Change of Pace

by Radclyffe

  Orgasm itself was no longer the goal—well, to be honest, not the only goal—because now there was the added enticement of discovering just what line, what phrase, what combination of words might, despite their familiarity, be presented cleverly enough to set me off. Let’s just say this had evolved into a form of field study, a serious observation of the effective use of the tools of one’s trade. After all, what better way to achieve both enlightenment and satisfaction than to become the target of one’s own most powerful weapon?

  What wonderful webs our words weave.

  When I walked into the house, it was all I could do not to sit down in front of the computer immediately. I knew that the message was there waiting, sent from beyond the void, designed to tempt and enthrall me. When I finally allowed myself to look at the monitor, the small rectangular e-mail icon on the toolbar drew my gaze like a magnet. One click—an entire universe just waiting for me to step onto the horizon. I was already breathing heavily, the muscles in my stomach and legs tight with anticipation, when the simmering desire that had been in the background all day suddenly surged and consumed my entire consciousness. I was programmed, every bit as hard wired as the equipment that brought desire and satisfaction to me in the form of silent conversation and intangible caresses. I steadfastly put both hands on the keyboard, out of harm’s way, because I so desperately wanted to come.

  Scrolling the new messages quickly, I lasered in on the one from anon1102 and groaned in anticipation. Sent at 2:12 p.m. God, salvation had been waiting for over three hours. I was afraid I wouldn’t last three minutes. Even as I clicked to open the attachment, I worked open my jeans with the other hand, slid down the zipper, and eased my fingers under the waistband. Not too far just yet, fingertips merely brushing the silk bikinis nestled between my legs. I was wet already, had been all day. I knew without even touching it that my clitoris was swollen to twice its usual size, the tip exposed, so sensitive that just the pressure of my hand above it sent streaks of pleasure curling up into my belly. I needed to be careful. I was too ready already, and it was hard not to press deeper, not to flick the rigid shaft back and forth, not to force the blood to pound even faster through the straining flesh.

  I would read, teasing myself, but I would not come.

  I’m back from my skate. My skin is damp, my legs shaking faintly. I stumble into the shower to rinse away the residue of dust and sweat. Still trembling slightly, barely dry, I stretch out naked on the bed, a towel under my back, beads of water still dotting my body. I toss one arm over my eyes and let my muscles melt into the firmness beneath me. You come to me then, standing for a moment, looking down, before you press a finger to the inside of my knee, bidding entrance. I spread my legs slowly, shifting my hips to open myself to your view. I haven’t looked at you; you haven’t spoken. You stretch out between my legs, resting on your elbows, your face inches from me.

  It was just the kind of scene I liked. As I read, I couldn’t help but imagine being first one, then the other participant, at once touching and watching. It was too much, too much to see, feel, imagine, without joining in. Forcing myself not to jump ahead, I lifted my hips and with one hand pushed down my clothes, trailing my fingers up the inside of my thigh on the way back. The words, a siren’s call, guided my touch. I dragged my finger up and down the side of my clitoris, careful to stay away from the fat, wet head, as the words scrolled before my hungry eyes. If I brushed against it, I knew I would come. Legs trembling, head light, I slipped back into the scene.

  I can feel your gaze heat the tender places between my thighs. I know you are contemplating what is yours, waiting for me to swell, for the hint of moisture to shine on the silky hairs. You blow softly, your breath cool. I twitch, catch my breath, moan quietly. I raise my hips slightly, inviting you. I want you to lick me. You kiss the inside of my thigh instead, then pull the tender skin with your teeth. I push myself toward you, wanting you to suck my tender inner lips, tug on them gently until my cum flows onto your tongue. You laugh knowingly and run your tongue lightly over the very edges of my lips, tormenting me.

  Fingers pinched a hard nipple, a hand slowly drifted over a clit bulging with blood and heat, a low groan escaped as I found the rigid shaft and played it. Stroking fast, making my hips lift, but staying away from the one spot that once touched, I wouldn’t be able to abandon. So good. Too good.

  My clit is throbbing now, exposed to you. Please, God--please lick it. I’m gasping, making small whimpering noises, wanting you to make me come so much. You slide one hand under my ass, lifting my hips toward your mouth, the other hand spreading the folds around my clit, making me jerk--your lips so near now. Please, baby, put your mouth on me. I need to come so much--suck me, please--The tip of your tongue pushes up under the swollen hood, pressing against the base of my clit--I cry out--oh, it’s so good--

  I read, reread, the words, my thumb at the base of my clitoris, on top of the hood, the length of my finger stroking from underneath, up the shaft and finally, finally, around the head. I needed a distraction, knowing I’d make myself come in another few seconds, and ever so briefly, I closed my eyes. But the words burned like an illuminated afterimage across the inner surface of my lids. Already far past the point of holding back. I read.

  Your lips take me then, sucking my clit into your mouth, circling it with your tongue. My legs are tight, the muscles in my pelvis contracting, the pressure building--ah, I’m getting close--

  The ever-faster movement of fingers across a rigid clitoris, the erratic jerk of hips, the blurring of boundaries, the fusion of realities.

  “I want to watch you finish. I want you to come for me.”

  Words typed on a screen, whispered in my ear, screamed across the silence.

  I imagined watching, being watched. Everything blended, and I didn’t know which one I was—reader, writer, voyeur. Everything was hard. Everything ached. And my fingers continued their relentless motion, clouding my mind.

  In the end, I couldn’t read. Couldn’t see. All day I’d waited, and now it was so close. I wanted my clit to explode, needed to come.

  I’m moaning, moving against your face, feeling my clit ready to explode--I need to come--oh, please, just a little harder--oh, yes--that’s it,--I’m starting to come--oh, can you feel me twitch in your mouth? Hips pumping, coming now, so hard--sooo good--

  With the orgasm still shuddering through my belly, with hands that shook so badly my fingers could barely find the keys, I started a new chapter.

  The ride home from work in rush-hour traffic was a maddening combination of pleasure and torture, and it had nothing to do with the snarled, slow-moving mass of vehicles.

  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, pay 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 i
nstructed.

  “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 whatever 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 mu
tual 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 8:00 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?

  “Got it.” After all, she wouldn’t know. If I did it. Or if I just happened to be thinking about her when I did.

  At five minutes to eight the next morning, I knocked on the door with the small plastic nameplate that read V. Adams, PhD. She answered immediately. Today, she wore a moss green shell, hemp-colored linen trousers, and low-heeled brown boots. Her lustrous hair was still severely tamed and tied back with a scarf.