embedded triggers in my psyche. How can anyone else be trusted around her?
It takes everything I have to stay at Caspian’s side. My feet twitch, wanting to rush me toward the draped walls so I can burst in. I feel my epinephrine and vasopressin response, brewing a cocktail of rash action within me.
Caspian looks over and, with a crocodile smile, says, “What do you think they’re doing in there?”
“Waiting for you to tell them what to do,” I say, as steady as I can.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at her.”
I swallow. Watching the silent curtains for a sign. Any sign.
“And I’ve seen the way she looks at him.”
My jaw works. I want to stay perfectly calm, but I can’t. Not long ago, I told Bridget that jealousy was a turn-on. In a way, if you can control it, that’s true. If a man has sex with a woman after she’s been with a rival, he’ll come harder and in larger volumes. But right now, I just want whatever this is to end.
“She’s not going to do something just because you’ve isolated them. She doesn’t like being manipulated.”
“Perhaps,” Caspian says, watching the still, silent tent in the room’s center. “But perhaps this isn’t manipulation at all.”
I get an avalanche of unwanted mental images.
Trevor kissing Bridget’s lips.
Trevor’s hand on the side of her face, his fingers soon traveling lazily down her neck, sliding under her dress, against her skin.
The dress straps lowered. Her breasts out in the open air. Trevor’s hand cupping one, his thumb playing with the stiffening nipple. His mouth on her as she arches her back, closing her eyes.
I wonder if, since the incident in the hallway, Bridget has found jealousy to be a less-than-ideal turn-on, too.
I strain to hear sounds, but nothing comes.
“Are you going to do anything at all?” I ask Caspian. It’s hard to speak.
“I’m doing plenty.”
“If this gets you off, don’t you want to raise the curtain so you can catch them … ”
My mouth won’t finish the sentence. Caspian only smiles. My mind, however, obliges.
Trevor standing, Bridget still on the chaise, his fly open, his cock in her mouth. Long, slow, steady strokes. Loving him. Kissing the head.
Bridget with her dress hiked up, legs open, pussy bare.
Trevor touching it.
Licking it.
Kneeling between her spread thighs, touching his dripping dick tip to her wet folds, rubbing it back and forth, playing with her. Then pushing in, filling her up.
She looks up at him: those blue-green, beautiful eyes. She gives a little shiver and moan but keeps otherwise quiet. Because when they come out of there, they’ll both pretend like it didn’t happen.
“End it,” I say.
“This is my challenge,” he replies.
“It’s pointless. You can’t see what’s happening. There’s no way to study the results, or draw any valid conclusions. You’re muddling our data.” I grasp at a pointless straw: “You’re jeopardizing the entire experiment.”
“As you have?”
That’s when I realize I can hear subtle music in the background — the kind I’ve played in countless conditioning trials. And very slightly, I can smell the distinctive scent of camphor, like mothballs. I’ve never used camphor at the mansion, but I used it all the time in another set of trials, studying sex and aggression.
“What are you trying to learn, testing her like this?” My mind is spinning out of control. I’m starting to perspire, and my sweat has the scent of adrenaline. I barely feel like a human being. I’m an ape. A wolf. A beast of claws and teeth and fury.
Caspian scoffs.
“I’m not testing her, Daniel.”
Fists clench. Teeth grate. I imagine the drapes as a window, and it’s as if I can see everything inside. Trevor is balls-deep inside Bridget. He’s in her mouth. He’s in her ass. He’s coming in great spurts all over her, soiling her beautiful hair.
And
It takes everything I have to stay at Caspian’s side. My feet twitch, wanting to rush me toward the draped walls so I can burst in. I feel my epinephrine and vasopressin response, brewing a cocktail of rash action within me.
Caspian looks over and, with a crocodile smile, says, “What do you think they’re doing in there?”
“Waiting for you to tell them what to do,” I say, as steady as I can.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at her.”
I swallow. Watching the silent curtains for a sign. Any sign.
“And I’ve seen the way she looks at him.”
My jaw works. I want to stay perfectly calm, but I can’t. Not long ago, I told Bridget that jealousy was a turn-on. In a way, if you can control it, that’s true. If a man has sex with a woman after she’s been with a rival, he’ll come harder and in larger volumes. But right now, I just want whatever this is to end.
“She’s not going to do something just because you’ve isolated them. She doesn’t like being manipulated.”
“Perhaps,” Caspian says, watching the still, silent tent in the room’s center. “But perhaps this isn’t manipulation at all.”
I get an avalanche of unwanted mental images.
Trevor kissing Bridget’s lips.
Trevor’s hand on the side of her face, his fingers soon traveling lazily down her neck, sliding under her dress, against her skin.
The dress straps lowered. Her breasts out in the open air. Trevor’s hand cupping one, his thumb playing with the stiffening nipple. His mouth on her as she arches her back, closing her eyes.
I wonder if, since the incident in the hallway, Bridget has found jealousy to be a less-than-ideal turn-on, too.
I strain to hear sounds, but nothing comes.
“Are you going to do anything at all?” I ask Caspian. It’s hard to speak.
“I’m doing plenty.”
“If this gets you off, don’t you want to raise the curtain so you can catch them … ”
My mouth won’t finish the sentence. Caspian only smiles. My mind, however, obliges.
Trevor standing, Bridget still on the chaise, his fly open, his cock in her mouth. Long, slow, steady strokes. Loving him. Kissing the head.
Bridget with her dress hiked up, legs open, pussy bare.
Trevor touching it.
Licking it.
Kneeling between her spread thighs, touching his dripping dick tip to her wet folds, rubbing it back and forth, playing with her. Then pushing in, filling her up.
She looks up at him: those blue-green, beautiful eyes. She gives a little shiver and moan but keeps otherwise quiet. Because when they come out of there, they’ll both pretend like it didn’t happen.
“End it,” I say.
“This is my challenge,” he replies.
“It’s pointless. You can’t see what’s happening. There’s no way to study the results, or draw any valid conclusions. You’re muddling our data.” I grasp at a pointless straw: “You’re jeopardizing the entire experiment.”
“As you have?”
That’s when I realize I can hear subtle music in the background — the kind I’ve played in countless conditioning trials. And very slightly, I can smell the distinctive scent of camphor, like mothballs. I’ve never used camphor at the mansion, but I used it all the time in another set of trials, studying sex and aggression.
“What are you trying to learn, testing her like this?” My mind is spinning out of control. I’m starting to perspire, and my sweat has the scent of adrenaline. I barely feel like a human being. I’m an ape. A wolf. A beast of claws and teeth and fury.
Caspian scoffs.
“I’m not testing her, Daniel.”
Fists clench. Teeth grate. I imagine the drapes as a window, and it’s as if I can see everything inside. Trevor is balls-deep inside Bridget. He’s in her mouth. He’s in her ass. He’s coming in great spurts all over her, soiling her beautiful hair.
And
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