The Experiment Pt 07

Here is the next installment, and there will be one more installment after this. Again, some turmoil ahead in this longer chapter. However, I need some feedback. If you want this content, if you appreciate the hours I've put into this PLEASE say so. Writing is a solitary task with a solitary audience. A few words go a long way to inspire confidence and continue when others, or your own recriminations, tell you to give up.

Thank you.

Part 7

Daybreak comes into the loft too soon, and I wake up with what I call the Sex Hangover. It usually occurs after a brief but potent lovemaking session that didn't quite get all the horniness out. So the next day, one of us will start up trouble by suggestively rubbing against the other in some fashion, a not-so-subtle slithering of my body against his body. It might be another quick fuck on the bed, or it might be something intense in the shower, or maybe on the island in the kitchen. I love the shower, but I worry about how horrific the water bill is going to be next month.

Damian is already up and in the kitchen, the sound of running water and pots moving around. I slowly drag myself out of bed, use the restroom, then go out to find him once again shirtless and cooking.

I pour myself a small glass of orange juice then sit down on one of the tall stools that borders the large island, watching him cook what appears to be pancakes.

"We should get you an apron," I announce.

He swivels around to glance at me, assessing whether my comment is sarcasm or sincere.

"That way you don't have to worry about your shirts. Or your abs," I say with a nod to his bare chest.

He pauses to flip a pancake, then turns back to me. "Are you worried for these abs?"

His accent makes 'abs' sound unintentionally funny. I counter his question with my own.

"Have you ever burned yourself in a kitchen before?"

He rolls his eyebrows up with a little tilt of his head. I interpret this as a maybe.

"Was it at your Uncle's restaurant?"

Another little shrug.

"Was it bad?"

He goes back to the stove, sliding the cooked pancake onto a plate. Then he walks over to the island, and sets the plate down in front of me. A narrowed dose of blue and a little silent smirk before he saunters back to the stove. I'm trying to think of another wise crack when my phone chimes to signal a text message. I swipe down to see it's a message from my mom.

I read the message aloud: "My mother says thank you to Damian for taking the day off to come up for lunch. She enjoyed meeting you and hopes you'll come again."

He turns around and smiles. "She will trust me to drive you there again, I take it."

"And maybe my dad. Depends on the car," I crack, then wait till he's finished pouring some batter into the frying pan. "My mom likes you. I can tell."

He glances over his shoulder. "You think so?"

I nod emphatically. "I think she was as smitten as I was the first time I met you."

He glances back with his little smirk and I smile in return, coaxing him with my eyes to leave the frying pan and come over to me. I stretch over the island to kiss him, the toasty fragrance of pancakes wafting over when he separates.

"I'm sure she still grilled you though, huh?" I ask while he's still close enough to kiss again.

He gives another shrug. "Not more than I would expect."

"Did she ask about your supposed personal training?" I ask. His expression flattens out and he nods with a sigh.

"Let me guess, she wants to know if you randomly know one of her random friend's son who is a physical therapist?"

He chuckles quietly and goes back to the stove. "She asked how long had I been a trainer. And where I studied it."

These are things that I am actually curious about in terms of how he became the Mr. Damian I know. "What'd you say?"

He flips the pancake, taking his time before he turns around. His eyes fix on me before answering. "A few years, and I studied from a few different people."

I'm instantly fascinated with the mystery and want to know more about the origins of his profession, to understand how he became the professional deliverer of pain for a price. I want to know why he does it. But before I can ask more, he turns back to the stove.

I silently begin to eat my pancake while he flips out the last golden disc from the pan onto his own plate, then comes over to join me at the island. I watch him slather his disc with a slab of butter, and wait for him to finish chewing a bite before I speak.

"Your pancakes are perfect."

He looks up from his plate and smiles, a happy crinkle of his eyes at this simple compliment.

"Nothing is perfect."

I shake my head, locking eyes with him. "It's perfect for me."

He sets down his fork and reaches out to me, swiping a thumb over my butter-covered lips. I part my lips and slide my tongue across the fleshy pad of his fingertip. He gets closer as I flick my tongue up, his chest rising with a deep inhale.

I look up at him coyly when he slowly pulls his thumb away. "Thank you for breakfast."

He narrows his eyes at me, debating if he wants to indulge the sex hangover or be good. I lean in a little closer.

"Someday I should make breakfast for you..." I say in a breathy whisper as I run a hand down his bare chest.

He glances down as my hand strums over his belly, bordering the waistband of his black pajama bottoms.

"What would you make for me?" he replies lowly, a controlled exhale when I slip my hand beneath the stretchy waistband. My fingers have just brushed down the smooth skin of his cock, leaning in for a kiss when his phone suddenly starts ringing. He tips his head back with a groan of frustration when I teasingly pull my hand away, being sure to stroke across him when I exit his pants.

He steps away and answers the call in Armenian, then switches to snippets of English. Questions are repeated about dinner tonight at the restaurant, ingredients that are needed, etc. I think it's his sister Maral; she's the organizer of things and supplies. Then he repeats her unexpected question in English. How did he like my family? the caller asks.

He looks right at me as he answers. "It was good, they were very nice. Siena's mother is very pretty, just like her."

I smile at him, but I'm still humming with horny energy so I start to twist the hem of my tank top, snagging it up to my naval and tightening it against my hard nipples. I bite my lip as Damian's eyes lock on me, a satisfying stall in his words when I keep pulling up, exposing the plump ridge of my breasts. He quickly ends the call and tosses his phone on the counter. With one raised hand, he curls a finger up, gesturing for me to come to him.

I lower my shirt and take a few cautious steps. His finger curls up again; I'm not close enough. Another step and I'm within reach of his hands, but he remains still. Making me wait. I'm smiling innocently while he stares at me impassively. A sudden and sharp swat lands on my ass, faster than I can whimper an apology.

"You will behave when I am on the phone," he states with calm authority.

"Will you punish me if I don't?" I whisper back, flicking my eyes down towards our bodies.

He winds up for another spank, but only grabs my ass cheek, squeezing roughly. "You are fortunate that there isn't enough time to punish you properly."

"Even if it's just a quick little... punishment. Right here?" I tease.

My lips twist up into a grin, but his face remains stoic. Only his eyes give away the amusement at this, a flash of heat when he pushes me into his body, his hand palming my ass.

"I need to go take a shower."

As much as I wanted to devolve into a messy frenzy of sex on the kitchen island, I resign myself to let him shower in peace and console myself that I will get off in the shower later when I imagine his punishing fingers in place of my own. Somedays I wonder how often I should feel this horny, if this is how everyone else in the world feels about their significant other. That this is...normal? So many years of stalled desire has ignited inside me and I feel there is so much that needs to be quenched. But it can be distracting.

He gets dressed in his simple white shirt and dark slacks, he loosely combs his hair back and I still want him as much as ever. He sees me watching him but continues to get ready, his phone beeping with a succession of texts that I now recognize as the normal familial stream of communication on the weekends. Chuckles are interspersed with irritated sighs, or a quick huff in Armenian. Then an outright laugh and he comes back into the kitchen, readying to go.

I've thrown a hoodie over my tank top and I'm trying not to let my face show my sadness at his departure. There isn't enough time in a day alone with him, not enough hours for us to be together. But at least we had one glorious Saturday together.

We quickly communicate details for the rest of the day. Bobby will be coming by later tonight to pick up the car; Damian will take his motorcycle to work. Artem wants me to come by tonight because he's going to bartend at the video poker bar in the strip mall. The restaurant is closed on Mondays, so this is their Friday. The bar plays music and they all hang out there. Damian will come pick me up and take me back over. I tell him I'll take an Uber. He frowns at this; he's heard stories on the news, the women who were raped by Uber drivers. I tell him not to worry, Miss Siena can handle herself.

Damian stares at me, his mouth paused with words he can't decide should be said. His frown turns into a thoughtful smile, his arms wrap around me. He whispers he knows I can handle myself, but he loves Miss Siena very much. He would never forgive himself if she was hurt. The irony that the man who flogged and spanked me is worried about the wounds inflicted by others.

We kiss for a long beat, an embrace that feels like a promise he would never break. I let him go and watch him put on his leather jacket and grab his helmet, then disappear into the elevator. I love him so goddamn much it feels like my heart will burst, a happiness so strong that it dreads any other feeling that might subdue such joy. Fear always tries to slink its way in. But I don't know exactly what the fear is about. The fear of losing him, but to what? The fear of me fucking things up. My experiment has long since gone off the rails with a multitude of variables, but my brain still reaches for logic. It still tries to find comparisons of data sets that would help me predict where this is going. For now, the data says we are together and we are happy. It seems we intend to keep it that way. A good scientist, however, prepares for surprises.

I end up taking an Uber, requesting a female driver named Margaret. I take a screenshot of her profile on Uber and text it to Damian; he replies with an emoji of clapping hands. She laughs when I tell her that my boyfriend didn't trust a male driver to pick me up. I give her five stars when she drops me off at the restaurant and walk into the place that once filled me with so much anxiety I thought I would faint.

The restaurant is nearly empty now, the dinner crowd gone at this hour of 9:00 pm. One of the waitresses comes over to seat me and I tell her I'm there to meet Damian. She nods with a little grin and ushers me back to that same bar area near the kitchen. I take a seat at a table and thank her, even though she seems to want to say something. I introduce myself, and she introduces herself as Miranda. She tells me how nice Damian is, how good his cooking is, just like his mother's cooking.

Miranda smiles bashfully as she says this, giggling at herself and then joking she shouldn't be telling this to his girlfriend. I can tell she likes him, and I don't blame her; it's just another unavoidable facet of who he is. At least I'm glad she knows he has a girlfriend.

I kill time with my phone when a long male arm sweeps over me and sets down a little bowl in front of me. Some kind of pudding or mousse with a sliver of a cookie cresting the top of the smooth off-white mound. Damian sits down across from me with his own serving, holding a spoon.

"Keskul," he says, pointing at the bowl. "It is a pudding made from almonds."

"I wasn't expecting dessert," I state, picking up my spoon.

He makes a face, semi-affronted. "You cannot leave without first eating."

"Is that a rule?"

He nods with grave seriousness.

"Did you make this?"

He won't answer, a gleam in his eye. "Try it."

I'm not a big fan of pudding, but I take a scoop. It's mildly sweet, the flavor of almonds mixed with the flavor of something else. The flavor is nice, but the texture is what's more impressive.

"I can taste the almonds, and something else," I say, taking another bite.

"Pistachios," he answers.

"It's good," I comment, "And very creamy."

He catches my tone and narrows his eyes, a look that instantly makes me long for privacy. He takes one last heaping scoop to finish off his serving while I try to hide my grin when I insert my spoon into my mouth.

Suddenly our peace is broken by Artem's voice. "You are here!"

He sweeps in with a broad smile and a hug that nearly chokes me as he stoops down to hook his arm around my shoulder. Damian rolls his eyes but smiles at his effusive brother, cracking up when I make a face from beneath Artem's heavily cologned cloud.

"You will be coming to hear my music, yes?" he asks, still gripping my shoulder.

Seeing my semi-stunned reaction, Damian answers for me. "Yes, she's coming to listen. And you are PLAYING music. But it is not your music."

Artem lets go of me and frowns at his nit-picking sibling, proudly proclaiming, "It is still MY music."

"If you say so," Damian quips, standing up and grabbing our dishes.

After a brief trip through the crowded kitchen filled with at least three simultaneous conversations, Damian grabs his jacket and helmet, then leads me out of the restaurant with Artem following close behind us. This time we wrap back around to the front of the strip mall, Artem chattering excitedly to me as we head down towards the far end. We enter the video poker bar I had previously spotted, its unremarkable exterior matched by the rather boring interior. White walls with a smattering of beer posters and lottery proclamations, small wooden tables surrounding the bar, and of course a row of brightly illuminated machines flickering and beeping.

A tired looking man who's probably old enough to collect social security is behind the bar, looking more fatigued the moment he sees our trio enter. Artem bounds over with excitement, while Damian and I take our seats at the bar. The older man tempers Artem's enthusiasm with a rundown of rules and warnings, most notably declaring in a husky tone that there is "NO dancing on the bar and NO girls in the back."

Artem nods in agreement, barely able to stand still. The man waves goodnight to us and disappears into the back, leaving us in the hands of his Armenian protégé. Left in charge, Artem rubs his hands together and starts fiddling with items behind the bar. I turn to Damian, unsure of what to expect when music suddenly blasts on. We both flinch, Damian gesturing at his brother to turn down the thudding dance music that I can practically feel in my chest. Artem waves him off until I also gesture that the music is hurting my ears.

He grudgingly turns it down to a level we can actually talk over, as Maral and Davit's wife come in, followed by Miranda and the other server from the restaurant. Artem greets them all with a cheerful wave and starts lining up shot glasses. Miranda sits down on the other side of me and introduces me to the other server, Lupe. She's slightly younger looking, pretty but a bit more hardened and skeptical of the crowd. Lupe gives Artem a look when he greets her, instantly revealing her attitude is more about her annoyance with him and his desire to perhaps date her.

The shot glasses are now filled with a clear liquid, Artem instructing all of us to drink a toast. I glance at Damian, unsure of what I'm consuming when I never saw the bottle. Damian gives me a reassuring squint as he picks up the glass in front of him, repeating an Armenian word after Artem lifts his glass high. Everyone cheers and drinks, including me.

The bland taste of something very high proof scorches my throat and I start coughing. Artem hands me a small glass of water as he chuckles, only to say how good it is and tries to pour me another shot. Damian covers my shot glass with his hand and admonishes his brother with a statement in Armenian. Artem replies in kind, flashing me a wink and laughs, moving back down the bar to attend to the other family members.

"What did he say?" I ask Damian, feeling hints of what was said just based on their tone.

Damian shakes his head. "Nothing."

I give him a look, wanting the truth.

He leans in closer. "I told him that I did not need him to get you drunk."

"Ok. And he said...?"

He grimaces slightly, and sighs. "He said that I never do."

I understand why he hesitated, but I'm not upset. It's just another fact. A fact proven by the way Miranda and Lupe have seated themselves beside me not to be friendly, but because it puts them in proximity to Damian. The two of them keep glancing at him, their expressions trying to disguise the longing and envy. It's understandable, and yet, my own green monster barely flickers with animosity. To constantly be the object of desire is its own exhausting burden, something most women experience on a daily basis. An isolating and dehumanizing experience that makes me feel more sympathetic than jealous.

Damian is watching me carefully, until I reach out for his hand and squeeze it. He smiles when he sees me smile, and I lean in to kiss him, whispering that I love him. Just the look in his eyes as I pull away reaffirms I have nothing to fear when it comes to his devotion. Then his eyes sweep over to the door as another group of patrons come in, including his friend Bobby with a handful of women and men. Damian excuses himself and goes over to chat with Bobby, promising we will leave soon.

I'm taking a drink of my water when Maral stealthily approaches me. She glances over at Damian and Bobby, pretending to wait for his return to his seat, but I can tell she wants to speak to me. The stiff posture and thin line of her mouth keep debating, analyzing me with frosty blue eyes that lack her little brother's warmth and charm.

Finally, she leans an arm down on the bar and looks straight at me.

"How you meet?" she bluntly asks, raising an eyebrow when I don't immediately respond to her question that has no context other than her pointed stare.

"Damian?" I clarify.

"Where you meet him?" she blurts again. I feel like she's pretending her English is worse than it is, using it as an excuse for her rudeness.

I hesitate just a millisecond too long, my eyes glancing around me to see who's listening. Artem is pouring drinks, bobbing his head to the music and talking loudly; Miranda and Lupe are humoring him but mostly chatting with Davit's wife.

"Are you client of his?"

Her eyes lack any remorse for bringing up this very personal topic in a public setting. Seeing me hesitate again, my cheeks turning pink, she cuts to the chase.

"I know. I know about his other job."

A wave of icy fear is followed by a wave of burning humiliation, choking me as my brain reels with panic. I give Damian a sidelong glance, confirming he's still talking to Bobby before I answer with a slow nod.

"I'm not a...client, anymore," I mumble as quietly as I can.

"Not now?" she questions.

I shake my head. "I know it's against the rules."

She huffs with a quiet laugh. "Not stopped him before."

The green monster kicks in and surges past my fear and mortification, my hands going into fists as I say nothing. Maral sees my resistance, and digs further.