Chapter 35: The Cleanup Simulation
The sterile buzz of the overhead lights seemed to grow louder in the wake of Lena’s announcement. Aidan stood frozen, the cold air of the studio raising goosebumps on his skin. Priya moved first, a flinch of pure instinct. She snatched a towel from a nearby stack and wrapped it around herself, hiding the evidence of their ‘research’ with a speed that bordered on violence. She wouldn’t look at him.
The door swung wider.
Catriona breezed in, a contrast in every way to Priya’s sharp withdrawal. She wore a simple black camisole and cotton shorts, her blond hair in a messy ponytail. In her hands were a fresh towel, a spray bottle labeled with a citrus icon, and a roll of paper towels. Her eyes, a bright, mischievous blue, went straight to Aidan, then to the used collection tray, then back to him. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
“Messy work, practical science,” she chirped, setting her supplies on the glass table with a clatter. “I’m on cleanup detail.”
Lena perched on the edge of the table, her tablet alive with fresh notes. “Indeed. Reader question: ‘What’s the most effective, intimacy-preserving method for post-creampie cleanup before a bathroom is available?’ We’ll simulate three scenarios. One: standard wipe. Two: water-assisted wipe. Three:… oral reclamation.”
Catriona’s smile widened. “My favorite dataset.”
“Priya, you’re dismissed to debrief and log the volumetric findings,” Lena said, not glancing up from her screen. “Aidan, remain in position. Catriona, begin with simulation one. Standard dry towel.”
Priya was already halfway to the door, clutching her clothes and the graduated cylinder like relics from a crime scene. She paused, just for a second, her eyes darting to Catriona, who was already kneeling on the floor with a fresh white towel. Something complex and unreadable flashed across Priya’s face—a mix of resentment, pity, and relief. Then she was gone, the door sighing shut behind her.
“Comfortable?” Catriona asked Aidan, her tone mock-concerned. He was still standing awkwardly by the bench, damp and exposed. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Alright. Simulation one. Clinical assessment: moderate to high residual external viscosity.”
She reached out with the towel. Her touch was deliberately impersonal at first, a brisk, efficient dab at his thighs. But then her strokes slowed. The terrycloth dragged against his skin, rough and absorbing. She worked her way closer, her gaze analytical but alive with a gleam that was anything but scientific.
“The conventional wipe method is inefficient,” she narrated for Lena’s benefit, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “It smears more than it collects. Transfers the substance across a broader epidermal plane.” Her hand, wrapped in the towel, grazed the base of his soft cock. He twitched. Catriona’s eyes flicked up to his. “Noted: tactile stimulus triggers residual neurological response.”
“Duly noted,” Lena murmured, her stylus tapping.
“Simulation two. Water-assisted.” Catriona tossed the soiled towel aside. She picked up the spray bottle, gave it a few pumps, and misted the air. A fine, citrus-scented rain settled on his skin, cool and sharp. She used a wad of paper towels this time, the material going translucent and slick as she pressed it against him.
This was worse. The cold was a shock, the paper abrasive when wet. She was less careful now, her movements circular, pressing harder. The smell of orange peel and bleach filled the space, trying to overwrite the musky, intimate scent that still hung in the air. She was cleaning him like a countertop.
“Improved for surface removal,” Catriona stated. “But psychologically… cold. Jarring. Not recommended for shared intimate moments unless you’re aiming for a mood kill.” She dropped the sodden paper towels into a bio-hazard bag. “Which brings us to simulation three. Oral reclamation. Hypothesis: maximizes intimacy, minimizes waste, and, according to three separate submissions, can significantly prolong the… afterglow.”
She didn’t reach for another towel. She simply knelt there on the polished concrete floor, her hands on her thighs, and looked up at him. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by a focused, hungry openness. The fluorescent light glinted off the small silver hoop in her nose.
“For the integrity of the simulation,” Lena said, her voice flat, “you should be fully aroused again, Aidan. To accurately gauge the… efficiency of the method.”
As if on a trigger, he began to stiffen under their dual gaze—one clinical, one devouring. It was a Pavlovian response to the entire absurd, terrifying routine of this room.
“Good,” Catriona whispered, more to herself than to Lena.
She didn’t lunge. She approached like someone studying a fascinating specimen. She leaned forward, her breath a warm cloud against his cooling skin, and paused. Her nose almost touched him. She inhaled, deeply. “Scent profile: alkaline, primal. Mixed with Priya’s lubricant. Bergamot and sandalwood.” The clinical words were a thin veil for the raw curiosity in her voice.
Then her tongue darted out. Not a lick, but a probe. A careful collection of moisture from the side of his shaft. She pulled back, her tongue sweeping over her own lips, considering. “Salty. Bitter finish.”
She looked up at him again, and this time her composure cracked completely, revealing the eager, thrilled girl beneath. “This is my favorite part of the job,” she confessed, her voice low and happy.
She took him into her mouth.
It wasn’t like before, in the pod or the shower. This was slower, more methodical, yet infused with a palpable joy. Her mouth was hot and clever, her tongue a soft, persistent pressure sweeping along his length. She made soft, satisfied sounds in the back of her throat, genuine sounds of pleasure that echoed in the quiet room. Her hands came up to cradle his balls, her fingers tracing the delicate skin there, gathering what the towels had missed.
Lena’s pen scratched. “Observed: subject’s respiratory rate increasing. Cleanup operative displaying clear engagement bias. The method appears… effective.”
Catriona hummed in agreement, the vibration traveling straight through him. Her eyes were closed in concentration, then they opened, locking onto his. She held the gaze as she took him deeper, her throat working, until her nose pressed into his pubic bone. She held it there, a challenge, a claim, before pulling back with a wet, gasping breath.
“Thorough,” she panted, the word a mirror of Priya’s but dripping with entirely different meaning. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slick and swollen. She didn’t stop. Her mouth traveled lower, her tongue tracing the heavy curve of his scrotum, cleaning with a devoted, meticulous attention that was far beyond the scope of any reader question.
Aidan’s hands clenched at his sides. He was hard as stone, caught in the vise of Lena’s observing eyes and Catriona’s worshipful mouth. The power dynamic was an illusion; he was pinned there, a data point being serviced.
Finally, Catriona pulled away. She sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked thoroughly, triumphantly messy. “Simulation three complete,” she announced, her voice hoarse. “Result: one hundred percent effective. Zero external residue. High subject satisfaction guaranteed.” She grinned up at Lena. “Tell the readers to skip the towels.”
Lena made a final note. “Subjective pleasure of the cleaning partner noted as a potentially significant variable. We’ll need to control for that in future tests. Possibly with a blinded participant.” She stood, tapping her tablet. “Session concluded. Aidan, you can dress. Catriona, sterilize the area. We have a planning meeting in twenty to address the next batch of questions. They’re asking about prone-bone positioning and its effect on G-spot alignment during finish.”
She walked out, leaving them in the sudden, heavy silence.
Catriona stayed on her knees, looking up at him. The playful smirk returned. “You know,” she said quietly, “for a research asset, you’re incredibly high maintenance.” She leaned forward and placed a single, soft kiss on his hip bone. “Don’t tell Granddad.” Then she sprang up, grabbed the spray bottle, and began cheerfully misting the padded bench, whistling a pop song under her breath as if she’d just finished washing a car.
Aidan reached for his grey shorts, his hands unsteady. The citrus smell was everywhere, a disinfectant mask over everything that had just happened. But underneath it, he could still smell her—bergamot, sandalwood, and the sharp, metallic truth of his own body. The data, it seemed, was never just data.