Radical Encounters

by Radclyffe

  “Oh yes.”

  I spread myself open with the hand that wasn’t teasing my clit so she could see everything. “Tell me.”

  “You’re all red and puffy,” she whispered. She looked up at me briefly, her face filled with wonder. “Have you been doing this long?”

  I nodded, my stomach clenched so hard I could barely talk. Having her see how excited my pussy was made it open and close like a fist. God, I wanted to just let go all over her. “Almost an hour.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, refocusing on my pussy. “You must have to come awfully bad now.”

  “Uh-huh,” I whimpered, rolling my clit between my fingers. Across the room one of the girls on the screen was wailing and thrashing and rubbing her pussy all over the other girl’s face. Usually that’s when I come, watching her face twist and listening to her cry and mauling my clit until I force my cunt to spasm and flood. But not today. Today I’d found something so much better. “Can you see my clit?”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful. Big and shiny.” Her eyes were hazy and unfocused, like she was stoned but I knew she wasn’t. She was high on the smell of my cunt and the squelch of my fingers sliding through it and the sight of my stiff, wet clit. “Does your pussy feel good when you rub it like that?”

  “Mmm, makes me wanna come. Can you tell how hard my clit is?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s sticking way out and the more you tease it the darker it gets.”

  I moaned and circled the head of my clit. Watching her lick her lips and blink rapidly while she followed my fingers was making my pussy spasm and I knew I didn’t have much time left. “I’m going to come soon.”

  “Can I play with myself?”

  “Do you want to come up here and watch the movie?” I held my breath, almost afraid of what she might say.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head vehemently. “No. I want to watch your come spurt out on your fingers when you go off.”

  My legs jerked and I couldn’t hold back a tiny come. I moaned and clamped my fingers tightly around my clit, preventing the rest of the explosion. “Go ahead. Play with your clit.”

  She yanked her zipper down and shoved her hand into her jeans. Even though her body convulsed, she never looked away from my fingers. I was still squeezing as hard as I could, afraid if I stroked even once I would come all over the place.

  “Hurry,” I whispered, “if you want to come with me.”

  The cords in her neck stood out as she shook her head again. “Watching you come will make me come.” She looked up at me, her eyes glazed. “Your pussy is so beautiful, so open and wet.”

  My clit couldn’t get any harder and I rubbed it faster, big sweeping circles reaching as far down as my opening and then back up over the top, sliding the hood down and over the head with each swipe. “Watch my clit,” I gasped. “I’m going to come.”

  She whined and pumped her arm faster, mumbling, “Please come, please come, please come.”

  “Here I come,” I cried, pushing down hard as my cunt pulsed like a small heart. “Gonna…come…all…over…you.”

  And I did. She put her face closer, but didn’t touch me, and my hips jumped and I gushed over her lips and her chin and her neck while her eyes rolled back in her head and she came with her hand digging in her jeans. Then she sweetly licked me clean while I watched the girls on the screen and came again.

  After that, we got off together a couple of times a week. She especially liked to crouch between my legs in the shower and hold me open with both hands while I hit my clit with a stream of water from the shower massage. The whole time I was making myself come, leaning against the wall on trembling legs, she described the way my pussy jumped under her fingers and how my clit stood out from my body and how the rivulets of come ran down my legs and mixed with the water in pearly strands. She could predict the exact second when I got ready to come from the size of my clit and the color of my pussy.

  “Oh yeah, you’re gonna come. It’s gonna be a huge one. Right. Now.”

  And the minute she said it, I’d let loose all over. Then she’d suck on my clit while it was still hard, before I was even totally done coming, and bring herself off in her hand. And while she was moaning and coming and mouthing my clit, I’d come again too.

  It got so all she had to say was, “Let me see your pretty pussy,” and I’d be ready to come. So, no, I didn’t have any trouble working myself off in front of other people. I loved it.

  “I’m comfortable with public masturbation,” I told the director, hoping to sound professional.

  “Good. Let’s take a look at you.”

  I spread my legs and as soon as she looked down, I felt my pussy swell. I’d shaved so everything would show for the camera, and I couldn’t hide a thing.

  “Hold yourself open for me,” she said, adjusting a portable light so that it bathed my lower body in hot, bright light. “Use both hands.”

  I felt a trickle of come slip down between my cheeks. I hope she didn’t see my fingers tremble as I pulled my outer lips apart. I knew from masturbating with a mirror how my cunt looked when I was excited—how my lips got thick and red and wet and my clit got long and fat. She must have been able to tell how turned on I was because she glanced up at my face and smiled.

  “Looks like you’re doing okay.”

  “Yes, fine,” I said casually while my clit twitched and got stiffer by the second.

  Click.

  I imagined the way my pussy would look in the photograph, open and glistening with come.

  Click.

  My big pink clit, stiff and exposed, shamelessly aroused.

  Click.

  I started panting.

  “Your cunt’s a great rose color. That will look terrific on film.”

  Every click of the camera was a caress. My stomach started to hurt. I wanted to come.

  “Can you touch your clit a little like you were going to masturbate? I want a shot of your finger on that gorgeous clit.”

  “Okay,” I whispered, almost choking on the word.

  Click.

  I pressed two fingers on the base of my clit. It jumped right up and my belly rolled.

  “Work it up just a little more. It looks fabulous when it’s erect.”

  Click.

  “Now pull the hood back and get it wet.”

  I painted my clit with come and that made me so horny all I wanted was for this to end so I could go somewhere and finish myself off.

  Click.

  “Oh, that’s a nice look. Jiggle it a little so it plumps up.”

  I did and it was too good and I should have stopped but I couldn’t and I came. I tried to hide it, but it hit me so fast my whole body jerked off the bed. “Ooh! God!”

  “Do you always come that quickly?” she said, clicking away while my pussy pumped.

  I shook my head no, whimpering pathetically, still pulling at my clit and coming.

  “Hmm.” She lowered her camera. “Just really worked up over the audition?”

  “I think,” I gasped. “I think it’s…oh God, this is embarrassing…”

  “Hardly. You’re perfect, but I still need to know what set you off so I can time the come shots in the scenes. Unless you can hide it a whole lot better than this.”

  “I can’t…not usually,” I confessed, thoroughly humiliated. “I come hard.”

  “Then I need to know your trigger.”

  “It’s you looking at me. At my pussy.”

  “You get off on having people admire that beautiful cunt of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed. “Oh baby, you’re going to love this job.”

  She had no idea, and neither did I. I’m easy to pick out in the films—I’m the girl smiling right at the camera and coming, so nice.

  Clinical Trials

  PHASE ONE: CALIBRATIONS

  Hunger is a powerful motivator. It’s amazing the things you’ll do that you never would have conceived of if you didn’t need money to eat. Or in my case, to eat, p
ay the rent, and put gas in the car. Not to mention next semester’s tuition, textbooks, and the occasional new pair of shoes. All right, it’s not quite that bad, but almost. I’m the typical struggling graduate student, and fortunately, in a large university there are always studies being done that pay volunteers to participate. Although I’ve often thought that if you’re being paid, you probably aren’t a volunteer, but something else. In terms of my newest assignment, that “something else” turned out to be pretty hard to describe.

  It started yesterday when I saw an ad in the campus newspaper that said: Study subjects needed for psychosexual imprinting analysis. Must be 18 or older. Please contact Van Adams at extension 6361 for details.

  So I called, got the secretary in the experimental psych department, and scheduled an appointment for this morning at 10:15. When I arrived a little bit before the appointed time, the same secretary directed me to an office down the hall. The fluorescent lights in the cinderblock-walled, tile-floored hallway seemed overly harsh as my footsteps echoed in the hollow silence. The third door on the left was unmarked, but I knocked as I had been instructed.

  “Come in,” a disembodied voice called.

  The room was spare, and in the few seconds I had to scan it before my attention was drawn to the woman behind the functional metal desk, I didn’t notice that any attempts had been made to personalize the space. University-issue bookshelves against one wall, filled with haphazardly stacked texts, file folders, and piles of papers; no rug on the floor; two worn, armless, upholstered chairs facing a desk that sat in front of what I presumed were windows behind closed horizontal blinds. The woman who glanced up with a remote smile appeared to fit the room. Late twenties, smooth pale skin, glossy dark hair pulled back from her makeup-free face, and big, dark, intelligent eyes. She wore a fitted linen blouse in a neutral shade, and although I couldn’t see below the desk, I was willing to bet there were tailored trousers in a darker shade and expensive low-heeled shoes to match. Nice package in a professional, no-nonsense kind of way.

  “Hello,” she said in a silky, rich voice while standing to extend a hand. “I’m Dr. Vanessa Adams.”

  “Robbie Burns.” I shook her hand, wondering how I appeared to Dr. Adams in my threadbare jeans, striped polo shirt, and sneakers. At least I’d had a haircut recently, so my collar-length chestnut waves looked fashionably shaggy as opposed to just plain old messy. At least my eyes, an unusual gray-green, were distinctive. And why that should matter, I hadn’t a clue.

  “You’re here about 769, correct?” At my confused expression, she smiled absently. “Sorry. The multivariant sexual stimulus reaction study.”

  I held up the page from the campus rag where I had circled the small notice in red. “Would that be this?”

  “That would be the one.”

  I thought I saw another trace of a smile, but I couldn’t be certain. She settled down behind her desk and gestured me to one of the chairs that had probably once graced a student lounge but now should have adorned a trash pile somewhere. I sat and waited while she opened a folder and took out a number of forms. The first one she turned in my direction and pushed across the desk. “This is a nondisclosure statement. I’d like you to read it, ask any questions you might have, and sign it before I begin the intake interview.”

  “There’s an interview?”

  “Yes,” she replied evenly. “There are certain screening criteria which are necessary for inclusion as well as exclusion from the study. The questions I will be asking are both personal and confidential—for you and for the study.” She paused, studying me. “And before we go any further, I need to see proof of age, please.”

  I grinned and reached into my back pocket for my wallet. After opening it to the clear window that displayed my license, I passed it across the desk for her perusal. “Twenty-five.”

  “Thank you.”

  She passed the wallet back, and I replaced it automatically as I scanned the page before me. It was a standard nondisclosure form essentially saying that I couldn’t tell anyone the details of the study, the questions I had been asked prior to engaging in the study, or the activities I might be involved in as a study participant. I signed it and handed it back. Dr. Adams took it, tucked it neatly away, and pulled out another page filled with blanks and boxes. Eventually we finished with my name and birth date and other vital statistics. The initial round of questions covered standard medical, family, and social history–type things. She dispensed with them quickly and moved on to the good stuff.

  “The remaining questions will be personal ones relating to your sexual preferences, activity, and function. Is that acceptable?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Are you single?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, or transgendered?”

  “Lesbian.” This was getting interesting. She didn’t look up as she checked off boxes in various columns.

  “Would you say that you have any kind of sexual dysfunction?”

  I hesitated. “Does not enough count as a dysfunction?” I thought, but I couldn’t be certain, that the corner of her mouth twitched.

  She looked up and met my eyes, her face completely composed. “We’re more interested in such things as anorgasmia, premature orgasm, or anything which you would define as a physical or psychological problem associated with sexual activity.”

  Anorgasmia. Thank God for those two years of Latin in high school. But didn’t the absence of orgasm follow from my question regarding not enough? Oh. Anorgasmia as in “the inability to have” orgasms.

  “No. Given the opportunity, I don’t have any problem coming, and I generally have pretty good control.” Of course it’s been so long, who can remember.

  “Good.”

  She made another little check mark.

  “Do you masturbate?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent one of those stupid responses such as “Is the pope Catholic?” and replied, “Yes.”

  “Frequency?”

  “Yes. I mean...ah...three, maybe four times a week.”

  “You would be required to refrain from orgasm either with a partner or via masturbation for the duration of the study. Is that acceptable?”

  “How long will the study last?” They were going to have to pay me a lot of money for this.

  “I can’t say how long your participation would be. It will really depend upon your response to the various stages. A week, possibly several.”

  “How will you know if I’m compliant?”

  She still didn’t smile, but her dark eyes twinkled. I was certain of it. “It’s the honor system.”

  I grinned. “Agreed.”

  “Are you able to masturbate to orgasm while being observed?”

  Her head was bent over the forms again, her pen raised above another little box. The study was getting more and more interesting by the second, and I was still only in the interview stage.

  “Yes. Who’s going to be observing?”

  She raised her head. “I am.”

  I have no idea what showed in my face when my clit twitched. Hers revealed nothing.

  “If you feel uncomfortable and prefer not to participate in the study,” she said gently, “just say so, and we’ll terminate.”

  “I’m okay so far.” I took a breath and forced myself to relax. “Is there going to be group activity?”

  “Only in the advanced stages of the study, and you may never get to that point.” She leaned back in her chair and her voice took on a professorial tone. “The study is designed in levels, or tiers, and these strata are individualized depending upon the study subject’s reactions to the test stimuli. Your responses to the early stages will determine the direction and nature of subsequent interactions. Although each set of study criteria is standard, not every subject will participate in the same sequence.”

  Somewhere out of that doctor-speak I think I got that what was going to happen would depend a lot upon how I performed in whate
ver it was we were going to be doing. I was curious, more than curious. Intrigued and not a little turned on. I’d always considered myself a sexual adventurer—at least I’d never said no without trying something. Okay then. Masters and Johnson, here I come.

  “That sounds fine.”

  Another sheet of paper appeared. More blanks, columns, and boxes.

  “Do you object to viewing sexually explicit images?”

  “No.”

  “Do you find sexually explicit images arousing?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you use sexually explicit images as a tool during masturbation?”

  Fortunately, I don’t blush easily, and we were far beyond that point already anyway. “Sometimes.”

  “Literature, photographs, or videos?”

  “All of the above.”

  Check. Check. Rustle. Rustle. I was getting wet. The interview couldn’t have been more clinical. The subject, however, was getting to me. Talking about sex in any form, in any fashion, under almost any circumstance, turns me on.

  “Have you ever used sexually explicit images during mutual masturbation with a partner?”

  “How many people are going to read the interview form?”

  Dark eyes met mine. “One. Me.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Dr. Adams put down her pen and placed both hands on the desk, her fingers lightly clasped. She regarded me with a slight tilt of her head and a contemplative expression. “If at any time, for any reason, you want to withdraw from the study, you simply need to tell me. I will be administering all of the tests and collecting all of the data.”

  Well, that got me nice and hard. Administer away. The sooner the better. I nodded.

  “I’d like to start tomorrow. Can you be here at eight a.m.?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s important that you be well rested and in as relaxed a state as possible. I know that may be difficult, but I assure you, there is nothing painful associated with any part of the study.”

  “I promise to go to bed early.” I grinned.

  “And please remember the stipulation regarding abstinence.”

  How did she know that the first thing I wanted to do as soon as I was alone was jerk off?