May 24th, 2024

“Hey, look at that,” Sofia said, her hand touching Professor Artom’s bare forearm and pointing towards a nearby berry bush. “Blackberries. You think they’re edible?”

He walked towards it and adjusted his glasses. “Those are actually, I think, black raspberries, or, um…Rubus occidentalis, I believe. I think we’re just barely too early for them, but they can ripen early, so it’s worth a shot. Worst case, you get a sour berry.”

The group sampled the berries. They were good.

“Do you like raspberry pie, Professor? I could bake some,” said Julia.

“Maybe when we get back. I’d never say no to free pie.”

“Awesome! Any allergies?” she added.

“I am sensitive to soy, in case you were thinking of adding tofu like a manic Food Network contestant. Otherwise, no.”

“No other allergies?” Sofia asked. He glanced at her.

“Not that I know of. Though it’s never too late to be halfway through your shrimp scampi and seeing Death. My Aunt Judy…”

Sofia focused on his right arm. No redness or swelling. Good.

After another long day of exploration and documentation, dinner came and went, and the sun streaked the sky with red and gold before once again dipping below the horizon and taking the day’s warmth with it. Cool breezes licked through trees as the moon rose, its disc watery against the indigo sky of dusk, the stars beginning to show themselves. Cicadas sang their screechy, chirpy hymns; birds sang their sweet ones. Sofia had just finished washing her plate when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Hey, you going over by the bags?” Professor Artom asked.

“Yeah, gonna stow my plate,” she replied.

“Do you mind grabbing my thermos on the way back?”

She smiled at Professor Artom, eliciting one in return.

“Thanks,” he said.

Sofia did go and put her plate in her bag. Then she went over to his, knelt down over it, and produced the requested thermos.

Then, reluctantly, she pulled that quarter-full vial of clear purple oil from her pocket. She unscrewed the cap.

But she froze. Her nerve abruptly faltered, gut turned to stone by the unseen gaze of Ethics Medusa. The words gripped her brain, twisted her chest: Tampering. Drugging. Poisoning. Immoral. Irresponsible. Illegal. Trust. No trust.

Sofia glanced up, watching him from afar, hands in his pockets as he chatted in typical lively fashion with a small handful of students. Suddenly, feeling another tap on her shoulder, she jumped with a gasp, concealing the small vial in her hand.

“Ope, sorry to startle ya there.”

Sofia exhaled. “That’s okay, Janie.”

“We’re gonna have a little bonfire before bed, do ya wanna join us? It’ll be lotsa fun.”

“Sure! I’ll be there in a few,” Sofia said with a polite smile. Janie returned it with a wide, gummy smile of her own, then turned and walked back to the group.

Shit. Now or never. Sofia’s head swiveled left, right, left, right, then behind her. Teeth grit, she concealed the thermos behind the large bag, then quickly, nervously uncorked the vial. She looked up at him again—still distracted. Her ears rang as she shakily dumped the dose into the tea. Just as quickly and clumsily, she shoved the vial into her pocket, screwed the thermos tightly closed, and shook it.

She hoped the dosage she’d calculated was accurate. She’d given him the same amount she’d taken the previous night, scaled for his size. The potency of the chemical did not increase exponentially, so she figured—hoped—he’d be fine.

Janie’s bonfire was not quite as fun as advertised—there is only so much semantic weight that can be carried by “lotsa”—but it served as a fine enough distraction. The group chatted, laughed, roasted marshmallows, and swapped stories. Sofia’s eyes remained all the while clandestinely glued to her professor as he produced his thermos and gradually drained its contents over the course of the bonfire.

As expected, it was a little past half an hour when she noticed his normal command of the conversation had become markedly subdued. It was a little under an hour when he arose with a stretch.

“Fun times, folks. I’m gonna shower before they close for the night and turn in. I suggest you do so while you can.”

“But they charge two dollars for five minutes,” whined Elliott. The professor snorted.

“Inflation hitting you that hard?”

“I don’t have any quarters! It only takes quarters.”

“Bro, I’ll cut you a mortgage so I don’t have to smell you,” said Mohammed to a few guffaws.

“Not that you have to bathe,” Professor Artom continued. “Part of the beauty of camping is it’s one of the few socially acceptable times it’s cool to walk around with your own…patina.”

“Exactly,” said Elliott.

“But we won’t have shower access again til we get to the hotel,” Professor Artom said pointedly. “That is in five days, folks.”

“Wait, what?” Julia murmured to herself.

“It was in the itinerary, Julia. That’s why I encourage all of you to take the opportunity tonight. You want us to still like you by the end of this trip, don’t you?”

More chuckles came from the others—though Eliott remained obstinate in his conviction to marinate in his own flavors.

As the group decided to extinguish and call it a night, most of them took the professor’s advice, including Sofia, who had no desire to wallow in any such flavors. She gleefully retrieved her soap, hair products, toothbrush, toothpaste, lotion, and an entire roll of quarters.

Sofia’s shower, hot and sudsy and steamy, was divine and much-needed. When she stepped out of the stall in her pajamas, her hair wrapped in a turban, she spied the professor across the tiled bathroom. He was bent over a tiny sink brushing his teeth, also in his sleepwear, with rubber slides on his feet and a towel round his neck. He looked up, spying her reflection in the foggy mirror.

“Miss Warbucks over here with the twenty-five minute shower,” he said, muffled by a mouth full of toothpaste foam, echoed by the room’s acoustics.

“What were you, timing me?”

“I didn’t have to. You took the longest by far. A generous benefactor of the National Park system.”

“I like to be clean,” she said simply, scrunching her hair dry with the turban as she approached him. “Besides, when you have as much hair as I do—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. When I was a kid, by the time my mom and sister finished their showers, I was lucky if mine generated steam.”

“Good. Luxurious locks need TLC. Cold showers are better for you, anyway.”

“Not when they’re involuntary,” he said, trying to spit toothpaste foam into the sink in a way that wouldn’t repulse her. “How much did that run you anyway, like twelve bucks?”

“Yessir.”

“Good thing we’re not out west. California would’ve taken that and then fined you on top of it.” He gargled some water.

“For what, having a lot of hair?”

He spit.

“Yes.”

“You going to bed?” Sofia asked, shaking her damp locks about as she sidled next to him. He smiled a bit—something about their close proximity after a shower felt novel. Cozy.

“Uh, pretty soon, here.”

“Tired?”

“Yeah.” He stopped. “Darn tired, actually. Bit queasy, too. Maybe it was that fourth hot dog.”

Sofia nodded. Darn tired. Bit queasy. Duly noted.

“Need anything?” she asked. “I’ve got Tums, Pepto, Dramamine.”

“Thanks, Doctor, I’m alright. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

The two left the bathhouse together and walked, enjoying the crisp night air as it enveloped them. With the students having retired for the evening, the grounds were quiet.

As Sofia walked with him, clutching her basket of sundries, that bundle of nerves pulsed in her gut. She recalled her experiments, her notes, her data, the many papers she’d read on the plant’s effects, trying to see if she could witness those changes in him. She noticed his hand resting on his abdomen.

“Still nauseous?”

“What’re you, a cop?” Professor Artom uttered. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Just making sure,” she said. He avoided her gaze, not wanting to show that he not only secretly relished her concern, but she was right to ask; his sense of balance was feeling increasingly uncalibrated. In fact, just then he nearly tripped on nothing at all. Sofia steadied him.

“You sure you’re feeling okay?” she asked gently, hands on his bare arms.

“I told you. Just tired,” he demurred, lacking the energy to be as agitated as he might’ve been otherwise. But his head felt light, the Earth rotating under him at a speed much faster than its usual thousand miles an hour. He was increasingly and decidedly not fine.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” she asked. He looked at her, seeing the glints in her eyes swaying even though the two of them stood completely still.

“…Kind of, actually. Can you tell?”

She nodded. “How about I help you to your cabin?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he muttered, feeling a spark as she kept her grip on his unsteady arm, their skin sticking together as they walked.

“Just to be safe,” she cooed. “It’s getting late, anyway.”

He huffed. Maybe she was right; maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if he did need assistance. Besides, he hardly had the strength to argue at this point, let alone with her. It felt safe and good to just go along with what she was saying.

Blessed by the pale light of a full moon, they walked toward his cabin in silence.

“I dunno what’s wrong with me,” he mumbled suddenly.

“Everything’s fine,” she said.

“You sure?”

“I’m positive,” Sofia replied soothingly, rubbing his arm as they walked. She sounded so sure that time he didn’t even think to question her further. She was probably right.

“Try telling me what you’re feeling as you’re feeling it,” she added.

“Body feels weak. It’s harder to think.”

“Let’s get you into bed,” she said. For once, he didn’t protest.

As their footfalls crunched, a soft, golden glimmer amid the brush caught the professor’s eye—he turned to witness the first firefly of the season, flitting amongst the shrubs, its glow leaving a lasting trail behind it.

Wait, that didn’t seem right. He blinked once to clear the trail from his vision. As it lit again, it left another.

“Pretty, isn’t he?” Sofia whispered. Her voice sounded both distant and as though it were coming from his own head.

“Yeah,” he exhaled, giving his head a shake. “’Least I wasn’t imagining it.”

Sofia, despite her obvious part in this, felt another strong twinge of guilt in her resolve. With his arm in hers, feeling the warmth of his skin against her own, her responsibility for his well-being increasing, she felt her confidence lapse.

But there was no turning back, no chance he’d emerge from this experiment unscathed. He was her most valuable test subject of all. Scientific gratification aside, this was necessary for them. His cold, stubborn reticence had impeded their relationship from blossoming as it should’ve for entirely too long.

And besides, she kind of wanted that hundred dollars.

Professor Artom was grateful to finally reach his cabin, his steps now sluggish, unsteady shuffles. Sofia looked around—the coast seemed clear, so she helped him up the steps, opened the wooden door with a creak, and led him inside. He stumbled slightly as he entered, eyes adjusting to the soft glow of lantern light that filled the wooden interior when Sofia switched it on. She placed her towel and basket next to it and moved to help him lay on his cot, but he collapsed onto it himself first.

Despite her guilt and fear, Sofia felt the fruits of her labor ripen, herself entranced by him as he laid before her now completely in the sap’s throes, his lips parted as he breathed. His eyes hung half-lidded, pupils dilated under thick lashes. They bore through her, altogether vacant and penetrating.

Her breath quickened. She sat on the edge of the bed and took out her notepad and pen from her pocket.

“Tired, you said?” she asked. The professor only nodded weakly in response. Sofia reached over and carefully removed his glasses.

Seeing him without them for the first time, she was amazed—as soon as they left his face, any tension left in his body released, seemingly unconsciously cued for bedtime. His eyes, already unfocused and sleepy, seemed naked, vulnerable without their ever-present shields.

Handsome, though. His eyes and brows were so much more striking without them. She placed the glasses on the nightstand.

Meanwhile, Professor Artom’s concerns were dissolving into nothingness. He blinked—or meant to, it was hard to tell in the dimness. Everything took so much effort, subsumed by the warm comfort of…something…

Sofia allowed him to drift as she spent a couple of minutes jotting down notes, anxiously monitoring him. Then, hesitantly, she placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyelids flew open, then squinted.

“Sofia?” he croaked, confused.

“Yes?”

“What’re you doin’ in my room?” His words were lax, missing his usual pointed enunciation.

“I led you here from the bathhouse.”

“…Thought I dreamt that.”

She grinned, clearly amused. He furrowed his brow.

“Did I not just wake up?”

“No, dear,” she said, patting his cheek. His eyes closed as his head swam, a sigh escaping him. Hearing pen scratching against paper at amplified volume, he cracked open his eyes again.

“What’re ya doin’?”

“Just some journaling,” she said sweetly. She was in clinical mode now, noting his physical presentation and mentally comparing it to her cohort of guinea pigs from her experiments. Her pencil flew across the pages: Drowsy, dizzy; mildly delirious. Cloudy but calm and reasonably coherent. Speech somewhat effortful & thick. Somewhat amnestic. Muscles weak. Skin flushed but not clammy. Pupils dilated; eyes fatigued, bloodshot.

She pinched his pale, hairy upper thigh to little response—pain diminished. She leaned over him, gently placed two fingers on his carotid, and looked at her watch.

“Takin’ my pulse?” he breathed.

She nodded. Elevated, but normal. Of course, she had to control for certain other variables, like being practically on top of him with her hands on his neck.

“Just making sure you’re okay. Which you are. I think you’ve been pushing yourself after that drive here.”

“Mm. Maybe,” he rumbled quietly.

Her hand brushed against his neck and he let out a soft moan. Sofia’s eyes snapped to her professor’s groin and widened. He was not merely hard, he was at full mast, his shorts a tent pitched perfectly for a camping trip.

“Happy to see me?” she said, pointing at his bulge with her pencil.

“Always happy to see you,” he murmured.

“Aw. So you feel good, now?”

“So good…”

Suddenly, there came a knock at the door. Sofia ignored it and continued to write, figuring it was either another student wanting something trivial or a very polite bear. The professor frowned, figuring it was a figment of his imagination. When the knock sounded again, he spoke.

“Think there’s someone at my door,” he murmured. He’d get it himself, but at the moment he found it incredibly difficult to even think of sitting up.

“It would not look good if I opened it,” she whispered.

“Why not?” he whispered back, matching her volume just because.

“We aren’t supposed to be in here together.”

“But what if it’s a student? Or a ranger? Or a bear?”

She smiled. “We don’t want him telling the others, do we?”

Giving this great consideration, he nodded and Sofia waited for the knockers to leave. They stopped knocking, but as they shuffled outside, she could’ve sworn she heard faint mumblings that included her name.

Were her classmates looking for her? Shit. She tiptoed towards the rear window, trying to minimize her steps on the creaky wood floor.

“Where you going?” he asked, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered. She pulled herself to a seated position on the windowsill and peered down at the dark ground ready to swallow her up. The cabin was raised, so she figured the distance to the ground was six feet, give or take a foot. Doable.

Sofia held her breath and slid out of the window onto the grass, landing without much of a thud, though on her ankle somewhat painfully—enough to elicit a gasp but not seriously hurt. She only hoped she hadn’t made a ruckus.

Nervous of being spotted, she jogged behind the row of cabins parallel to the path to create an appearance of natural emergence, then came around to find three of her classmates turning to leave the professor’s cabin door. One of them spotted her and waved.

“Oh, there you are! We couldn’t find Professor Artom, so we were gonna look for ya,” said Janie.

“He’s not answering the door,” Graham said.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Sofia assured them with a friendly smile, walking past them to open his door.

“Where were you?” asked Julia.

Sofia stopped and turned to her. “Just out for a little walk before bed.”

“You should check on him. You’re his favorite,” Julia clipped.

“…What do you mean?”

“Nothing. You’re just the most well-acquainted with him. That’s all.”

Sofia stared at her.

“That’s all,” she repeated.

“Yeah,” Julia said with a nod, as though this claim were unambiguous. Sofia couldn’t help but feel otherwise. Perhaps her professor’s paranoia wasn’t so unfounded after all, because she felt it herself now.

Sofia cracked open his door and leaned inside. As expected, Professor Artom laid fast asleep.

“Yeah, he’s just conked out,” she said, closing the door. “He probably needs it after the last couple of days.”

They breathed a chorus of relieved affirmations. Julia and Sofia met eyes again as the group exchanged goodnights.

Sofia wandered, watching them enter their quarters before she abruptly turned back around. There had to be something, anything on those campgrounds to give her a little boost to his window, a little leverage. She certainly couldn’t be seen going through his door now.

Navigating the grounds in the dark was treacherous with just the light of her smartphone screen, but Sofia managed only a few bumps and scrapes. After what felt like eons of searching, she struck gold sifting through a scrapwood pile near the fire pit when an old wooden milk crate graced her with its presence. She lugged it to his open window and, placing it long side up, hoisted herself to the sill.

Willing all her upper body muscles into firing at full throttle whilst praying the crate would support her weight without splintering catastrophically, she launched herself over the windowsill, her stomach see-sawing her to the floor in a clamorous somersault.

Professor Artom laid unperturbed, his furry, rounded stomach partially uncovered by his shirt, rising and falling with each snore. Sofia stared up at him in a mix of pain and admiration from a heap on the floor, her shoulder smarting from some sort of overextension. Maybe her mom was right and those yoga classes weren’t such a stupid idea, after all. She was too young to be dealing with this.

Rising carefully, dusting herself off and trying to stretch her pained joint in futile rehabilitation, she closed the window and took a few nervous steps towards her sleeping professor.

“Hey,” she said, gently shaking him. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

“Come on, get up. The bombs are falling.”

Still nothing. She leaned in and whispered into his ear.

“Benny. You’ll be late for school, honey.”

He groaned and stirred. She took the opportunity to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“No’m not,” he uttered, barely intelligible. “Gimme five minnits.”

“Stay with me,” she said, softly slapping his cheek. His eyelids cracked open with effort, then squinted as he beheld her.

“Sofia?”

“Yes?”

“I’m dreaming,” he said—not asking, merely telling himself.

“I’m just here to ask you a few questions,” she said, adjusting her blue pendant to sit atop her shirt. His sleepy squint dutifully affixed to the stone.

“Questions?”

“Questions, for m-my thesis,” she stuttered, distracted. Hundreds of nights fantasizing about those bright eyes rendered glass, and now they were. For her.

“But you finished your experiments,” he said.

“Nearly,” she said, her eyes drinking him in. “You’re my last subject.”

The dim gold of the lantern continued to flicker, casting shadows on his dazed countenance. Even while he laid prone in every sense, she felt somehow intimidated. Her chest tightened; her stomach flashed with guilt again. Who was she kidding? This wasn’t empirical research, it was a desperate, selfish dive into waters in desperate, selfish need of charting.

Though…no reason it couldn’t be both.

“Why me?” he asked. His hand slid through the ribbed collar of his t-shirt to rub his shoulder.

“I just have some easy questions for you, don’t worry,” she said, brushing past his question, picking up her pen and pad. “What’s your full name?”

“Benjamin Simon Artom.”

“Where did you grow up?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“White Plains.”

Sofia paused.

“How big is your penis?”

His brow twitched.

“My p—you asked your other subjects that?”

“You’re a special one.”

“Special…” he trailed off, eyes locked to that pendant of hers. It sounded vaguely strange, too unlikely a reason, but he hadn’t the faculties at the moment to really poke holes. If Sofia said he was special, then perhaps it was just so.

“Six ‘n’ a half. Six around.”

Thrilled by his candor, her eyes fixed on the tent in his shorts as her pen scratched against the notepad with increasing boldness.

“When was the last time you had sexual intercourse?”

His brow furrowed, head shaking slightly.

“Three—no—five years ago, now. Yeah, five. Forgot the pandemic.”

She smiled.

“With whom?”

He took a deep breath. “Jane Whelan.”

Sofia nodded and got halfway through writing the name down before her jaw dropped. Whelan, J. was a frequent citation in her work.

“No way. The Dr. Whelan from U of BC?”

“Summer conference in Boston. She gave a…God, this talk on sympatric hybridization. I had to go up to her after, and she actually read one of my papers, and then, uh…” he trailed off, a slight, fond smile gracing his features as he played back the tape. “She was cute.”

“You dog,” Sofia said with a grin. “Literally, she’s old enough to be your mom.”

“Didn’t stop me,” he uttered. “Spent most of that conference in her hotel room.”

“Was that just like a fling, or..?”

“Yeah. She’s based in, uh…”

“Vancouver, I think.”

“Vancouver, yeah.”

“Long walk from Connecticut.”

Silence settled between them as Sofia scrawled notes, her lips pressed together. She’d have to dig for more details at a later date.

“Do you have any kinks? Fetishes?”

This question gave him great pause. His mouth opened, twitching slightly, the turbulent streams of his muddled thoughts colliding with each other.

“…Yeah.”

“Give me an example.”

Silence.

“Do you like my necklace?” Sofia goaded. He opened his eyes a bit, allowing the gem to dazzle them.

“Very pretty.”

She swallowed, a sudden knot forming in her throat as she became crushingly conscious of the intimacy of the interaction.

“Do you remember the fire we sat by a few nights ago?” He nodded. “Do you remember how safe and warm and relaxed you felt?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re just as safe and warm and relaxed now. Even more so. And it feels so good to listen to me, doesn’t it?”

He exhaled, eyelids fluttering as he gazed at her necklace. Sofia’s eyes were wide as she stared at him, her breath shallow and quick.

“What is one of your sexual fetishes?” she repeated, reframing the question.

“…Restraint,” he struggled to say, his breath more labored.

“Elaborate,” she said calmly, masking her excitement.

“Uh…tying. Being tied. Being in control is great, but being at mercy…” he trailed off with a low, throaty sigh, eyes rolling closed, clearly more than titillated.

Sofia took a shaky breath, overwhelmed by him, overwhelmed by the thought of him helpless, at mercy, her mercy. Her thoughts raced—whether to use silk ribbon or rough rope, how to tie, how tightly. Tying his wrists. His ankles.

His mind.

She breathed reassurances to him, running a hand through his wild hair. This experiment was turning out disastrously well. The whole thing was so unbelievable she felt nearly out of body. Hundreds of fantasies and hypnotheses had danced through her mind about what a night like this could evince, all of which ended up lending their own truth while none went quite as reality dictated.

“What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?” she said flatly.

“I wanna know what gets Miss Bezzina going. Heh. I always thought your last name was fun to say…Bezzziiinaaaa…”

He chuckled at himself. The guileless remark amused Sofia, but she was too anxious at this sudden detour to indulge in the feeling, too busy roiling in whatever reaction was happening inside her.

“Fine, only fair. I like a lot of things. One, I’d say is…” she trailed off, faltering in sudden self-consciousness. “Mindfulness.”

“Mindfulness,” he repeated, turning the word around despite having barely enunciated it. “Meditation?”

“Sort of. I mean the intricacies of one’s mind. States of focus, concentration. Awareness. The ends to which they can be con—guided,” she switched, deftly dodging that landmine of a word. He probably wouldn’t even remember their conversation tomorrow, but nonetheless it was best avoided.

The professor laid there for a while, his eyes difficult to read. His mouth twitched at the corners, perhaps contemplating smiling but unsure if appropriate. Sofia felt her pulse quicken, waiting for his response.

“Mindfulness,” he echoed again. “…Control?” he deduced. The syllables were deliberate, as though attempting to fully grasp their implications.

Sofia gnawed at her thumb nail. Damn it, he’d picked up on it anyway.

“Maintaining it,” she said. “Even…losing it, once in a while.”

Professor Artom’s eyes met hers. “Fascinating,” he vocalized from the bottom of his throat.

Sofia’s face burned. The word ‘control’ pulsed in her mind as she attempted to regain it. She found herself somewhat chilled by how calm and unbothered he looked despite the topic, how adoring his gaze seemed.

Then the real question that’d burdened her for months finally sprung free.

“Forty-three?”

“Me? Yeah.”

“And single. Why?”

He stared at the ceiling.

“…Pro’ly ’cause…no one wants a guy you gotta hold hostage to ask that,” he murmured, laughing at his own crack. She didn’t smile, struck by how even in stupor he felt the need to deflect with humor.

His sunniness faded; he turned his head a bit. His hesitation stretched into a long pause.

“…I dunno. You tell me.” He heaved a sigh. “I’m a pain in the ass, aren’t I?”

“Well.”

“And I work a lot. And I dunno, just…never happened. Bad timing, different paths…wasn’t interested…”

He trailed off into silence. His eyes closed. Sofia, unsure if he was still awake, felt urged to press on when he continued, his voice softer and smaller and spacier than she’d ever heard it.

“Kinda thing I could take or leave. I’m lonely, but I kinda like it. Or…maybe I’m just used to it now. Guess I have pretty high standards. Doesn’t help. Not like, I deserve a supermodel…but compatibility…is…”

He paused, not entirely sure he understood what he’d just said or that he’d just said it aloud.

“…I dunno. Maybe I got the wrong idea.”

“About what constitutes an ideal partner?” she asked. He nodded. “I think it’s perfectly fair.”

Silence returned as Sofia wrote in her notebook and his eyes closed. She looked up at him.

“Do you think…you and I..?” she trailed off, courage faltering. A look of aroused content settled over his face as his hand made its way to her thigh and gripped her smooth, dark skin.

Her mind grew turbulent, staring hard at the words on the page, then at his hand. She placed her hand atop his, then leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. Then his cheek. Greed took her, her lips launching into kisses on his face, ears, and neck, inducing more helpless little sounds from the man she’d only ever heard moan in her dreams.

Overcome, she pulled his shirt up and ran kisses from the base of his neck to his hirsute, muscled chest; then down his stomach. His eyes were still closed, lips parted, cheeks peacefully flushed. Her hands caressed his shoulders. Arms. Hips.

Waistband. She tugged at it, as strong an urge pulsing through her to yank it down as to refrain. Forcefully wading through waist-deep trepidation, Sofia yanked down the waistband of his shorts, his green tartan boxers already sporting a sizable wet spot. Her heart thudded in her ears as her fingers gingerly grasped the cloaked rod, coaxing a guttural noise from its owner. An odd sense of power surged through her as she watched this powerful, rigorous mind surrender control to her hand, to mere carnal pleasure. It at least provided waders for all that trepidation.

Down she yanked his boxers and his cock sprung free, head glistening in drooling anticipation. He’d already given her his exact dimensions and still such stark proof of his virility surprised her. Seeing him emotionally naked was one thing, but coupled with real, physical undress, it was almost too difficult to behold.

She paused to stare in intense analysis. What ought she do? No man ever really begged for a handjob, only merely settled, but the sight of the thing was intimidating her, and the circumstances were exigent. Maybe she was making a mistake, but maybe not. Maybe it was the only step, the only offerance of pleasure appropriate for the moment. Another tug to effectuate his eventual unraveling.

Sofia grabbed her bottle of lavender lotion and set to tugging. He tensed as her hand grazed his throbbing, blushing heat. So did she—never before had she held such tangible power, such control over someone she so deeply respected.

If being at mercy was what he wanted, she would make it so.

A newfound confidence flooded her, shyness by the second matched with a need to render him utterly senseless. Her other hand carefully moved to his sack, cradling it, fondling it gently, eliciting from him a deep, throaty “oh”. Her fingers tightened around his cock, stretching his sigh into strained breaths from deep within that sent shivers down her spine, his hands gripping the blanket beneath him.

The satisfaction that shot through her further powered her desirous dynamo. A little shaky but fully encouraged, her hand moved more smoothly, her wrist relaxed. She changed positions, laying next to him and planting her lips on his before gripping him right beneath his head and stroking, luring another moan from his lips to hers.

She slowed her pace. He near-whined, desperately; his hips bucked in hot frustration, breath ragged. They met lips again, more fervently. Her hand quickened, its grip tight under his head.

Suddenly, he pulled back, eyes squeezed shut. Buzzes of ecstatic electric waves washed over him in rapid succession, then blasted into the world onto his own stomach.

Professor Artom laid drained but peaceful, heaving exhausted, satisfied breaths. Sofia arose to fetch something with which to clean him, then observed him for a while to reap what she’d sown.

After tucking him in, she collected her things and once again left through the rear window, reeling. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be too many bugs in his room.