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The tape measure ran directly through her pubic hair, but the professor remained clinical in his evaluation. His nearly stoic behaviour was ironically sensual to her. Her body began to feel almost challenged to gain his attention.
‘You have a very nice shape, Ms Lang.’ He rolled the tape measure up in his hand. ‘You should do well in our experiments. Now, if you’ll please move onto the table, feet in the stirrups.’
She eyed the gynaecologist’s table with something close to dread, yet Walton seemed immune to her uneasiness as she climbed onto the table. He attached sensors to her chest and neck to monitor her temperature, heart rate and blood pressure. She leaned back but, when he moved to stand between the stirrups, her legs instinctively clamped closed. He waited patiently until she summoned the courage to lift one leg and place her foot in the metal support.
She froze when his gaze went straight to her pussy, but his academic mask was firmly in place. Suddenly, Tressa realised why she was so hesitant. He’d gotten her horny. With all his seeming disinterest and absent-minded touches, he’d aroused her.
It didn’t make her feel any better. Now, she was embarrassed that he’d see.
When she didn’t move, he caught her other ankle and shifted her into position. Vulnerability made her squeeze her eyes closed. Her pussy was bare and fully visible, but this man wasn’t her doctor or her lover.
‘Slide down closer to the edge of the table,’ he instructed.
The move forced her legs wider open, but even that didn’t meet with his approval. He adjusted the stirrups until her knees were spread and her hips were tilted. The position made her defenceless, and her heart began pounding like a big bass drum.
‘I need to touch you now,’ he said. ‘Please relax.’
It was impossible to relax as his hands settled on her inner thighs. Her muscles tightened almost painfully, yet he paid no attention to her resistance. Using his thumbs, he smoothed out the lips of her pussy. ‘You’re wet. Have you been excited sexually earlier today or are you becoming aroused?’
Her breaths were coming hard. He was looking right into the depths of her, yet Marco unwillingly came to mind. ‘Both,’ she said in a strained voice.
He slid a finger into her. She was unprepared for the penetration, and the muscles of her lower back contracted reflexively. ‘Ooooh,’ she moaned as her feet pressed hard against the stirrups.
‘That’s good.’ The professor removed his finger and wiped it on a towel. ‘You need to be aroused for the experiment to be effective. It will reduce the amount of lubricant I have to use.’
Tressa’s fingers curled into the paper sheet beneath her. Arousal was one thing, but she was fighting to keep it under control. For some reason, she felt she needed to stay at his level, which was purely observatory and analytical.
‘I have one more measurement to take before we begin the actual test,’ Walton said as he tinkered around his desk. ‘I should warn you that you may experience some discomfort.’
Her eyes widened when she saw him pick up a long cylindrical object. ‘What is that?’
‘I need to measure your vagina. Today’s designers have come up with a wide array of orgasmic manipulators, but I wouldn’t want to hurt you. The measurements will help me choose the most appropriate device for your pleasure.’
‘Oh.’ The air seeped out of her lungs. His clinical language reinforced her need to stay controlled, but as she looked at the tool, she didn’t know if she could stay objective. ‘How does it work?’
He showed her the markings. ‘This will measure the length that you are comfortable taking.’
He showed her a switch at the base of the instrument. When pressed, the device expanded. ‘Obviously, this will determine the breadth. It can cause some discomfort, but our studies have shown that this can be a key factor for females to achieve orgasm.’
‘I understand,’ she said inanely. Size mattered.
Once again, the banal little man stepped between her legs. Her hips automatically tilted and he nodded with approval. He tested her wetness with a swipe of his finger and decided to avoid the lubricant entirely. She felt the blunt end of the tool press against her a moment before it was sliding into her.
The hard plastic went up, up, and up. ‘Oh! I didn’t … Oooooh!’
The smooth cylinder was touching her in places that had never been touched. She felt thoroughly impaled, and she squirmed until the professor placed a comforting hand on her tense thigh.
‘There are straps overhead if you need something to hold on to.’
Blindly, she reached upwards. Her fingers wrapped around the nylon straps, and the muscles in her arms flexed. With her legs splayed open, there wasn’t anywhere she could move. The hardness pushing into her made her want to move, though. Badly.
‘A little more … Yes, there.’ Walton leaned down and read the markings on the instrument sticking out of her opening. He picked up his pencil and carefully noted the measurement in his lab book. ‘Now this will be a little more intense.’
Tressa’s fingers turned white around the straps. God, she wanted to move. The professor, though, was still cool as a cucumber. ‘All right,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
He flicked the switch, and the effects were devastating. She could feel the pressure increasing. It was as if a man’s cock was swelling inside her. Closing her eyes, she let herself enjoy the sensation. Almost immediately, Marco’s rugged face appeared.
She whimpered when her mind latched on to the fantasy and wouldn’t let go.
‘You’re doing well.’ The professor’s hand dropped onto her abdomen. With a firm touch, he tried to calm her.
She was too caught up in the erotic daydream to be soothed. Marco’s cock was deep inside her, and it was growing. Her hips surged off the table to take more of him.
‘Oh, my!’ Professor Walton tried to settle her, but she couldn’t stop writhing. Finally, he used his weight to pin her to the table and watched the diameter measurement increase. ‘Don’t fight it. Let yourself open. Yes, that will do fine.’
‘Move it,’ she begged. ‘Please, do me with it.’
‘Now, now. If you orgasm too soon, the experiment will be a failure.’
Tressa groaned as he reversed the motion of the tool and pulled it out of her. She felt empty. She needed something inside her. Her pussy was crying for it. ‘Professor, hurry.’
He seemed thrown by the sudden change in her demeanour. Drumming his fingers against his chin, he finally chose a strange-looking item from the nearby table. ‘I think this new manipulator will suit you. It’s an exciting innovation. The phallic module moves in a lateral fashion, thus simulating the thrusting motion of a man’s hips.’
She didn’t really care. She just wanted something, anything inside her.
‘With this option, an added feature is engaged. This doughnut-shaped structure will traverse the length of the phallus, giving added stimulation to the walls of your vagina.’
‘Please, Professor.’ All her carefully cultivated poise had left her. She was a woman dying to be screwed.
‘All right.’ The professor frowned as his carefully designed experiment threatened to go awry. ‘We’ll get started.’
Tressa felt no shyness when he assumed his position between the stirrups. Her hips lifted and her shoulders pressed hard against the table as she waited. The professor didn’t waste any time. He’d measured her carefully, and she was displaying all the signs of a woman ready for penetration. He settled the knob of the device against her.
She let out a cry when it slid firmly home.
Walton didn’t need any more prompting. He turned on the automated sex toy and watched her reactions closely as the rod pumped in and out of her. ‘That’s working admirably.’
God, was it! Waves of pleasure coursed through her body. When the shaft lodged deep inside her, she ground her hips into the mattress. In her fantasy, it was Marco fucking her, making her do things they shouldn’t.
She jerked, though, when the professor turned on the other feature and that delectable little doughnut began creeping up inside her. The sensation was alarming, and it threw her out of her erotic daydream. She wasn’t with Marco. She was on a table in a research lab with her pussy being stretched and invaded.
‘Is that stimulus enjoyable?’
She wasn’t sure. It felt foreign and unnatural. Sordid. ‘Yes,’ she groaned.
Her body began thrashing about on the table, and the professor jotted down observations in his notebook as fast as he could write.
‘Ahh. I can’t …’ Tressa’s breath rasped in and out of her lungs. ‘Help me.’
The professor frowned. ‘You can’t climax?’ The question prompted his curiosity, and he bent closer to watch the toy fuck her. ‘Oh, I see. You have no stimulus on your clitoris.’
His thumb settled against her clit, and her hips surged. Her hands clamped down on the straps, and the stirrups bit into her feet. Electricity swept through her body, and she cried out as she crested. The orgasm held her for a long time. Her body strained to enjoy every last second of it before collapsing onto the table.
Eyes closed, she sank into sated oblivion. Her body lay motionless as the professor removed the toy from her tired pussy.
‘That was a most successful case study. I will certainly enjoy analysing the results.’
Tressa flinched when she felt a cool rag settle between her legs, but she was too exhausted to shy away. The professor cleaned the stickiness from her mound and thighs before helping her sit up. ‘So what is your conclusion, Ms Lang?’
Her conclusion? God, she couldn’t think, much less conclude. Her mind was still reeling.
‘About the funding.’
Oh, that. The real world came back in bits and pieces until she realised she was a vice president at Catharsis Pharmaceuticals – and she was sitting stark naked in front of a man she didn’t even know. She swallowed hard. ‘Your funding is secure.’
He was right. Women’s sexuality was just as important as men’s, and she’d been ignoring her own for too long.
Walton handed her her clothes and she dressed, but he was already entering data into his computer when she slipped on her shoes.
Tressa licked her lips nervously. ‘Should I let myself out?’
The professor glanced up and adjusted his glasses on his nose. ‘Can I expect you back next week?’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh, I don’t know. In my position …’
He looked anxiously at his computer. ‘I really need to replicate the results in order for them to have any significance at all.’
Tressa vacillated. ‘My schedule is very busy.’
‘Twice monthly then.’
She bit her lip. It was tempting to continue. ‘You can assure me confidentiality?’
‘None of my test subjects has ever been revealed.’
She glanced at the stirrups and felt a tremor run through her. Not even she had been able to find details of these studies, and her never-ending stress had been lifted. She felt relaxed, fulfilled, and sexy as hell.
Marco would never know the better.
That sealed the deal. ‘Have the confidentiality agreement written up. I’ll be here the second and fourth Wednesdays of the month.’
Walton smiled. ‘Your data could mean the difference to countless women struggling with frigidity.’
And it would mean the difference to her in a life that had become too intent on work and so devoid of pleasure. A secret little interlude. Tressa smiled softly. She couldn’t risk her job by having an affair with her driver – not yet – but she could be a test subject for one of the country’s leading sex researchers.
She just had to make sure Marco drove her every week.
Mr Wrong
Justine Elyot
He’s a dangerous person. He’s bad for me. Everybody hates him. He’s arrogant and faithless, self-absorbed and cruel.
When he dumped me, three years ago, by publicly feeling up another woman at my twenty-fifth birthday party, all my friends practically haemorrhaged with relief.
‘I didn’t like to say anything at the time but …’
‘I know you were really loved-up but …’
‘I was dreading the wedding invitation because …’
Followed by the chorus: ‘I’ve never liked him.’
I couldn’t possibly blame them. I don’t like him either, for all the reasons outlined above.
So why am I meeting him, in secret, every chance I get?
My dictionary defines addiction as: ‘the condition of being enslaved to a habit or practice to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma’. It’s as good an explanation as any. I’m not sure I experienced severe trauma when we split, but there were a lot of wet pillows on my bed for months afterwards. And even when the pillows were dry again, the bed felt so empty, so bleak. I couldn’t envisage a replacement for him there, even if I did go to the pictures or eat out with the occasional nice guy. The occasional nice guy never made it up the stairs. He just seemed to have the wrong pheromones. He wasn’t Luke.
He didn’t size me up and strip me with his eyes within a second of looking at me. He didn’t do that slow burn over the table linen that had me gagging for it by the time the dessert menu arrived. There wasn’t that constant low-level possibility of being thrown up against a wall, whenever and wherever, and taken.
Those things were part and parcel of Luke. If only they didn’t come with the cruelty and the self-absorption and the rest of it.
It helped that we didn’t live in the same town, and I thought I was over it until he walked into my estate agency, looking for details of executive one-bed apartments by the harbour.
I was in the back office at the time, so I didn’t see him come in. I walked out with a sheaf of mailing lists to put into envelopes and almost dropped them all over the floor. I thought perhaps I’d been shot. That face, that hair, that tall athletic body. The shock of the initial bullet through my heart spread to infect my crotch with unwanted waves of sense-memory. The things he’d done to me … wicked, delicious things that nobody had done since. I couldn’t look at his fingers without recalling their explorations, nor hear his soft-spoken voice without the words mutating into the hot-breathed obscenities he used to whisper into my ear.
He looked up and I gripped the mailshots harder, determined to look unflustered and indifferent.
‘Ruthie.’ That smile. Why was it having the same effect on me it used to have? I looked for hatred and bitterness, found only lust. ‘I was just asking after you. I hoped you’d still be here. Do you mind?’
He dismissed my colleague, who vacated his chair for me and disappeared, taking over my envelope-stuffing task.
‘Of all the estate agents in all the world …’ I said, trying to keep control of my wobbly voice, keep it calm. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I got a promotion to the local office.’
‘You aren’t moving here?’
‘On the contrary. So I need your finest selection of bachelor pads. You’re looking well.’
The change of tack steered me off course. I think, to my horror, I might have blushed.
‘Bachelor pads,’ I said, studiedly ignoring the compliment, clicking my mouse ostentatiously and scrolling through pages of listings.
‘I’m just grateful you didn’t knock my block off,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘Can’t really ask for more than that.’
‘What’s your upper price limit?’
