Because underneath all the lotions and attempted self-care is the low-level panic ofwhat 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?
Orworse 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 hasnothing to dowith 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…completelyinsane. 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.
