Chapter 9: Slipping Control
The cold blue glow of the SPRINT data analysis room reflected in Dr. Humphrey’s glasses as he leaned too close to the central monitor. Lines of biometric data – heart rate, galvanic skin response, neural coherence indices – scrolled past, all corresponding to Subject Bree’s session designation. The quiet hum of servers filled the sterile air, punctuated only by the rhythmic click of Dr. Park’s keyboard nearby.
"Subject Bree's responsiveness," Humphrey murmured, his finger tracing a specific spike on the graph, "was particularly notable. Unusually high neural plasticity during the manual stimulus phase..." His voice was low, almost reverent, his gaze fixed on the jagged peak representing the moment she’d gripped Mark.
Evelyn’s fingers stilled on her keys. She’d already heard variations of this observation twice in the last ten minutes. She watched him, noting the way his thumb idly rubbed the edge of the monitor where Bree’s flushed, defiant face had been displayed moments before.
On her own screen, Evelyn pulled up the file for Subject Olsen. His post-session report showed elevated cortisol levels consistent with shock, flagged for psychological follow-up. She glanced back at Humphrey, whose focus remained entirely absorbed by Bree’s data stream. The contrast was stark, unsettling. The assistant analyst, young and observant, caught Evelyn’s eye, raising a single questioning eyebrow.
Evelyn cleared her throat sharply, the sound slicing through the room’s electronic thrum. "Alistair."
He didn’t react immediately, lost in the luminous peaks and valleys of Bree’s arousal curve.
"Alistair," she repeated, firmer. He blinked, finally pulling his gaze away from the screen with visible reluctance, turning towards her with an expression of detached inquiry. Evelyn held his look, her voice carefully neutral but carrying an edge. "Given these… pronounced individual variations we're observing in Subject Travis… perhaps we should consider bringing in another female test subject? For comparative analysis. To maintain experimental objectivity."
Humphrey went very still. The subtle tension in the room amplified; even the server hum seemed to drop a notch. He stared at her, the clinical mask momentarily slipping to reveal something sharper, almost possessive, beneath. He’d been caught out, his preoccupation laid bare.
His jaw tightened visibly, a muscle feathering near his temple. He inhaled sharply through his nose, the sound audible in the quiet. For a second, Evelyn thought he might argue, might defend his singular focus. But then, the researcher reasserted control. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Objectivity. Yes." His voice was clipped, devoid of inflection. He turned back to the screen, his shoulders rigid. "Noted." His finger jabbed at a key, pulling up a dense mathematical model, but his eyes didn't truly focus. Bree’s data still pulsed behind his lenses, a silent, inescapable echo.
The sterile blue light of the data screens seemed to pulse against Humphrey’s retinas long after he’d looked away. Evelyn’s suggestion hung in the antiseptic air, sharp as a scalpel. He felt the assistant’s curious gaze like a physical weight.
“Objectivity,” Humphrey repeated, the word tasting metallic and insufficient. His knuckles whitened where they rested on the cool console edge. He forced his shoulders to relax, a deliberate, unnatural motion. “You’re correct, Evelyn. Pronounced variations necessitate broader sampling.”
He turned fully towards her, the movement stiff. The cold glow etched harsh lines around his eyes. “We need definitive data. Is Subject Br—Travis’s neural plasticity and… heightened responsiveness… an outlier? Or indicative of a potential divergence based on biological sex or some other form of predisposition?” His gaze flickered, almost involuntarily, back to the frozen image of Bree’s flushed face on his secondary monitor.
Evelyn nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. “Comparative analysis is essential.”
“Precisely.” Humphrey’s voice regained a fraction of its usual clipped authority. “We recruit another female subject. Immediately. Screening must prioritize psychological profiles distinct from Travis’s… baseline.” He paused, the silence filled only by the server hum. “And we require another male.”
He tapped a command, pulling up Mark Olsen’s personality assessment – high neuroticism, low dominance. “Subject Olsen’s reactions, while valuable, represent one extreme.” His finger jabbed at the screen. “We need a contrasting male profile. Someone exhibiting significantly lower resistance to dominance, lower baseline anxiety. See if the SPRINT interface elicits fundamentally different autonomic patterns.”
Evelyn’s fingers resumed typing, rapid clicks echoing. “Understood. I’ll initiate recruitment protocols for both cohorts.” She paused, glancing at him. “Strictly controlled variables?”
“Naturally.” Humphrey’s reply was automatic, his attention already drifting back to the luminous cascade of Bree’s biometrics. The jagged peak representing her hand on Mark’s cock seemed to burn brighter than the rest. He leaned closer, the blue light swallowing him whole. “Her coherence degradation post-stimulus… fascinating.” The murmured words were barely audible, lost in the machine’s quiet thrum.The murmured words were barely audible, lost in the machine’s quiet thrum. Humphrey pushed back from the console, the chair scraping sharply on polished concrete.
A few hours later, he grabbed his coat without looking at Evelyn or the assistant, the lab door hissing shut behind him like a sigh of release. Outside, the city’s damp chill bit through his thin shirt, neon signs bleeding colour onto wet pavement as he walked with stiff, automatic strides towards the familiar dive bar. The heavy oak door groaned open, releasing a wave of warm, beer-scented air and the low thrum of conversation.
He slid onto a cracked vinyl stool at the near-empty bar, ordering a double bourbon before his coat hit the stool beside him. The amber liquid arrived, ice clinking softly as he lifted the glass, condensation already beading on its surface. He took a long swallow, the burn spreading through his chest, failing to erase the phantom heat of Bree’s inner thigh searing his palm. Unbidden, the memory slammed into him: the booth’s shadowed corner, the press of her leg trapping his hand, the way she calmly carried on the conversation. Her small, strong fingers digging into his wrist, forcing his touch deeper against the damp fabric, the shocking intimacy of her arousal beneath his knuckles.
Humphrey closed his eyes, the glass trembling slightly in his grip. He could still smell her musk cutting through the stale bar air, feel the taut shift of her muscles as she ground against him. The raw hunger in her voice, the surrender wrapped in command – it wasn’t clinical data points scrolling on a screen. It was flesh, heat, undeniable power. He drained the bourbon, the ice hitting his teeth, the alcohol doing nothing to quell the restless thrum low in his belly. He signaled for another, the bartender’s nod a blur as the image of Bree’s defiant, flushed face in the lab overlay the memory of her parted lips in the dim booth light.
The bartender slid the fresh bourbon across the worn wood. "Rough day doc?" he asked, wiping a glass with a stained rag.
Humphrey grunted, wrapping his fingers around the cool glass. He’d cataloged thousands of orgasms, analyzed every tremor and gasp, witnessed acts most couldn't imagine—trauma survivors relearning touch, pharmaceutical trials chasing elusive erections, machines mimicking intimacy with chilling precision. He’d remained clinically detached, always. Why did her defiance, the heat trapped beneath his hand in that booth, the sharp command in her voice as she broke Olsen, resonate like a tuning fork struck against his spine?
He tossed back the bourbon, the burn failing to cauterize the memory. Her biometrics weren't just data points; they were a map of his reaction, his own pulse spiking in sync with hers on the monitor. The scent of her arousal in the bar, sharp beneath cheap beer, lingered in his sinuses more persistently than any antiseptic lab smell. Her control, even when yielding, felt like a challenge he couldn't quantify.
He slammed the empty glass down harder than intended. "Another." The ice rattled like loose teeth. It wasn't scientific curiosity gnawing at him. It was the raw, unsettling realization that Subject Bree Travis had bypassed decades of professional armor. She’d found a seam.
The bourbon burned a familiar path down Humphrey’s throat, failing to cauterize the memory of Bree’s thigh trapping his hand, the shocking intimacy beneath the table and polite group chat. He ordered another double, then another, the ice rattling like loose teeth against the glass. Neon signs bled into watery smears on the wet pavement outside the grimy bar window. Hours dissolved into a haze of amber liquid and fragmented images: Bree’s flushed defiance in the lab, the jagged peak of her biometrics scrolling endlessly, Evelyn’s sharp, knowing gaze.
His mumbled equations dissolved into incoherent whispers lost beneath the bar’s dull roar. The bartender, a grizzled man with tattooed forearms, watched the scientist slump lower on his stool, head lolling dangerously. "Hey Doc, time to call it," he stated, not unkindly, wiping the counter near Humphrey’s folded arms. Humphrey fumbled blindly in his jacket pocket, pulling out a worn leather wallet that slipped from his clumsy fingers onto the sticky floor. The bartender sighed, retrieving it, flipping it open.
Amidst faded credit cards and a company ID, only one contact slip stood out: a crisp SPRINT project contact file card labeled "Subject Travis, Aubrey B." with a photo, phone number, and a few other contact details. The bartender squinted, recognition flickering. "Hey, weren't you in here the other night with that fierce little brunette? Work thing?" He remembered the charged tension radiating from their shadowed booth. In all the years the doc had been coming to the bar, he’d never seen him interact with anyone for more than a minute, so when he not only chats up a pretty young thing, but goes over and sits down with her and friends, it’s certainly memorable. Assuming them to be work colleagues, he dialed the number scrawled on the file.
Bree’s phone buzzed violently on her cluttered kitchen table, shattering the uneasy quiet of her tiny apartment. The bartender’s gruff voice cut through the line: "Got a Dr. Humphrey here, completely soused. Only contact on him is yours. He lives nearby, but would you be able to help him get home?" Annoyance warred with reluctant obligation; she remembered Humphrey mentioning his place was just blocks from the lab district and walking distance to the bar. "Fine," she muttered, grabbing her keys.
The dive bar’s dim interior reeked of stale beer and desperation. Humphrey was a slumped, disheveled mess at the end of the bar, glasses askew, dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. "C'mon, genius," Bree sighed, hoisting his surprisingly heavy arm over her shoulders. He mumbled something unintelligible, his breath hot and sour against her neck. She dug into his jacket pocket, retrieving the wallet again, fingers brushing against the cool SPRINT ID card before finding his driver’s license with the address. "Up you get," she grunted, leveraging her weight against his unsteady frame. They stumbled out into the damp night air, Humphrey leaning heavily on her, his steps weaving and uncertain on the rain-slicked sidewalk.
The cool air seemed to momentarily sober Humphrey, or at least unlock his tongue. "Always... difficult," he slurred, head lolling towards her as they shuffled slowly down the deserted street, past darkened office buildings. "Feelings. Talking. Touching." His words were thick, stumbling over each other like his feet. "Never knew... how. Too much... inside." He gestured vaguely towards his chest, almost losing his balance. Bree tightened her grip, keeping him upright. "Physical stuff... messy. Scary." He let out a wet, humorless chuckle. "Irony, huh? Building machines for it."
Bree couldn't help the short, sharp laugh that escaped her. "Yeah, well," she said, adjusting his arm, her shoulder aching under his weight, "doesn't seem to be a problem between us, Doc." Humphrey stopped abruptly, forcing her to halt. He turned his head, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on hers in the dim streetlight glow. The detached researcher was gone, replaced by raw, drunken vulnerability. "Yes," he breathed, the word thick with a despair she hadn't anticipated. "It is." He swayed, his gaze intense despite the alcohol. "A very... different kind of problem."
The weight of his confession hung heavy in the cool night air between them. Bree shifted his sagging weight on her shoulder, the damp wool of his coat scratching her cheek. "You're drunk, Humphrey," she stated flatly, breaking the charged silence, her voice tight with unresolved tension. "Let's just get you home." She nudged him forward, his steps heavy and uncoordinated on the wet pavement. They trudged the remaining block in silence punctuated by his labored breathing and the distant city hum.
The chrome-and-glass facade of his building loomed, impersonal and cold. Bree fumbled with his keys, finally unlocking the heavy lobby door. The sudden warmth inside felt oppressive after the chill night. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the empty marble lobby. They shuffled towards the elevator bank, Humphrey leaning more heavily with each step, his mumbled apologies incoherent against her neck.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Bree hauled him inside, pressing the button for his floor. The doors closed, sealing them in mirrored silence. The motor whirred softly as they began to ascend. Humphrey slumped against her fully, his head resting on her shoulder, his breath hot and sour. "Bree," he slurred, his voice thick and low, vibrating against her collarbone. "Want... want to touch you." His hand, clumsy and heavy, brushed weakly against her ribs. "All the time." The words were a raw, drunken whisper, stripped of pretense. "Can't stop... thinking about it." He nuzzled into her hair, the elevator humming upwards. Bree froze, staring at their blurred reflection in the polished steel doors, his confession echoing in the confined space. The elevator slowed, the momentum shifting as it approached his floor.
The elevator doors slid open onto a dimly lit hallway smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and dust. Bree hauled Humphrey out, his dead weight threatening to topple them both. She wrestled his keys into the lock of apartment 4C, the brass cold against her fingers.
Inside, the space was starkly minimalist – concrete floors, low black furniture, shelves lined with thick scientific journals. No personal photos. Only a single abstract painting hung near the kitchenette, all sharp angles and muted blues. She guided him towards a charcoal-gray sofa, its fabric scratchy under her hand as she lowered him onto it.
He slumped sideways immediately, glasses slipping down his nose. Bree sighed, peeling off her damp jacket. "Stay." She headed for the kitchenette, filling a glass with tap water. The silence felt thick, charged with his drunken confession still vibrating in the air.
She returned, holding the glass out. "Drink this." Humphrey blinked up at her, fumbling for the glass. He managed a few clumsy swallows, water dribbling down his chin onto his already stained shirt. He set the glass precariously on the floor.
Before Bree could step back, his hand shot out, surprisingly fast for his state. His fingers closed around her wrist, hot and insistent. He pulled, hard. She stumbled forward, landing awkwardly half-across his lap on the scratchy sofa cushions. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her against his side. His breath, sour with bourbon, washed over her cheek.
"Bree," he mumbled, his voice thick, slurred, yet unnervingly intense. His hand slid from her waist to her hip, fingers digging in possessively, a familiar pressure echoing the lab wall. "I watch you." He swallowed thickly. "Your sessions. Sometimes... I just watch." His bleary eyes tried to focus on hers. "Not the data. Just... you."
Her breath hitched. The sterile observation room flashed in her mind – the one-way glass, the humming machine, his silhouette behind it. Always detached. Always analyzing. This admission felt like a crack in the foundation of everything she knew about him. She tried to shift away, but his grip tightened. She tried not to lean into the solid warmth of him, tried not to feel the frantic beat of her own pulse where his thumb pressed against her hipbone. She couldn't tell him she thought about him too, not while he was like this, drowning in bourbon and vulnerability, because she knew he wouldn’t tell her this if he were sober.
The raw honesty, stripped of his usual clinical armor, was terrifying. And magnetic. The question bubbled up, reckless and unstoppable, fueled by the memory of his predatory whisper against the lab wall, the phantom ache in her nipple, the way his eyes had tracked her every move behind the glass. "Do you..." Her voice was barely a whisper, rough with tension. "Do you ever touch yourself? When you watch me?"
A beat of silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Humphrey’s bleary gaze locked onto hers, the drunken haze momentarily pierced by something sharp, primal. His fingers flexed against her hip, pressing deeper. His voice, when it came, was a low, gravelly scrape against the quiet apartment air. "Yes."
The word hung between them, thick as the bourbon on his breath. Bree felt the shift against her hip first—a distinct, undeniable hardening beneath the worn fabric of his trousers, pressing into her leg where she was half-pinned against him on the scratchy sofa. Heat flooded her face, clashing violently with the cool dread coiling in her stomach. His admission wasn't just data anymore; it was a physical claim.
"Have you ever..." Her voice rasped, the question clawing its way out, fueled by the phantom ache of his fingers on her nipple in the lab, the predatory gleam hidden behind his glasses. "...watched any of your other subjects like that? Touched yourself while you watched them?"
Humphrey flinched as if slapped, his bleary gaze sharpening momentarily. His hand tightened almost painfully on her hip, a reflex. "No," he breathed, the denial rough, immediate, raw. He swallowed hard, the movement strained in his throat. "Never." His eyes searched hers, desperately earnest in his drunken haze. "Honestly. Never really... thought of them. Not like... people people. Just subjects. Variables." He shook his head slightly, a messy, uncoordinated gesture. His other hand lifted shakily, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her temple, the touch startlingly gentle against the tension. "Until you."
The quiet intensity of his confession slammed into her, more potent than the alcohol fumes. It wasn't just lust. It was an obliteration of the clinical walls he’d built over decades. She felt the solid length of his erection press insistently against her thigh again. Her own breath hitched, trapped not just by his arm but by the sheer, terrifying weight of being the one who shattered him. The sterile apartment walls seemed to close in, amplifying the frantic rhythm of her own pulse throbbing in her ears.