Samantha paused in front of the university's notice board, edging closer to avoid the steady stream of students heading towards the cafeteria, or outside to enjoy the early summer sunshine. Her attention had once again been caught by one particular flyer. It was one of dozens crowding the board, black print on an A4 sheet of pale pink paper, but the thing that most caught her eye was the line at the bottom that read: "£200 per hour". She was off on a holiday to Barcelona at the end of the month with some of her friends from back home and that kind of spending money would certainly come in handy.
It must be a mistake, it's way too high, she thought to herself as she leant in to study it more closely. Maybe they meant £2.00 per hour? But that would be too low. She hooked an errant strand of her auburn hair over her ear as she read the rest of the text, hoping for clues.
"Broad-minded female volunteers required to test and review female-oriented sex toys. Applicants must be healthy, available from the 8th to the 22nd of May, and willing to openly discuss their sexuality. Please apply to Dr Phoebe Johnson..." followed by an email address and phone number.
"Thinking of applying?" said a voice behind her, and spinning around Sam spied the pretty face of her best friend Abby peering over her shoulder. They'd known each other for a year now, having met during fresher's week when they'd found they were on the same History of Art course and had since spent many drunken nights out at the union bar. She was a petite young woman, her dark hair cur in a neat bob, framing a pretty face with large pale blue eyes. Like Sam, she was cheerful and optimistic by nature and Sam had quickly grown used to the sound of her light, melodic laughter.
"Yeah, I mean I'm not sure I'm totally comfortable talking about sex toys but I'd be willing to do it for £200 per hour."
"Me too. Do you think that's right?" Abby said, echoing her thoughts.
"I mean it does seem very generous."
"Well, I guess there's only one way to find out, let's try the number," Abby said, slipping a slim mobile 'phone from the back pocket of her skinny jeans.
--
Back in her dorm room, Sam lay face down on her bed and flipped opened her laptop, quickly finding the email that Dr Johnson had promised to send to both her and Abby. Opening it, she found a brief message that confirmed the details on the flyer and included a link that when clicked lead her to an online form.
The first part was straightforward: she entered her name, her student address and twenty for her age, although it was her twenty-first birthday next week.
The second section was a little more personal: she entered "heterosexual" for her "sexual orientation". She ticked "No" for "Are you currently in a sexual relationship?", then confessed "Yes" for "Do you currently own a sex toy?" She actually owned two: a realistic penis-shaped dildo, and her favourite bright pink vibrator, both of which she'd bought since splitting up with her ex-boyfriend Jeff two months earlier.
"How many times do you masturbate per week?" made her pause, but in the end it seemed safest to check one of the middle options "two", although that was probably an underestimate. The next question was even more personal: "How often do you achieve orgasm when alone or with a partner?"
She paused, curling a thin strand of auburn hair around her finger as she thought how best to answer honestly but concisely. She'd partly split up with Jeff, because he'd been quite selfish in bed and the sex just hadn't been that great. She didn't always achieve orgasm when she masturbated either. The dorm was quite noisy and she found she needed to concentrate on a particularly hot fantasy or past experience to climax.
Sometimes it helped to think about the last time that Jeff had made her cum. It had been near the end of their relationship, when they spent a lot of time bickering. They'd been out at the spring ball and after a tetchy argument, she'd got her revenge by teasing him all evening, slipping her hand in the pocket of his smart black trousers to examine his growing arousal and, spurred on by too many cocktails, whispering all sorts of naughty things in his ear. When they finally got back to his room, he'd been like an animal, tearing at her summery floral dress and throwing her onto the bed, then leaping on top, his weight pressed between her spread thighs, his hands pinning her wrists to the pillow as he fucked her hard and fast. Afterwards, she'd told him that she hadn't liked it and he'd been too rough, but the truth was that his passionate desire had been such a turn-on that she'd come as soon as he'd forced his super-hard cock inside her.
Anyway, since then, her love life had been non-existent and she'd become quite frustrated as her dry spell continued. She'd had some strange erotic dreams recently, some of them featuring Abby, her friend coming back to her dorm after too many glasses of wine to comfort her after splitting up with Jeff, placing a consoling arm around her shoulder, and one thing leading to another...
In the end she had to summarise, typing "Not currently in a relationship, can usually orgasm when masturbating" into the box and scrolled to the end.
She knew she should probably read the lengthy Terms and Conditions, but did anybody really do that? "Life's too short" she muttered to herself as she quickly skimmed through the dense text then checked the box saying she understood them then stabbed the Submit button already calculating about how many Espresso Martinis two hundred pounds would buy.
--
A week later, she found herself seated next to Abby in a spacious, sterile waiting area. She'd never been to the research complex before; it was separate from the rest of the campus, a brisk ten-minute walk from their halls of residence and mainly frequented by Psychology and Biology students. It was a very modern looking building, all steel and glass, and the receptionist had directed them to this waiting room after checking their student passes and names on her computer screen.
Beside her, Abby was jiggling her knees and glancing at her slim gold watch anxiously. Despite it only being May, she had already seemed to have caught the sun and Sam couldn't help envying her smoothly tanned skin. Like Sam, she was dressed casually in jeans, tennis shoes and a t-shirt on this warm afternoon.
"You nervous?" Sam asked.
"A little, I guess," her friend replied. "What do you think we'll have to do?"
"I don't know. I guess we'll just be looking at new models of vibrators. You know, seeing how they feel, talking about what kinds we prefer, the most attractive colours, how much we'd be willing to pay for them, that kind of thing."
"Yeah, I suppose. Although it doesn't seem like that would justify the two hundred pounds per hour."
"Mmm," Sam agreed thoughtfully.
Opposite them and off to one side was their destination, a plain white door labelled "Lab 2a". In the silence that enveloped them as they checked their mobile phones, they could hear some noises from behind it, a distant, muffled female moaning that seemed to gradually grow louder and more agitated then stopped abruptly.
Abby twisted towards her and raised her fine eyebrows: "Gee, sounds like someone's enjoying the testing," she concluded as they exchanged nervous grins.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a woman emerged. She was tall and slender, and perhaps thirty, her dark-chocolate hair scraped back and tied in a neat bun, her eyes large and dark, almost black behind her frameless glasses. She wore a long white lab coat over a pale blue shirt and a pair of tailored black trousers that hugged her slim hips and had the keen but authoritative air of an earnest teacher.
"Ah, you must be Sam and Abby. I'm Dr Johnson but you can call me Phoebe," she said,
