The Professors Experiment

I know that the work is done and complete, that what lays on that slab is a woman of desire. I've made her of skin not quite unlike my own--synthetic skin. She's human, in the physical sense. Yet she lacks most other human features. Because I made her without any other purpose but to...

My heart bades me to stop the thought. For it won't work. The whole thing won't work. She's complete, sure--but working, working and complete... Lightning flaming her means nothing--she could come off the slab and live, but that doesn't mean that she'll be as I've imagined her to be so many times over. Both of the results I want, having her live and having her to be how I want her, those two things coinciding on this first attempt--I don't know the odds.

I stand before her. Her breasts as I'd made them. Soft. Everything of natural shape, yet unnatural beauty. Mouth and lips sculpted. Cheekbones, perfect nose and ears.

I'd covered her waist with a sheet out of respect. But I can't stop picturing ripping the sheet off and putting my hands and fingers and whatever else I want wherever I want. But I don't. Yes, I created her body as it is and have already technically put my hands everywhere.

But that she would live, and that I might touch her without her permission--I can't stand the thought of that.

Though I don't cover her fully. I allow myself to look at her breasts, yet I do nothing about them but look. And even when I do look, nothing comes of it. She's as good as dead in her current state. I only really look at her breasts hoping that she'll live and that I'll be able to touch them when they have life in them.

In the night, when the black and dark comes, she'll wake. The prospect of it terrifies me a little. Gives my heart sharp bursts. They'd predicted thunder and lightning and rain--what I need--but if they're wrong? If she... Then it would be another night, or the night after. But I can't wait, even though I'll have to, I can't. I need it to be today. Who knows when there'll be lightning again.

And my heart tenses. I go to touch her skin, cold and smooth though at parts imperfect from the stitching. It's well hidden, the stitching, but I know where it is and know where to feel the seams. I look at her breasts again--want to touch them, only a little, but I stop and satisfy myself with running a finger across her cheek and opening her lips and thinking about...

And if she should not be as I want her to? If she should turn out different?

Then all my work will have been for nothing, and I'll start again.

Only a few hours.

#

The rumbling begins far off out of the city. Low, then heavier. The cracks burst with the gusts and the rain sprinkles then begins to flower.

In the middle of my reading a book while waiting, the power clacks off. My heart wrenches, but what was all that planning for? I set the book down.

Knowing that it's now or never has gotten rid of my anxiety, replacing it with hope. That the power had gone off at all means the storm is destructive. The lightning strong. As much as I want to feed into those thoughts, though, I push them away because I can so easily be wrong.

I flip the switches for the backup generators and the lights blind on. Triumph and more hope. One resounding thought:

The wait is over and I've done it.

I keep thinking how my work has paid off though every time I think that I have to remind myself that it hasn't yet. The lightning still has to strike, and with enough power to imbue her with life. And that life again, at that, needs to be of a certain kind.

I wait. I bite my nails, walk across the same path a hundred times. It's closer, the storm. Sometimes there is silence about, sometimes such horrible noise I think my head to explode. Then a flash and the low, whipping rumble. A flash and boiling. The cracks and the sound--I can feel the energy of it in my chest.

My stomach coils looking at her. Rotating and releasing, only to rotate again.

But it's blinding. Lightning, finally after so many thunders and flashes, strikes her on the table. One of the blasts pushes my feet back and would have wiped me to the floor if I hadn't grabbed the railing. Lightning strikes her again and this time I do fall over. I scramble to my knees and feet, one hand still latching to a support. My other hand makes sure my welding mask doesn't come loose. The lightning strikes her heart six times, then stops.

Silence. Thunder further off, then lightning. I wait.

My nervousness is gone. There's nothing for me to do, no mistakes to be made. I wait more, longer in the silence. When I'm certain it's safe I take off my hearing protection and welder's mask.

Her muscles twitch.

And with that the nervousness comes back. Would she be? Would she be?... I watch her on the metal slab.

She opens her eyes.

She looks around at the room, then progresses to moving her neck and doing the same. She leans up and rises off the slab and looks further at everything. She seems in awe. When she does look at me in my eyes, I know we know each other well. The way she doesn't scan my face. The way she doesn't look frightened.

The way she seems to know this place and everything in it, even despite her awe.

I'm far away from the slab now--I didn't want to shock her by standing next to her and breathing over her the second she came awake, but my feet grow confidence. The sharp stabs in my heart don't ease away, but instead they became clear, certain and regular. Each step brings control to the pain. Yet the recognition in her eyes doesn't equate to that she has been made as I want her. And I need to be sure.

I step closer, closer, certain she's going to scream, certain she's going to run and that I'd never see her again--that she'd run and find someone else to be with or that she'd run and expose me as an inventor won over by his repressions. If anyone knew, they'd never speak to me again or provide me funding even if I had hours to explain to them everything. And I've spent so long with all the lies about my work and what I do with my days to all my colleagues. Built up so much protection. I've had side projects, little things to keep the funding coming and the questioning away of what I do with my days. But it's hardly enough. Sometimes I don't leave my lab for weeks.

She looks at me leaning up still. She plants her hands on the slab. She could have used her hands to cover her breasts, but she doesn't. While I look at her, she brings a hand underneath the blanket I had had over her waist. A movement. A slight movement--she starts to... to masturbate. I step away--never in my life had a woman... but she... I go up to her--and I can't resist it--I run my hand along her arm, the soft. To her shoulder. Her hair and neck. Folding her hair behind her ear.

"You're alive," I say. My mouth stays open with the words, and I realize I haven't blinked in a while and probably look more terrified than happy. I try to correct myself and hide it all. My grip tightens around her. Hot skin, hotter than any living thing. I have to recede from touching her because my palms begin to scream.

"Yes," she says. Her voice. It's not a whisper, but that tone, the exact way she speaks. It ripples my skin and she can see that.

She's still masturbating, still making those slight movements under the blanket--her lungs rising and falling, rising and falling with her breasts. I want to touch them then, looking at them, looking at her arm moving. Want to throw her back and--I can't.

The little wet sounds coming from under that blanket.

There's a small hint of sharpness to her breathing. And a sharpness with mine at the way her eyebrows sink a little down at times. I can't believe she's looking up at me while she does it. I don't know how long I stand there watching her. A long time.

She takes her other hand and touches my face and those shivers return. Running up me, running hard through my whole body to the point where I almost lose balance for a second. I'd stopped breathing and only then started again. I'd hoped for so long, had dreamed. Had been up many late nights for many reasons. And I'd never expected she'd be real, that she'd live. It was always a mad project, the thing that would destroy me. But here, right there, my hands able to touch her aside from the heat--she's there before me, alive and real.

Exactly as I want her to be.

She looks at me, to my eyes for a while. Then she breathes: "Fuck my mouth."

My heart drops. I can hardly take it.

She brings her eyes down a little. "Please. I want your cock inside my mouth. I want it," she moans. "I want it." Her breaths start getting faster and heavier. The slight of her movements again sharper. Breasts shaking a little as she motions her hand.

But I...

I tremour again. My hands do reach for my belt, for my shirt. "Why?" I ask. I need to know.

She laughs. She looks at me, smiling and pondering the question. Then she sighs and says: "Why not? Isn't it what you wanted? To use me? You've given me life and I owe you for it. I want you to use me; I want you to come for me. However much you want. Because that's what I'm here for."

"Why?" I repeat, "why?" I take off my belt.

She stops masturbating, pulls the blanket off and rotates and sits on the edge of the slab.

"Stand up," I tell her.

She sets her feet on the floor. Naked. I'd hired many women to be models for what I'd told them was sketches for a later painting--a painting I did actually make to keep up appearances. But this was my real painting before me. What I'd liked of each woman, I'd taken and merged into one, to my preferred proportions, to my preferred stature. To, at least to my eyes, a humanly unobtainable state of beauty.

"Turn around," I say.

I look at the glimpse of her ass she gives me, at the curve of her back and the soft smooth of her skin. Then to her breasts, her pussy and thighs and legs, all clean and shaven. I want to look at her face, but I can't. Not out of shame, not out of embarrassment, but because I don't for one second want to stop appreciating every inch of her, every inch of what I just want to--and there's no better word for it--defile.

I put a hand on her breast. Slowly. I wait for her to slap it or pull it away, for her to be angry with me, but she isn't. She smiles, encourages me. I tense my hand, feel that soft. I keep tensing. Her warmth is starting to become bearable. I put my other hand up to her breast. I massage them both, feel them. I think about how I've never felt something so sweet in my life. While I've felt her breasts before, it'd never been sexual, always--I put her nipples between my index and thumb--always as a part of my work. I feel her breasts again, further. They're so soft. And it's so hard to break my eyes away.

I trail my hands down her sides. To her buttocks and thighs. To her back. Her skin prickles. I put my hands to her waist, and I look at her, at her face, her eyes. Brown eyes, a soft brown. Everything about her is smooth--not a perfect porcelain smooth, but a human smooth. As much as I know better, I want to kiss her, and without my making a motion she can see that that's what I want.

"No," she says, turning her head away.

"Why?" I snap. But I know, and she knows. "On your knees," I say. There's no way for me to say that part that doesn't expose the tremble and excitement in my voice. "On your knees. In your mouth."

She goes on her knees without a complaint. Her left-hand ventures to herself again, and she starts moaning a little as she looks up at me. Only slightly moaning, no more than a breath.

She tugs at my pants, my underwear. I realize that in my astonishment at her body, they'd somehow not come off. I help her. Then I am--at least my bottom half--naked, erect. She takes my cock in one hand to steady it. The sensation of just having someone else take it. That makes my heart pound.

She looks at my cock, rubs her hand back and forth of it and I think then that she's going to go on teasing me. I think that she's never going to put it in her mouth despite how bad I want it. Then I'm certain that she's messing with me, that she's not going to do it. But when I'm about to say something, she does it. The tip. Wraps her lips around, slipping her tongue slow along the bottom. The warmth floods me, the heat and the wet.

She looks up at me as she does it, eyes open as she goes back on and off my cock, soft and smooth, sucking. It's that look that really gets me. And that she keeps on saying over and over in spaces in between:

"Do you want to come on my face?" She smiles a beautiful smile. "Do you want to come on my face?"

I do want that. Then she puts my cock back in her mouth and continues back and forth, bringing me shivers, building the come inside me.

She uses her tongue and that kills me, but then she switches to her hands and that kills me even more because I want nothing but her mouth. Then she puts it in again, sucking me. And oh my God, I've never felt anything so good. I've masturbated, done the same with other women. But somehow she knew exactly what I wanted and didn't want and knew how to keep me on an edge without my saying a word.

I'd get close to coming, then she'd stop and jerk me off and when it would bade away she would look at me and say:

"I want your come."

And she smiles and giggles with those beautiful eyes and she puts me in her mouth and I'm about to come but she--

Stops. Waits and watches me twitch. I even try to make myself come through willing it--go so far as to reach to jerk myself off but she pushes my hand away. I could fight her, could make myself come. But each time she brings me to the edge, I know, she builds me up.

She puts my cock in her mouth and then I reach and hold back her hair and appreciate the form of her face with her lips around it. Her clear, soft cheekbones. The cute of her nose and her eyes, those eyes. The way they watch me and squint ever so slightly with a smile when a moan escapes my mouth.

The shape of her ass hovering in the air. Her breasts and nipples poking. Her hand still going at herself aside from the time she goes at me with two hands.

"Get to the edge, to the edge," she says, smiling at me. "Get right to the edge for me."

Then she puts me back in her mouth and goes on hard for a while. Her eyes closed, sucking. Then back to her hand. She strokes me fast, then faster.

"To the edge," she hastens. "Right to the edge. Please. To the edge. For me."

I push her hand away and take my cock and I jerk myself and this time she doesn't stop me. And if ever there was an edge, I'm on it and boiling. The release is right there, the pleasure right there. I've been on the edge for God I don't even know--an hour, over an hour. So long the sweat has built up in my shirt and my lips are starting to dry.

And oh God, I can't help it. I start to come and she can tell that, can see the pleasure beating throughout me and shaking my legs. She watches, looks in my eyes and the smile grows on her face as I start coming all over her, her hair, eyes, a little up her nose, chin, lips. I'd never seen so much come of mine shoot out, nor have I ever seen it on so beautiful a face.

When the come stops coming she shoves my cock in her mouth, all the way, all the way as far as it can go and my hand clutches at the hair on the back of her head. I push myself in as deep as I can despite that discomfort and the overload of just having come. I can feel my cock hitting the back of her throat. But I have to pull out. It's not that I'm going to come again so soon, but I can't keep on it.

Then the come had gone and my soberness set in--my soberness for all the months of hard work for just an orgasm. All the months of hard work for what is essentially masturbation.

But she takes my cock in her hand, soft, and massages it. I'm not vexed enough to tell her to stop, but it feels like nothing.

At first. And then it starts getting better again, and I start to see her face and body and breasts and ass, all of it, I see it all for the beauty, for the pure sexual arousal that it is.

And then I'm hard again and forgetting all about that regret.

"Stop," I say. But for a different reason. We've all the time in the world for head, all the time for her to jerk me off. I need to feel her pussy. Need to feel how it feels to come inside it again and again. Need to feel her ass, her legs. Need to feel it all.

She stops and stands. She reaches down to herself--I grab her hand. "No," I say.

Her face curls. She turns away and reaches again down to masturbate.

"Stop it," I blurt. "Stop it. Don't do that." I go and grab my underwear and slide them on. I can't explain my actions.

"Why not?" she says, annoyed. "Isn't 'that' what you made me for? It's what I want to do so let me do it. Like you wanted. Like I want."

"It feels wrong," I say. As much as there's the call in the back of my mind to fuck her senseless I--

"No it isn't," she says. "You've already done it. What's this on my face? You're a hypocrite." But she stands and turns. And she goes around and inspects my equipment, what is the reason I don't have a pension or savings.

Or a proper house to start a family in.

But I don't do it for her, I didn't make her to give something life. I did it because I wanted something to use, to fuck. But that, the simplicity of it, makes me ashamed. I've wasted so much time on her. But God, I want to fuck her.

She walks naked back over to the slab where she'd risen, runs her hand along the metal. I look at her back. At her hair running smooth beyond her shoulders. The muscles clean, legs long and sweet. At her ass. Then she bends over on the slab and presents herself to me. What pushes me over the edge about that, what makes me go to her is not the presentation itself of her ass, or of her pussy. It's that she's wagging her back end at me, only a little.

I step to the table. I feel the warmth of her body without touch, just an inch away from her. I'm erect--so erect in my underwear that it's painful. But I'd wanted to wait, had wanted to give it time--I don't want her to seduce me, I want her as a device, meant for my masturbation. Nothing more. Meant to take commands and orders, meant to follow them through and understand them. But she has exceeded my expectations. Has destroyed them.

I put my hands on her hips again, feeling my palms along her back and her warmth. I bring a finger to her pussy for a moment. I run it along. How silk it is. I make out as if to put my finger in, but she reaches and grabs my hand.

"I pleasure you," she whispers. "You don't pleasure me."

Somehow my underwear hits the floor again and my hand goes around my cock, massaging the tip. I touch my cock along her ass, feeling her skin trickle.

I step back, jerking. I think about putting my cock in her, think about filling her with my come as she begs me for it. Think about my come on her face, my dick in her mouth. I jerk a little faster. The sharpness in my chest, in my heart. It grows so suddenly I hardly know what's hitting me. My legs shake, and that shake travels to my cock and I know that I'm not going to last longer.

Her ass is just so... her ass before me, waiting for me to fuck her, to cum in her. Her ass presenting itself to me for me to come on it. Begging for it. For me to touch her, wherever, to feel her, to enjoy her. I run a finger along her pussy and feel its silk as I keep jerking. I hate to be premature--feel ashamed of it. But it's my pleasure, not hers.

I step forward, leaning and pressing my cock against her ass and pussy. She waits for my come, looks back at me and then looks forward again. I let my cock sit there a few seconds, let it twitch. The pleasure, the feeling, it's all at its edge. I think about my come shooting across her face, my come shooting inside her. Then I bring my hand and jerk and start to come all over her, bursting, shooting across the small of her back and all over her pussy and ass. A little, one last bit somehow hits her ear and she flinches and laughs. I use my cock to spread my come. I grab her ass, feel it.