LYN
The first thingI do is sit down like a good girl.
Not a great way to think about it, but here I am, sitting down with my hands clasped in my lap, my legs crossed because my pussy is already throbbing. I watch as Kaelion picks up a pair of gloves, slides them on to snap into place at his wrists?—
He's staring at me.
I meet his eyes.
“Do you want to place the electrodes?” he asks. “I don't want to obscure the results at all by touching you before we're ready to take readings.”
It isn't actually a question; I get to work, picking up the electrodes and fixing them to my temples, my neck, my chest. I notice him watching when I tug the neck of my t-shirt aside to place them on my chest, and my eyes dart to his.
I want him to say something. To admit this isn’t just me.
“Are you cold at all?” he asks. “Experiencing any discomfort?”
“Not other than you know…shame?” I whisper. “And pretty intense frustration.”
He laughs softly, which surprises me. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “Although…I guess it kind ofisyour fault.”
“We’ll note the baseline,” he says. “Just breathe normally.”
“So…what’s the plan?” I ask. “You just—touch me, we see what happens, we read the results?”
“I think we test it just like we would the translator,” he says. “So…we begin with touch through the glove; then touch without it. Then…if that doesn’t intensify the results enough, we keep going.”
“We keep going,” I repeat. “And that means…”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Forgive me for being so honest, but I’d be comfortable with damn near anything given that I haven’t come in almost a week?—”
I slap my hand over my mouth.
His brow raises…but otherwise, he doesn’t react.
“I’m glad you said that before I started the log,” he murmurs.
“Right,” I say. “Um. Same.”
He taps the record button on my tablet, then clears his throat.
“Trial #1,” he starts. “Subject is a twenty-nine-year-old female, post-neuroadaptive translation device exposure. Objective is to determine pleasure response irregularities. We will begin with a calibration touch of gloved hand to gloved shoulder…”
I try not to squirm as he touches my shoulder. It’s nothing, really—weight more than anything, and a light weight at that. But I’ve been anticipating him touching me for so long that it gets…
…it feels good.
Too good.
Warm.
My breath hitches and his eyes slide to mine. “Even that?”
“No, I think I just…” I pause. “It doesn’t count. I’m just nervous.”
