Chapter 2: Hands on His Chest
The laughter died down, leaving a hollow, breathless quiet in its wake. The only sounds were the persistent, soft thrum of the pump and the syncopated rhythm of their breathing. Jason became acutely aware of the absurd reality again: the gentle, insistent pull between his legs, the residual tingling across his ribs, Simon’s slight weight warm on his abdomen, and the cold kiss of the ankle cuffs.
Simon’s forehead was still pressed against his collarbone. “The cycle has eight minutes remaining,” he murmured, the words vibrating against Jason’s skin. “Are you… okay?”
Jason considered the question. His body felt like a live wire that had been stripped and re-sheathed. Every nerve was reporting in, hypersensitive. The anger was there, but it was banked, smoldering under a heavier, more confusing weight of fascination and a dawning, terrifying empathy. He’d seen the naked need in Simon’s eyes. It was a mirror to a loneliness he knew too well.
“I don’t know what okay is,” Jason said honestly. His voice was rough. He let his hand slide from Simon’s hair down to the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the knob of his spine. “But I’m not… leaving.”
Simon drew a shuddering breath. He lifted his head. His glasses were fogged. He took them off, wiping them clumsily on his shirt before hooking them back over his ears. The action was so ordinary, so Simon, that it cracked something open in Jason’s chest.
“The data from the embrace was… unprecedented,” Simon started, his researcher’s brain flickering back online. “Oxytocin levels spiked well beyond the post-orgasmic baseline, cortisol plummeted, even though the subjective experience likely contained elements of psychological distress—”
“Simon.”
“Right. Shutting up.”
But his hands, which had been clenched on Jason’s shoulders, began to move. They were hesitant at first, just resting on the damp cotton of Jason’s t-shirt. Then his fingers began to explore, mapping the terrain of Jason’s chest through the fabric with a tactile curiosity that was entirely separate from the machine’s clinical precision.
“You can touch me,” Jason said, the words leaving him in a rush. “Show me what you built this for. Not the machine. You.”
Simon’s blue eyes widened. A flush crept up his neck. For a genius who had orchestrated this entire scenario, he looked utterly lost. His fingers flexed.
Slowly, he pulled at the hem of Jason’s shirt, tugging it up. Jason lifted his arms, helping, and the shirt was peeled away and discarded to the concrete floor with a soft sound. The basement air raised goosebumps on Jason’s exposed skin. Simon stared, his gaze a physical touch.
“I memorized the topography,” Simon whispered. His fingertips hovered an inch above Jason’s sternum, then landed with exquisite lightness. “Subcutaneous fat distribution here is nearly zero. The pectoralis major is defined but not bulky. Sensor readings indicated incredible density of nerve endings here, and here.”
He traced two paths outward, circling Jason’s nipples without touching them directly. Jason shivered, his back arching slightly off the pad. The touch was feather-light, a whisper of intent. It was a world away from the machine’s targeted onslaught. This was human. This was inquiry.
“Prove it,” Jason breathed.
Simon’s thumbs brushed over the tightened peaks.
A sharp, bright spark shot through Jason, utterly different from the tickling. It was a clean line of pleasure, direct and unexpected. He gasped, his hips pushing up involuntarily. The movement made the suction cup shift, and a low groan tangled with the gasp.
Simon watched his face, utterly rapt. “Tactile aperture wider than average. Direct neural link to the lumbar plexus.” His clinical mutter was a counterpoint to the worship in his touch. He did it again, a firmer, slower circle, his other hand coming up to mirror the motion.
“God,” Jason choked out. His hands, still free, fisted at his sides. He wanted to grab Simon, pull him closer, but he forced himself to stay still, to let this happen. To let Simon show him.
“You like that.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. Obviously.”
“The machine could never replicate the variance in pressure. The living feedback. The… intent.” Simon leaned down, his breath warm on Jason’s skin. He replaced his thumb with his mouth, lips closing softly around one nipple.
Jason cried out, a ragged sound that echoed off the concrete. Heat surged through him, pooling low in his belly, syncing with the rhythmic pull of the pump. His fingers finally moved, diving into Simon’s dark hair, not pushing or pulling, just holding on.
Simon’s tongue worked him with a focused, experimental precision. He kissed a trail across Jason’s chest to the other side, his hand moving down, skirting the waistband of Jason’s jeans, which were still pushed down around his thighs. His palm flattened on the quivering plane of Jason’s stomach.
“Abdominal muscles are in a state of tonic vibration. Fascinating.” The words were mumbled against his skin.
“Will you stop narrating my abs?” Jason laughed, breathless.
“I’m just observing the data.”
“Observe this,” Jason said, and tugged his hair, gently.
Simon lifted his head, his lips slick and parted. He looked debauched. Beautiful. He blinked, then a slow, real smile spread across his face. It wasn’t the mischievous grin or the clinical mask. It was soft. Unpracticed.
The pump chose that moment to shift into its final phase, the rhythm slowing to a deep, drawing pulse that felt less like milking and more like an invitation. Jason’s breath hitched. A fresh, urgent warmth began to coil tight within him again, fueled by Simon’s mouth, his hands, his weight.
Simon saw it. He read the tension in Jason’s body like a living graph. His hand slid lower, past the trapped waistband, his fingers curling around the base of the silicone cup where it met skin. His touch was a brand.
“The cycle is almost complete,” he said, his voice thick. “The post-stimulation refractory read is optional. We can stop it.”
Jason’s mind was fogged with sensation. Stopping sounded logical. But stopping meant this—Simon’s hands on him, this charged, impossible bubble—would pop. They’d have to face the fluorescent overhead lights and the walk upstairs and the terrifying conversation about what came next.
He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to see where this data led.
“Leave it on,” Jason said. He guided Simon’s hand, pressing it firmly over the cup. “Show me the rest of the study.”
Simon’s eyes darkened. He nodded, a quick, sharp motion. He shifted his weight, kneeling up on the chair to straddle Jason’s thighs instead of his stomach. The new position brought them closer in a different way. He leaned over Jason, bracing one hand on the headrest, his other hand still pressed where Jason had put it.
“The final stage measures response to concurrent, multi-zone stimuli of varying intentions,” Simon whispered, his mouth by Jason’s ear. “Pleasure. Overload. Trust.”
He dipped his head and captured Jason’s mouth.
It wasn’t a gentle first kiss. It was a claim. It was deep and hungry and tasted of salt and copper and Simon. Jason met it with equal fervor, his free hand coming up to claw at Simon’s back, pulling him closer. The machine hummed. Simon’s tongue mapped the inside of his mouth with the same meticulous attention he’d given his skin.
At the same time, Simon’s trapped hand began to move in time with the pump’s slow rhythm, applying pressure, guiding the sensation. His other hand strayed back to Jason’s ribs, not tickling now, but pressing in with a firm, knowing touch that walked the perfect line between pleasure and torment.
Jason broke the kiss with a gasp, his head thrashing side to side. He was pinned between the kiss, the hand, the machine, and the unwavering certainty of Simon’s focus. He was being rewritten. The confusion, the betrayal, the laughter—it was all being fused in this crucible of sensation into something new, something hot and forged and desperately fragile.
“Simon… I’m gonna…”
“I know. The biometric preview is spiking. Let it happen. I have you.”
The permission shattered him. The coil snapped. Pleasure tore through him, violent and cathartic, wrenched out by the machine and Simon’s hand and the feeling of Simon’s breath, ragged and shared, against his cheek. It was longer, deeper, emptier than the first time. He saw stars behind his eyelids.
When the tremors subsided, the pump switched off with a definitive click. The sudden absence of its sound and rhythm was a shock. Silence rushed in, broken only by their panting.
Simon carefully, tenderly, detached the cup and the tubing. He placed the apparatus aside on a tray with a soft clink. He didn’t move from his position straddling Jason’s legs. He just looked down, his expression unreadable.
Jason felt boneless, scraped raw, completely empty. And somehow, more present than he’d ever been. He reached up, his hand trembling, and wiped a tear from the corner of Simon’s eye. He hadn’t even realized Simon was crying.
“Your data any good?” Jason asked, his voice wrecked.
Simon let out a wet, choked sound that was almost a laugh. “It’s perfect.” He fumbled with the tablet on the workbench, his movements sluggish. He tapped it. The ankle cuffs released with a quiet sigh.
The feeling of total freedom was overwhelming. Jason’s legs felt like jelly. Simon slid off him, standing on unsteady feet, and offered a hand.
Jason took it. His legs buckled as he stood, and Simon caught him, pulling him into a tight, full-body hold. They stood there in the center of the lab, surrounded by the silent, glinting evidence of Simon’s obsession, clinging to each other.
“I’m sorry,” Simon breathed into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. It was the only way I knew how.”
Jason held him tighter. He understood, in a way that scared him. “You’re buying me a lot of dinner. And we are never doing that again.”
“Never again,” Simon agreed quickly.
“Unless we want to,” Jason added, the words out before he could think.
Simon went very still. He pulled back just enough to look at Jason’s face, searching for a joke. He found none.
A slow, dawning wonder replaced the fear in his eyes.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. The mundane sound of the old house was a reminder of a world outside this blue-lit bubble. Jason shivered, suddenly aware of his state of undress, the drying sweat, the profound emotional hangover waiting in the wings.
“Come on,” Simon said, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual practicality. He bent and picked up Jason’s discarded t-shirt, handing it to him. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll make you that awful ginger tea you like. We can… talk. Or not talk.”
Jason pulled the shirt over his head. It smelled like the lab, like him, like Simon. He took Simon’s hand again, lacing their fingers together. The grip was firm, an anchor.
He took one last look at the chair, the machine, the map of his own body still glowing faintly on the tablet screen. It wasn’t an end. It was a violently strange beginning.
“Lead the way, Doc,” he said.
And together, they walked toward the stairs, leaving the humming silence of the lab behind, stepping into the uncertain light of what came next.
The climb up the basement stairs was a journey through layers of reality. Each step away from the blue glow and the smell of ozone felt like surfacing from deep water. The kitchen light was blinding, yellow and harsh, illuminating the mundane clutter of unwashed mugs and a half-eaten bag of chips on the counter. Jason blinked, his hand still gripping Simon’s as if for ballast.
“Tea,” Simon said, the word a brittle anchor in the quiet. He moved to the kettle, his fingers fumbling with the switch. “Ginger. With too much honey, just how you…” He trailed off, staring at the kettle as it began to rumble.
Jason leaned against the doorway, feeling the cool wood frame through his thin shirt. His body was a archive of new sensations—the phantom pull of the suction, the exact memory of Simon’s mouth on his skin, a deep ache in his shoulders from the cuffs. He watched the tense line of Simon’s back. “You okay?”
Simon didn’t turn. “I violated approximately seventeen ethical codes. And my best friend.” The kettle whistled, a sharp shriek. He jumped. “So. No.”
“You asked. I signed.” Jason pushed off the doorframe and walked over. He took the honey from a sticky cabinet, his elbow brushing Simon’s shoulder. “I’m a big boy. Pissed, yeah. But here.”
Simon finally looked at him. The fear in his eyes was raw, but underneath was that same terrifying focus. “Why are you here?”
Jason spooned honey into a chipped mug. “The two hundred bucks is still happening, right?”
A flicker of a smile. “Of course.”
“Then that’s why.” He nudged Simon aside to pour the water. The steam bloomed between them, warm and damp. “And because you cried.”
They took the mugs upstairs, the silence now a tangible thing, a third presence in the narrow hallway. Simon’s bedroom was a reflection of his mind: ordered chaos. Books stacked by subject on the floor, a disassembled laptop beside the bed, schematics taped to the walls. The bed was neatly made, a stark island of discipline.
Simon moved towards it, setting his mug on the nightstand with a click.
“Nope,” Jason said, his voice quiet. He nodded towards the massive, faded navy blue beanbag slumped in the corner, a relic from their teenage gaming marathons. “There.”
Simon hesitated, a protest forming on his lips about support and posture. Then he exhaled, a soft surrender, and let Jason guide him by the elbow to the oversized cushion.
They sank into it, the beans shifting with a sound like a sigh. The beanbag enveloped them, tilting them together. Jason settled back, stretched his long legs out, and without ceremony, put his arm around Simon’s shoulders. He pulled, firmly, until Simon’s rigid frame relented and leaned into him, his head coming to rest against Jason’s chest.
“See?” Jason murmured into his dark hair. “Better than the bed.”
Simon made a non-committal noise, but his body slowly unclenched, molding against Jason’s side. He was warm. Jason could feel the rapid thrum of his heart finally beginning to slow. He sipped his tea; it was scalding and too sweet, perfect.
“So,” Jason said, staring at a schematic on the far wall that might have been a better coffee maker or a portal to another dimension. “Work. Anything… non-human-testing going on?”
Simon’s laugh was a puff of air against his shirt. “The university is auditing the grant for the piezoelectric polymer. Again. They think the energy yield projections are ‘fanciful.’” He made air quotes Jason could feel.
“Assholes.” Jason took another sip. “Tell them to strap themselves to your chair. That’ll change their minds.”
Simon went very still. The joke, too soon, landed like a lead weight between them. Jason regretted it instantly, the lightness evaporating. He tightened his arm around Simon’s shoulders, an apology in the pressure.
“Sorry. Too much.”
“It’s…” Simon shifted, not pulling away, but tucking himself closer, his voice muffled. “It’s the reality. I did that. To you.”
“Yeah. You did.” Jason let the truth hang there, undeniable. He didn’t soften it. He traced an idle pattern on Simon’s upper arm with his thumb, over the fabric of his shirt. “You also knew that spot below my ribcage would make me cry-laugh. You knew the exact rhythm. You knew I’d…” He couldn’t finish the thought about the second orgasm, the surrender.
“The data was comprehensive,” Simon whispered, a feeble defense.
“This isn’t data, Simon.” Jason’s hand stilled. “This is you remembering, for years, every time I squirmed or laughed too hard. Cataloging it. Building a goddamn cathedral to it in your basement. That’s not science. That’s something else.”
Simon was silent for a long time. The house settled around them. A car passed outside, its headlights painting a moving stripe of light across the ceiling.
“What is it, then?” Simon’s question was so small, so utterly vulnerable, it cracked something open in Jason’s chest.
Jason looked down at the top of his head. He thought of the map on the screen, the glowing points of his own vulnerability rendered in amber light. He thought of Simon’s hand on his chest, steadying him, claiming him, in the middle of the storm he himself had created.
“I don’t know,” Jason said honestly. The words felt inadequate, but true. “But we’re sitting in it.”
He felt Simon nod, a slow, weighted movement. They drank their tea. The conversation, stilted and careful, turned to safer things: a leaking faucet Simon meant to fix, Jason’s shift manager being a jerk, a new Thai place that had opened downtown. The mundane words were a life raft, a way to exist in the same space without drowning in the enormity of what had happened in the room below.
As they talked, Jason’s body, flooded with adrenaline and exhaustion and the chemical remnants of everything, began to finally relent. The deep ache became a heavy warmth. The sensory memory of the machine faded under the solid, present reality of Simon’s weight against him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
His own breaths deepened, slowed. The words coming out of his mouth about his upcoming schedule began to slur, to lose their shape. His head tipped back against the beanbag, his arm a loose, comfortable weight around his friend.
Sleep pulled him under not with a struggle, but with a gentle, irrevocable tide. In the last moment of consciousness, he felt Simon carefully extract himself, just enough to take the slipping mug from Jason’s lax fingers.
He heard the soft clink of ceramic on the floor, then felt a blanket being draped over him. Simon’s fingers, so adept with tools and sensors, brushed his forehead, pushing a stray strand of hair from his eyes. The touch lingered, a question mark in the dark.
Jason didn’t open his eyes. He let out a contented, sleep-thick sigh and turned his face into the touch, an unthinking answer.
In the darkness, Simon stayed perfectly still, watching him, the blueprint of the boy he’d always loved now breathing softly, trustingly, in his care.