Chapter 13: The New Subject
The sterile air in the SPRINT chamber tasted like ozone and disinfectant, thick with the low thrum of machinery and Jake’s rhythmic grunts. Strapped face-down on the padded platform, his muscular back gleamed with sweat as the articulated arm piston, sheathed in gleaming black silicone, pistoned relentlessly into his ass. Thrust. Retract. Thrust. The rhythm was precise, calibrated to maximize stimulation without breaching tolerance. Jake’s knuckles were white on the handgrips, his teeth gritted, a low "Fuck yeah..." escaping in time with each deep penetration. On the observation room monitors, his vitals spiked predictably – heart rate climbing steadily, neural activity forming clean, controlled peaks. Textbook. Efficient.
Dr. Evelyn Park monitored the readouts, her expression impassive. "Subject Stanton responding within predicted parameters. Neural peak at 87%, refractory dip minimal. Initiating secondary stimulation sequence." Her voice was calm, detached.
Dr. Alistair Humphrey watched, his intense gaze fixed on the screens, not the straining body in the chamber. He leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin. Disappointment was a cold stone in his gut. Where was the jagged, chaotic spike? The raw, uncontrolled clenching and screaming that Bree exhibited? Jake’s pleasure was orderly, almost polite. Predictable. Boring. Humphrey’s jaw tightened as the machine smoothly navigated Jake towards a second, shuddering climax, his shout echoing slightly in the chamber. Efficient. Soulless.
"Phase One complete for Subject Stanton. Post-arousal collection commencing." Park’s announcement felt like a dismissal.Humphrey turned abruptly, his white coat swirling. He needed data that mattered.
The next day, Humphrey again found his knuckles whitened against the console’s cold edge, his gaze fixed not on Mark Olsen’s straining body beneath the relentless piston, but on the sanitized peaks scrolling across the neural monitor. The machine plunged deep into Mark’s ass, the thick silicone shaft glistening with lube, drawing a guttural "Oh fuck, yeah!" that echoed with what sounded like rehearsed enthusiasm, not raw desperation. It was competent, efficient: Mark’s athletic frame shuddered through a third measured climax, ropes of semen splattering the sterile pad beneath him while the machine expertly massaged him through the aftershocks. Vital signs stabilized with irritating speed; no ragged breathing, no cascading neural fireworks like Bree’s chaotic, soul-deep detonations that had spiked the sensors into the red.
"Subject Olsen demonstrates exceptional refractory management," Park noted, her voice clipped, observing Mark’s fourth orgasm build with predictable precision, the piston driving hard, his balls slapping rhythmically against the machine's base. "Consistent peaks at 85-88%. Neural patterns remain orderly, efficient." She glanced at Humphrey, her expression unreadable but her tone carrying the unspoken weight. Nothing like her.
The sterile whine of the machine winding down filled the sudden quiet as Mark lay panting, spent but composed, a stark contrast to Bree’s trembling, tear-streaked aftermath. Humphrey finally tore his eyes from the flatlined screens, the sterile success a bitter taste. "Functional," he conceded, the word hollow. "Efficient. But tame. Predictable. Where is the edge?"
Park hesitated, then turned fully to him, the harsh lights reflecting in her glasses. "I am willing to admit when I am wrong. The data doesn’t lie, Alistair. Olsen’s physiology responds optimally within designed parameters." She paused, the hum of the chamber’s air system loud in the silence. "But Bree’s reactions... the sheer intensity, the refractory override... they were anomalies the machine clearly learns from, adapts to." Her gaze was steady. "You might be right." Her next words landed with clinical precision. "Using Subject Travis as a variable stimulus during other subjects' sessions... it could push the boundaries further than calibrated machinery alone."
Humphrey froze, the suggestion hanging like live wire. He pictured Jake restrained this time, Bree positioned before him, her unique, overwhelming capacity used as a catalyst. His own brutal use of her flooded back – her choked gasps around his cock, the machine pounding her. Would she submit? Could he control the experiment, or would the hunger he felt watching her consume him again? Uncertainty, cold and sharp, pierced his scientific certainty. He wasn't sure how he would navigate that precipice, let alone how she would endure it.
The sterile whine of the SPRINT machine faded to a low hum as the piston retracted, slick with lube and Mark’s release. Humphrey moved on autopilot, the heavy chamber door hissing open, the scent of sweat and ozone sharp in his nostrils. Mark lay prone, breathing heavily, his athletic frame glistening, restraints still holding his wrists loosely. "Fuckin' intense," Mark gasped, a shaky grin spreading across his face as Humphrey approached the platform. "That thing... holy shit."
Humphrey’s fingers, cold and precise despite the lingering tension in his knuckles, began unbuckling the thick strap securing Mark’s left wrist. The synthetic pad beneath Mark’s hips was soaked, a pearly pool stark against the sterile white. Humphrey focused on the buckle, avoiding eye contact, the clinical detachment a familiar shield. Mark flexed his freed hand, wincing slightly. "So, Doc," he started, his tone casual, almost eager, "when do I get to do another one of those sessions with Bree? Like, together again?" Humphrey’s fingers froze on the second buckle. A sudden, irrational heat flared behind his sternum, sharp and acidic.
No. He shouldn’t care. He couldn't care. She was Subject Travis. Data. Yet the image of her hands on him, or worse, Mark’s eager hands on her, her choked moans for someone else, slammed into his mind with visceral force. He forced his fingers to move, releasing the buckle with a sharp click that echoed too loudly. "Protocols are still being finalized," Humphrey stated, his voice clipped, colder than the chamber air, betraying none of the unwelcome possessiveness coiling tight in his gut. He shouldn’t feel this. He absolutely should not.
He absolutely should not. The thought alone—Mark’s eager hands on her skin, her cries echoing for someone else—sent a white-hot spike of fury through Humphrey’s veins, so sharp it stole his breath. He finished unbuckling Mark’s other wrist with stiff, jerky movements, the metal clasp cold beneath his suddenly trembling fingers. "Alright, Olsen," he barked, the sound harsh in the sterile quiet, "session concluded. Dr. Park will see to your post-arousal vitals and debrief." He didn’t wait for acknowledgment, turning abruptly on his heel, the sterile air suddenly suffocating, thick with the lingering scent of sweat, lube, and Mark’s release. His polished shoes echoed sharply on the gleaming floor as he strode towards the observation room door, his shoulders rigid.
Park looked up from her console as he burst through, her eyes narrowing at his storm-cloud expression. "Alistair? Is Mark—"
"Finish up here, Evelyn," Humphrey commanded, cutting her off, his voice tight, clipped, devoid of its usual detached precision. He snatched his phone from the charging dock, its smooth surface cool against his palm. "Finalize Olsen’s data packet. Standard debrief. I need to leave. Immediately." He didn’t meet her probing gaze, already jabbing his thumb viciously over his phone screen, pulling up Bree’s contact. His thumb hovered, the seconds stretching taut. He hit call, the dial tone a frantic pulse in his ear as he pushed past Park without another word, heading straight for the lab’s main exit.
The phone rang once. Twice. The corridor lights blurred as he walked, his pace quickening. On the third ring, her voice, slightly breathless, answered. "Dr. Humphrey?"
"Bree." His name felt heavy, rough. "Where are you?" He pushed through the heavy security doors into the cooler, echoing lobby, the outside world a muted buzz beyond the glass.
"Just… just got home, actually. Why? Is something wrong? Did the session—?"
"Meet me," he interrupted, the words tumbling out faster than thought. "The bar. Near my apartment. Now." He heard her sharp intake of breath, a beat of stunned silence hanging on the line. "Please," he added, the word unfamiliar, grating, ripped from somewhere raw.
Another beat. Longer this time. He could almost feel her hesitation vibrating down the line. "Okay," she breathed, the single word a fragile thread. "Okay. Fifteen minutes."
"Good." He ended the call without another word, shoving the phone deep into his pocket, the stainless-steel elevator doors sliding open before him. He stepped in, jabbing the lobby button, the image of Bree’s wide, bruised lips filling his mind as the doors hissed shut.
The elevator plunged downward, humming like an anxious synapse. Humphrey leaned back against the cool metal wall, closing his eyes. Bree’s choked gasp from the chamber echoed, merging with Mark Olsen’s grunts – a jarring symphony fueling his restless irritation. He needed to see her. Now. Outside, the city air felt thick, tasting of exhaust and impending rain as he hailed a cab, his knuckles still white around his phone.
Inside the dim, wood-paneled bar, the familiar scent of stale beer and whiskey enveloped him. He slid onto the worn leather stool at his usual corner spot, ordering a double bourbon, neat. The ice clinked sharply as he took the first burning sip, his gaze fixed on the entrance, a nerve jumping beneath his eye. Fifteen minutes stretched, each tick of the clock above the bar tightening the coil in his gut.
The door opened, silhouetting her against the streetlights. Bree paused, scanning the smoky room, her posture tense. She spotted him, hesitated only a second before weaving through scattered tables towards his corner. She slid onto the stool beside him, the scent of rain clinging to her coat. Immediately, without a word, his hand shot out, grabbed the base of her stool, and hauled her hard against his side, his palm landing possessively on her hip, fingers digging in slightly – a new, unspoken habit since the night at his apartment.
“You came,” he stated, his voice rough, the bourbon warming his throat but not his unease. He tried for normalcy, the small talk feeling alien, abrasive. “How was your day?” He kept his hand firmly on her hip, anchoring her close.
Bree shifted slightly under his grip, ordering a gin and tonic from the passing bartender. She took a quick sip, the condensation slick on her fingers. “Long,” she murmured, avoiding his intense stare, focusing on her glass. “Had an interview. At that big law firm downtown, Carter & Voss.”
He raised an eyebrow, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “And?”
“Didn’t go well,” she admitted, a bitter twist to her mouth. She traced a pattern in the condensation. “They kept talking about their corporate clients… defense contractors, big oil with questionable history on environmental safeguards. I couldn’t… I didn’t agree with some of the people they represent.” She took another, larger sip. “Felt slimy.”
Humphrey watched her, the defiance in her voice clashing with the vulnerability in her eyes. His thumb rubbed small, possessive circles on the curve of her hipbone through her jeans. “Why,” he asked slowly, deliberately, his gaze unwavering, “haven’t you applied to work for my company?”
Bree froze, her glass halfway to her lips. She finally met his stare, confusion warring with something akin to fear. “I…” she stammered, setting her drink down carefully. “I didn’t know if that was allowed. Because of the study.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Because I’m Subject Travis.”
Humphrey's hand tightened on her hip, the pressure anchoring her to the stool, to him. "The study data," he stated, his voice low and measured, cutting through the smoky bar air, "is entirely anonymized upon completion." He watched her confusion deepen, her knuckles whitening around her gin glass. "Payment records list you only as 'Consultant' for Neural Dynamics Optimization Services."
He leaned closer, the scent of bourbon sharp on his breath, his intense gaze locking onto hers. "If you applied to my company," he continued, his thumb resuming its possessive circle on her hipbone, "your file would show consulting fees received. Nothing else." He paused, letting the implication sink in, the sterile corporate mechanism offering unexpected camouflage. "You could put me as a reference, Aubrey."
Bree stared at him, her throat working silently, the raw memory of his cock stuffing her mouth in the chamber clashing violently with this cold, calculated offer of legitimacy. The bar’s chatter faded to a dull roar. "Just... consulting?" she whispered, the word fragile.
"Precisely," Humphrey affirmed, his voice regaining its detached precision, though his hand remained firmly on her, claiming. "Your participation in the study remains confidential. Irrelevant to future employment. The records are scrubbed." He took a deliberate sip of his bourbon, the ice clinking. "Consider it, Aubrey. A real path forward." The offer hung, heavy with unspoken cost, the sterile promise a stark contrast to the dark heat still simmering between them on the worn leather stool.
The gin’s sharp tang stung Bree’s tongue, failing to erase the phantom pressure of Humphrey’s grip on her hip or the brutal memory of his cock forcing her throat open. "A reference?" Her laugh was brittle, cracking under the weight of his clinical offer and the raw, unspeakable things they’d done. "After everything… you’d stand there and tell some HR drone I’m a great 'consultant'?"
Humphrey drained his bourbon, the ice rattling loudly in the sudden quiet between them. He signaled the bartender for another, his intense gaze never leaving her face. "The consulting role exists," he stated, his voice flat, detached. "The work was performed. Compensation rendered. The anonymization protocols are robust." He paused, the sterile words hanging like a shield. "Or," he added, the syllable sharp as shattering glass, "you could accelerate the process."
Bree froze, her glass halfway to her lips. "Accelerate? What do you mean?" A cold knot tightened in her stomach.
"Drop out of the study now." His words were clipped, devoid of inflection, yet landed with brutal force. "Request immediate anonymization. Today." He traced a bead of condensation on his fresh glass. "It’s an option."
Panic flared hot behind her ribs. "Why?" Her voice cracked, sharp with sudden fear. "Why would you even suggest that? Something changed. What?" Her eyes searched his face, desperate.
Humphrey hesitated. A raw tension crackled in the space between them, thick as the bar smoke. He looked away, finally, a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw. "Today," he began, his voice grating, lower now, stripped of its clinical armor, "watching Olsen… seeing the data… it became obvious." He swallowed hard, the admission ripped from him. "We need you in the chamber with the others again. As a variable. Like before."
Silence stretched, taut and suffocating. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. "And?" Bree pressed, the word barely a whisper.
His knuckles whitened around his glass. "And I realized," he confessed, the words rough, charged with a possessiveness he couldn’t hide, "there’s a part of me… a significant part… that fucking hates the idea of you back in that room with them." His intense gaze finally snapped back to hers, blazing, stripped bare. "Of anyone else touching you."
The bar’s low thrum faded beneath the raw confession hanging between them. Bree stared, the gin glass cold in her hand, the phantom ache in her throat warring with the sudden, terrifying warmth blooming low in her belly at his words. He hates it. She reached out slowly, her fingers trembling slightly before settling over his clenched knuckles resting on the sticky bar top. His skin was warm, the tension beneath it palpable.
“Alistair,” she murmured, her voice thick, “last time… with Mark… I was the one touching him.” Her thumb traced the ridge of his knuckle, a tentative anchor. “Couldn’t I… couldn’t I just talk to them? Guide them? Still be the one touching them?” The plea was desperate, a fragile shield against the memory of being used, exposed, while Humphrey watched.
Humphrey flinched almost imperceptibly at her touch, his gaze dropping to their joined hands. “We can dictate the parameters,” he conceded, his voice rough gravel scraping against the admission. “Set limits. Verbal interaction only. Your touch directed solely by me.” He lifted his haunted eyes to hers, the scientist momentarily eclipsed by something raw and vulnerable. “But that’s the fucking problem, Aubrey. I’m compromised.” The word tasted bitter. “Watching Olsen today… seeing the data… knowing what we need… and feeling this… possessiveness… it clouds judgment. It’s a contaminant.”
Bree’s breath hitched. Touched by the raw honesty, by the terrifying glimpse of the man beneath the detached doctor, yet recoiling violently from the image of being back in that sterile room, subjected to another stranger’s gaze and need. “Is it really necessary?” she whispered, her fingers tightening slightly on his. “Right now? With them?”
Humphrey exhaled sharply, a ragged sound. He turned his hand beneath hers, lacing their fingers together in a grip that was almost painful. “We can hold off,” he rasped, the concession pulled from him. “Until the new female subject completes her first session.” His intense gaze locked onto hers, stark and uncompromising. “But if her data is as sterile, as fucking predictable as Olsen’s or Stanton’s… if she doesn’t perform…” He squeezed her hand, the implication heavy, final. “We won’t have a choice.”
The bourbon burned Humphrey’s throat, a poor distraction from the jagged edge of his confession hanging between them. Bree’s fingers tightened around his, a fragile anchor in the smoky bar haze. "I... I need to think about it," she breathed, her voice barely audible over the low thrum of conversation and clinking glasses. "Let’s talk again… after the new female subject’s test." She pulled her hand back slowly, wrapping it around her chilled gin glass, seeking its cold solidity.
She took a quick sip, the sharp juniper taste failing to steady her nerves. "But…" she started, then hesitated, her gaze fixed on the condensation ring her glass left on the worn wood. "Would you… would you really be okay with it?" Her eyes lifted, searching his face with a vulnerability that felt terrifyingly exposed. "If I applied? For a job? At your company?" The question hung, heavy with unspoken implications. After.
Humphrey blinked, his intense gaze momentarily clouded. He tilted his head slightly, a furrow appearing between his brows. "You need a job, don’t you?" he asked, his tone genuinely perplexed, the scientist grappling with the subtext he couldn’t parse. "The anonymization is robust. Your qualifications are demonstrable. Why wouldn’t I be?"
Bree let out a sharp, frustrated breath, her cheeks flushing. "God, Alistair," she muttered, shaking her head, a flicker of exasperation mixing with the fear. "Sometimes you’re so fucking dense." She leaned forward, her voice dropping lower, rougher. "I’m asking if you want me around. After the study ends. If you want to keep… seeing me." The words felt clumsy, dangerous.
Humphrey stared at her. The clinical detachment evaporated instantly, replaced by something raw and startlingly immediate. "Yes," he said, the word ripped from him without a millisecond of hesitation, sharp and absolute. His hand shot out, reclaiming hers on the sticky bar top, his grip fierce, anchoring. "Yes."