I need to come,” Robbie said softly. “Please...can we just do...whatever.”

  Van stared and struggled to collect herself. In what she hoped was a clinical tone, she asked, “What level?”

  “Seven out of ten.” The study required that Robbie rate her approach to orgasm on a scale of one to ten, with ten being imminent orgasm. Anything over five meant she was pretty well along and would be uncomfortable if she didn’t eventually come.

  “Seven,” Van said in surprise. “How did that happen? We haven’t even gotten baseline readings, and I still have to run the visual stimulation program. In addition—”

  “It’s you.”

  “What?” Van’s words were barely a whisper.

  “I...you...fuck. You make me hot.” Robbie shifted restlessly. The insistent tug of blood and heat in her clit was making her a little nuts, and the device ruthlessly squeezing the turgid shaft did not help matters.

  “Oh dear,” Van murmured. “That’s going to complicate things.”

  “Things are a lot more than complicated already,” Robbie grumbled, stroking her inner thigh beneath the sheet with fingers that trembled. “I’m going to explode here. Can you just go take some readings or something so I can...take care of things.”

  Without a word, Van crossed the room, entered the booth, and dimmed the outer-room lights. As she turned dials and flipped switches, paper began to scroll and tracings flickered on small LCD screens.

  “Before we begin,” Van said in a detached voice as her eyes moved over the various readouts to ensure that everything was in order, “let me explain today’s exercise. I’m going to show you a random video clip of a couple making love, which I would like you to watch through to the end without self-stimulation. If, however, at any time during the viewing of the video you feel the urgent need to masturbate, including to the point of orgasm, you may.” She glanced through the glass. Robbie was only a few feet away on the other side and clearly visible in the soft cone of light from the recessed spot just above her chair. Her lids were heavy with arousal and the rapid rise and fall of her small, firm breasts beneath the sheet correlated with the level of stimulation indicated by Van’s measurements. “Your present readings are all well above baseline. How do you feel?”

  “Like I won’t last two minutes,” Robbie said with a small grin. “If you’re going to show me porn, I’ll probably come fast. I’m already so jazzed.”

  “Don’t worry about that—just do your best. We’ll work with the results we obtain,” Van said dispassionately. “All data is information.” She entered a series of numbers into the computer and watched as a randomly selected film segment appeared on her screen. The same segment would be displayed on a larger monitor where Robbie could see it. A young woman reclined on a floral sofa, a shaft of sunlight bathing her naked breasts. Another woman, also naked, rested between her spread thighs, kissing her exposed sex.

  Robbie’s readouts spiked, and Van felt an unanticipated wave of jealousy, which she immediately suppressed. It’s only a movie. She told you in the intake interview that videos excite her. Still, she couldn’t help but look up from her console and watch Robbie as the video played. Robbie’s hands, outside the sheets now and resting on her thighs, moved restlessly in small circles as she watched the screen. Inside the booth, Van heard the rapid ping of the heart rate monitor. She glanced at the respiratory readout—elevated as well. The pressure readings from the clitoral tonometer were nearly at the maximum of any she had previously measured. She’s escalating quickly.

  “What’s your level?” she asked through the microphone.

  Robbie’s eyes flicked from the screen to the booth. “Closing in on nine out of ten.”

  On the film, the reclining woman moaned and thrashed her head, obviously close to orgasm.

  “Jesus,” Robbie muttered. “I really want to come.”

  Van’s stomach tightened as she continued to make notations on the graph sheet spread out in front of her. Robbie’s voice was thick and heavy, and the sound of her desire was like honey in Van’s veins. Touch yourself. I want to hear you come. Van bit her lip to hold back the words. In the background, the moans and cries from the video heightened in pitch and increased in volume. A flicker of movement in the other room caught Van’s attention, and she saw Robbie’s right hand slide beneath the sheet. She knew without looking that all the measurements had peaked. Some had even gone higher than any of her previous recordings. The sound of Robbie’s heartbeat raged in the small space. Do it. God, I know how badly you need to. Do it.

  The clitoral tonometer spiked again, higher this time, at the same time as Van heard Robbie’s desperate whisper.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t wait.”

  Van watched, the monitors forgotten, as Robbie arched her back and groaned at the first touch of her fingers on her clitoris. On the small screen to Van’s right, the woman climaxed with a sharp cry. Van felt a surge of wetness between her thighs. She kept her hands on the counter. Robbie moaned again, and Van’s vision blurred.

  Five minutes later the film had ended and the monitors screamed around her. Van looked at the readouts, all of them nearly off the chart, and still, Robbie had not achieved orgasm.

  “Robbie,” Van said quietly. “What is it?”

  Robbie slumped in the chair, panting. “I can’t do it. Fuck, I just can’t get there.”

  Van’s eyes flickered over the measurements. Oh God, you poor baby. “Do you want me to run another film?”

  “No,” Robbie gasped, straining to see into the dark booth. “Could you come out here for a minute? Please.”

  Concerned at the note of pain in Robbie’s voice, Van hurried to her side. She stopped herself just as she extended a hand to touch her sweat-streaked face. “Robbie?”

  “It’s okay,” Robbie murmured, her eyes riveted on Van’s face as she began to stroke herself again. Within seconds, her hips lifted, her back arched, and she cried out sharply, shuddering into orgasm. When the tremors slowed, she regarded Van with a lazy grin. “I just needed the right picture.”

  Van trembled, her hands clenched at her sides, her senses reeling. You can’t know what a beautiful picture you make like this.

  “You okay, Doc?” Robbie inquired gently when Van said nothing.

  “Just fine,” Van finally replied, smiling inwardly. Picture perfect.

  PHASE THREE: ASSIST MODE

  Dr. Vanessa Adams sat in the observation booth next to Dr. Gloria Early, her co-investigator in the sex-stim response study, taking notes on the progress of one of their advanced simulations. She barely registered the beeps, pings, and buzzes of the plethora of electronic equipment that surrounded her. Her attention was riveted on the study subject in the support module in the center of the lab. The recliner that had previously occupied that space had been replaced with a body-conforming platform sporting adjustable side panels that swung over the top once the subject was seated. The panels slotted together to form a partition between the subject’s upper and lower body so that she could move comfortably from side to side, but she could not see or touch anything below her waist. A video monitor was suspended from the ceiling and displayed continuous images of erotic encounters. The subject had been provided with a remote control to stop, reverse, fast-forward, or replay any sequence she desired.

  “Fifteen minutes of video viewing and the arousal index is still low,” Early noted conversationally. “Just below five.”

  “We know she’s a responder,” Van replied. “Can you bring up the comparative tracings from the first run?”

  Early opened a file and display
ed the data on an adjacent screen. Van scanned it quickly.

  “Baseline readings are essentially the same, but the escalation curve is much flatter this time. Acclimation effect,” she suggested. “The subject appears to have a blunted response to the repetitive viewing of the same or even similar erotic images.”

  “Hmm. Somewhat analogous to acquired drug tolerance.”

  “Yes! Exactly.” Van made a note. “We should compare the baseline values among subjects to the rapidity with which acclimation occurs—it may be that those with a lower threshold to visual excitement will maintain an accelerated effect, even upon restimulation.” Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. “It’s possible that we’ve been looking at the response curve in reverse—it may not be the stimulus which is significant, but the receptor sensitivity in the subjects themselves.” In the midst of her theorizing, she envisioned Robbie stretching and smiling as she luxuriated in the afterglow of orgasm. Her baseline arousal state is very high—higher than any of the others—and she has shown no blunting in the response curve with time. In fact, she seems to reach the critical threshold in an accelerating pattern. The last time—

  A series of beeps drew both investigators’ attention back to the monitors.

  “Ah, good. Level six,” Early observed. She flicked the switch on an intercom near her elbow and buzzed the adjoining lab. “Sonja? Come in—she’s ready.” Then she keyed the mike to the experimental chamber and addressed the subject. “The assisted-mode phase is about to begin. You may continue to watch the video, fantasize, or employ any other maneuver to enhance the experience. You may also give instructions if there’s something you need. All set?”

  “Yes,” the subject responded, her voice already heavy with desire. She indicated no uncertainty or nervousness, but kept her face turned toward the monitor and the continuous loop of sex. Her attention did not deviate even when a door on the opposite side of the room opened and closed quietly.

  A short-haired brunette in a forest green blouse and trim, tan slacks moved quickly across the room on a path that kept her out of the line of vision of the study subject. She quickly knelt by the foot of the slightly elevated modular support in the deep vee that had been removed from the far end of the table. The subject’s spread legs were comfortably supported on extensions on either side of the access area. Sonja placed her open hand on the subject’s left inner thigh. The subject jerked infinitesimally, and her heart rate rose to 120 beats per minute.