When I haddiscipline.
On the tram to the university, I tell myself to think clinically. We need to isolate the effects; run safe, contained diagnostics. Use gloves. Limit exposure. Maintain professionalism. By the time I arrive, I’ve rehearsed what I’ll say:“My comments and our lunch the other day were inappropriate. From now on, we should maintain clear boundaries as we attempt to remedy what happened, then we can proceed with research on your translator.”
Of course, I say none of that when I get to my lab.
I don’t think she even notices when I come in, absorbed in work with her back to me. She’s the only one here, wearing a plain, worn t-shirt and loose pants with sneakers, no lab coat, her curls bound back with a silk scarf that trails down her spine. I make a sharp turn into my office, hang my satchel on the hook by the door, and take a seat at my desk.
I watch her through the window. I tell myself I’m just keeping an eye on her and that I’m not being inappropriate.
At this point, every interaction feels inappropriate.
I turn on my computer to try and distract myself, then pull up the diagnostic queue from her station. I’m only looking for any anomalies, any record that could help narrow the parameters of what we need to test. We still don’t know how long the effect will last; whether it’s getting worse. Given that she seems to have electrodes affixed to her temples, she must be testing something now. I find a new log added to her file, and I open it up and press play.
“Trial #1. Subject is a twenty-nine-year-old female recently exposed to experimental neuro-tech. Test objective: determine baseline self-stimulation response post-incident…”
I freeze.
“Tools: pink silicone dual-stim rabbit, mid-grade. Lubricant: water-based, unscented.”
My stomach drops. My finger twitches above the console, poised to turn it off, to do what Ishould.But…this is, of course, what I told her to do—to test what would happen if she tried to pleasure herself.
And somewhere in my twisted mind, I make sense of it.
This is acceptable.
This is science.
And…she had to have put this here for me to find, so I could help her.
So I couldhelp her…right?
“This is insane,”she whispers on the recording.“This is…completely insane. And I’m dry as the fucking Sahara.”
I actually laugh at that, the sound surprising even me.
Then I hear a drone click on in the background—a buzz.
The toy. The “rabbit”, whatever that is.
I listen as she talks through her physiological response: heightened temperature, elevated heart rate, sensations. I try not to get hung up on the sensations; this all seems normal, just as she says in the log.
Then—she gasps.
Breathes.
“Okay, yes…yes, that’s so good?—”
I canhear hergetting close…the buzz of the device, the obscene, wet sounds as she…as she presses it inside her. I grit my teeth, telling myself I should really turn this off now.
I can’t.
I have to listen.
I have to get to the end.
Because maybe…maybe this proves that the effects have stopped. That she isn’t reacting to my touch the way she was. That she’s fine.
But then she sighs in frustration…and I know she failed.
