Dopamine

Dopamine Dopamine

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Summary

A young scientist sets out to create the ultimate designer drug. She must first find subjects for her experiments in arousal, and then optimize the extraction of dopamine.

Summary

A young scientist sets out to create the ultimate designer drug. She must first find subjects for her experiments in arousal, and then optimize the extraction of dopamine.

Content

Submitted: July 12, 2016

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Content

Submitted: July 12, 2016

A A A

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I tie off my left arm with a rubber tourniquet and wait for the vein to pop to the surface. As always, it emerges, blue and ready. My vein is conditioned, like one of Pavlov’s dogs. A stinging swipe of alcohol and the sharp snap of rubber against my skin prompts an immediate reaction.

I give the needle a final glance. The extract is clear, with no signs of contamination.  There’s not even a bubble, because an air embolism would be the ultimate buzz kill. With a practiced eye, I line the needle up with my vein and slowly pierce the flesh. Instinct makes me flinch, even though I barely feel the penetration. I’m fortunate, the extract is water-thin, so I can use the finest needles. Despite daily doses, there are no junkie-like track marks on my pale, creamy flesh. 

I pause, needle jutting from my arm, teasing myself. I know how extraordinary I’ll feel in a minute, and I want to savor the exquisite anticipation. I remove the tourniquet and take the needle in my hand once again. I slowly push down on the plunger, forcing every last drop into my bloodstream.  With all the sacrifice that went into refining this substance, waste would be immoral. Within seconds, my body is flooded with sensation. 

It takes a lot of focus to remove the needle and apply a sterile compress, but I do. Sloppiness is not part of my genetic makeup; it’s not how I was raised. But once the gauze pad is secure over the injection site, I lie back and enjoy. 

My toes curl, my pupils dilate, my breathing shortens and my cunt twitches. All I can do is throw my head back and ride out the neurochemical storm. It’s the best orgasm ever. It’s like sex distilled. Because it is.

~~~

Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that is produced primarily in the ventral tegmental area of the midbrain. The VTA is an essential part of the brain’s reward circuitry – its influence can be felt daily. Most scientists concentrate on its role in motivation and addiction. Its role in orgasm was my obsession.

Smaller quantities of dopamine are also manufactured in the adjacent substantia nigra, so named because of its high levels of neuromelanin, a black substance that acts as a signpost identifying the presence of dopaminergic neurons. Although the substantia nigra doesn’t produce enough dopamine for my purposes, when I see it, I harvest everything in its vicinity. The process I pioneered extracts the good stuff. I just need to make sure there’s enough dopamine there, to begin with.

The essential difficulty of dopamine is how fleeting its presence is. It gets released into the brain, flooding our receptors.  This leads to intense feelings of excitement and pleasure, and then… Thud. The dopamine dissipates immediately, and we regress back to normal. 

Scientists, like my mother and father, spend years working out how to control it. If you crack dopamine, you cure Parkinson’s. You get a Nobel Prize. My parents dedicated themselves to the science, toiling at adjacent lab benches in their laboratory at Harvard until the university learned of some of their experiments. The Institutional Review Board thought their work on human subjects was unethical. The craniotomies my parents had performed were with the full consent of their subjects, but one of the surgical nurses had objected to the amounts of brain tissues my parents had extracted.  Before the allegations could erupt into scandal, my parents left the school. 

They quickly found a wealthy backer with a family history of Parkinson’s and within months, mom and dad had a world-class laboratory in the basement of our seaside home.  Fearing further scrutiny, they no longer employed human subjects for their experiments.  Instead, they settled on monkeys.

As soon as I was able to clean beakers, I became their lab technician. By the time I was finishing high school, I was a full-fledged collaborator.  I designed and built a skull clamp that enabled me to immobilize a monkey in thirty seconds.  Two more minutes, and I could surgically open a monkey’s scalp. Ten more minutes, and its bone flap would be removed and my parents would perform experiments on the exposed brain, using probes and electrodes.  Once their work was completed, I’d harvest the neural tissues for later investigation.

The work was compelling and I toyed with going into neurosurgery, but surgery can be incredibly crude.  Old neurosurgery joke:  “Question: How do you tell good brain from bad brain?  Answer: By the sound it makes going up the sucker.”  The elegance of basic science was hard to resist.

While I was getting my Ph.D. in neurobiology at Cal Tech, my parents died in a car accident. Some asshole in a brand-new Lamborghini lost control of his Aventador. My parents never knew what hit them.

It was a relief, actually. I had been dreading telling them that the last twenty years of their work had been pointless; that they had been pursuing dead ends with so many dead monkeys. Working late at night in the university lab, I had created neural networks that modeled dopamine production. I then hacked into the school’s 3-D printer/bioreactor and built hundreds of biologic “mini-brains” to further my research.

These mini-brains, although primitive, synthetic versions of the real thing, gave me a key insight into the shortfalls in my parents’ research.  Using embryonic stem cells in the bioreactor, I was able to coax the cells into producing the structures of the midbrain.  I wanted to prove that my parents had been thinking about dopamine in the wrong way.

Mom and dad had wanted to use the neurotransmitter to control tremors and to bolster the nervous systems of unhealthy people. My belief was straightforward. Dopamine was too powerful and transient for the sick. It needed to be used on the healthy. And not for some earnest application like curing drug addiction. Its best use was pleasure.

When I first discovered that I could detect synthetic dopamine in my mini-brains, I knew I had made a breakthrough. I told no one what I’d done. While the amounts I was finding were tiny, it was the kind of discovery that guarantees tenure at any respectable university. Rather, I wanted to pursue my findings privately and then commercialize. Unlike most scientists, I had a wholly adequate laboratory set up at my parents’ home. I dropped out of school, citing depression over my parents’ death. I’m lucky people didn’t look too hard because honestly, the pull of that basement laboratory was beyond magnetic.

~~~

My parents’ home is on the North Shore of Boston. It was built by a whaling captain in a style that practically screamed his wealth. It's made of the local grey stone and it sits on a high bluff, overlooking the Atlantic. The story goes that the whaler wanted to be able to look out on the water, to observe and understand his prey. I thought the isolation was designed so that no one could observe and understand whatever illegal acts he was undertaking with his boats. The man had remained wealthy long after whale oil had stopped being a cash crop. 

My parents had loved their home, all the while expanding and modernizing its interior. Nonetheless, it needed some work to make it ideal for my purposes. Fortunately, my parents’ estate was decent and then I sued Mr. Lamborghini's employer. Not only had he been driving 150 mph, he had been livestreaming his speedometer to his colleagues. The hedge fund where he was employed, and which had given him the car as a signing bonus, offered me $10 million to settle quietly. I signed immediately.

As I settled into the house, I sold my parents’ antiques and brought in things that were more my taste. The master bedroom went from being filled with spare Shaker items in handsome maple, to something out of a French bordello. I went a little crazy on brocade, fringe and velvet, but it would be my private sanctuary. I wanted a rich, sensual environment as a counterpoint to the cold, sterile lab.

I didn't have to do much to the laboratory, thank goodness. My parents had been meticulous about acquiring and maintaining the latest tools and technologies. It wasn't some hobbyist's lab. They had invested millions. They could sequence DNA, they could even map neurons with their own electron microscope.

The basement required a few modest modifications. I needed a quiet, temperature controlled room where I could grow my mini-brains to maturity. And I needed an even quieter room, adjacent to the lab, where I could install an examination chair. The chair needed to be padded, adjustable, and able to support the specific modifications my research required.

~~~

I've always been an excellent student. Explain a theory and give me a demo, and I’ll take that knowledge to heart. The one problem I faced in advancing my research was that I had spent most of my life in school or in a laboratory, instead of doing all those things that ordinary young women do. No tailgates... No frat parties... Hell, I'd barely dated. And but for one awkward, fumbling night with a fellow grad student, we'd both still be virgins. 

I applied the same rigor to myself as I did to my experiments. I quickly realized sweatpants and a ponytail would not be adequate for my objectives. I googled “best hairstylist Boston" and booked an appointment. I went to Boston Magazine's list of best women's fashion, and made plans to visit the top store. My plan was beginning to emerge.

Kinky porn was an extraordinary source of research material. I spent hours studying their footage. It was shocking to learn of the existence of a medical fetish. 

There was one video in particular that I returned to many times. It featured a beautiful brunette, with long dark hair and a very efficient manner. She'd welcome her handsome patient into the exam room and order him to undress. Everything would seem legit until he lay down naked, at which time she'd unbutton the top of her uniform, revealing her perfect, full breasts.

She spoke in a soft, seductive voice. "I know you're here for a physical, Mr. Smith, but there are a few extra exams I'd like to conduct. With your consent, of course."

Mr. Smith, portrayed by one of the most handsome actors in the porn universe, would adopt an expression of lucky disbelief. "What kinds of exams did you have in mind, Nurse Jones?" The camera revealed a cock growing in size and engagement.

"They're intimate, Mr. Smith, and they could be uncomfortable. But they're for your own good."

"Well, Nurse Jones, since they're 'for my own good,' go right ahead."

With that encouragement, the nurse put on a pair of latex gloves and began to slowly stroke his cock. "I'm testing your arousal. The degree to which your cock hardens is indicative of cardiovascular health." He nodded enthusiastically. "But you are not to orgasm until I am ready to collect a specimen of your ejaculate. We can then assess your motility."

His breathing deepened as he sank into the exam table. "Oh... I hope it's fine. Please don't wait too long before collecting the sample." His words came out in a quiet, desperate whisper as she continued to stroke, reapplying lube frequently. It sounded slick and sloppy. I transcribed every word.

He began to writhe in the chair, Smith’s extreme arousal was beyond question. His cock was engaged, his breathing was ragged, his eyes were unfocused. The nurse, however, knew exactly what she was doing. After she'd stroked him for several minutes, bringing him to the edge of orgasm repeatedly, she’d hike up her skirt, pull down her panties, and lower herself down onto his cock.

She rode him hard, all the while reminding him that he’d fail the exam if he couldn't demonstrate the control necessary to keep from having an orgasm.

"Oh please, Nurse Jones, I need to come"

"I know it's agonizing, to be so close... To feel my pussy clenching your hard, throbbing cock, but you cannot come." Nurse Jones' focus never faltered, even as her patient’s eyes became glassy from the strain of denial. She teased him, rubbing her breasts in his face, reminding him how good that eventual release would feel. He was frantic. He was shaking. But he did not come. 

She slid off his cock and resumed jerking him off. Only this time, she inserted a gloved finger into his anus. He howled and his whole body went rigid. "Please... Please... I can't take this any longer…" 

She finally gave him permission to orgasm, and immediately he ejaculated, with a copious blob landing on a microscope slide she had cleverly place on his abdomen. 

She put on a fresh pair of gloves, retrieved the slide and the scene ended.

I must have watched that last segment a hundred times, blowing up the expression on Smith's face, and focusing on his eyes. His pupils were dilated, and growing larger by the minute. I could practically smell the pheromones secreted from his body. More relevant to my research, however, I was able to estimate the point of peak dopamine production. It was about ten seconds prior to orgasm, just as he was pleading for release. Every physiologic sign suggested he was sincere when he said he couldn't take it any longer. 

All that edging and denial would have flooded his midbrain with dopamine. It might only be milligrams, but it was the bulk of the neurotransmitter in his body. The orgasm caused its immediate dissipation, which was an easy enough problem to address.

~~~

I turned my attention to the exam room. I wanted it to be enticing and functional. The contractors added extra insulation to both of my custom rooms, which were engineered for thermal control and sound attenuation. Brains, even synthetic mini-brains, abhor loud surprises.

With the arrival of my state of the art bioreactor, I set about advancing the research I had begun at Cal Tech. Soon, I had a thousand mini-brains growing in my special room. They were about the size of golf balls, maturing as they floated in bioengineered cerebrospinal fluid.  The brains were wired up, with multiple probes in each. I had designed the room so that it had racks of beakers containing mini-brains from floor to ceiling, with just enough empty space in the middle so that I could monitor every specimen as it grew.

I loved going in there, I could almost feel the neurons starting to fire. I even talked to the brains, greeting them whenever I entered, “Hello brains!  How are you today?” I liked to say goodbye, too, imagining that the brains noticed my presence, and that they might even care. 

It took about a month, but I began to see primitive activity. The room hummed as the probes captured and transformed the neural-electrical impulses into audio signals I could monitor in real time. 

I began talking even more to the brains. I figured it couldn't hurt. Soon, I could hear a difference in tone whenever I entered the room. The brains recognized me! This was unprecedented, and beyond exciting.  What happened next was wholly unexpected.

I was wearing little, just a thin slip, because the room was kept hot, at body temperature. I reached inside my dress and began playing with my nipple. It hardened, and I slid my other hand inside my panties. I pushed against my clit and I could feel just how wet I had become. I’m embarrassed to admit that I lay down on the floor, surrounded by my brains. It was wrong and weird, but I proceeded to stimulate my clit, plunging the fingers of my left hand in and out of my pussy while my right rubbed and teased. My breathing became ragged as I got closer to orgasm, but I had to stop. My mini-brains had begun to crackle with activity. The probes were capturing neural noise I'd never observed before. And it was coming straight from the midbrain. 

I resumed jerking myself off, while the brains hummed and pulsed in tandem with my arousal. There was no time for an orgasm, however. Nurse Jones had demonstrated dopamine levels maxed out prior to orgasm. I randomly chose a brain that had been next to me on the floor. I removed the probes and rushed it straight to the lab where I dissected the tissue to examine the substantia nigra and everything in its vicinity. 

In my wildest dreams, I hadn't expected to find so many traces of the neurochemical present in the tissue, and yet there it was. Every last assay revealed its presence. I set about seeing how much dopamine I could extract.

After liquefying the mini-brain, and putting the goo through a centrifuge to separate the tissues from the chemicals, I began an elaborate distillation process. There were flasks, columns and condensers, all trying to trap that elusive essence. 

After a full day of purification, I had isolated little more than a microgram of dopamine. I had also become the first to extract dopamine from a synthetic neural source. My precious substance needed one last refinement. I would add a chemical that would enable it to return to the brain via the bloodstream. The blood-brain barrier is an effective block - it keeps most things out, even as it keeps the brain's chemicals in.

The next day, I had my sample. It was crystal clear and full of promise. The only way to assess it, of course, was to try it. I filled a syringe with every last drop and took it upstairs to my bedroom. I positioned myself on my velvet duvet, next to the reading lamp I had installed for this purpose.  The bright light shone down on my pale skin, highlighting every freckle and revealing every vein.

I cleaned off the inside of my elbow with some rubbing alcohol and pulled out a rubber strap I'd gotten from a friendly phlebotomist. Injecting myself was difficult. I wondered how twitchy junkies could do the deed. But I steeled myself once the vein came to the surface. It took a couple of painful stabs, but I finally got the needle where I wanted it. 

"Here goes nothing," I whispered as I pushed in the plunger. At first, I felt nothing. I removed the needle and applied a bandaid to my arm. I then felt woozy. --Had I poisoned myself? I lay down, and then it hit me. The hardest, most intense orgasm I had ever experienced. Better than my grad school boyfriend.  More intense than my Magic Wand. My synapses became flooded with sensation. My body twitched, my pussy clenched and dripped. I had to remind myself to breathe. And then, ten seconds later, the sensations were gone. Completely.

The next day, I returned to my room full of mini-brains and repeated the experiment. The audio signal changed when I entered. "Hello, brains! How are you today, my naughty, nasty organs?" The humming became louder. "I can't believe how excited you make me....I can't believe it at all!" 

Once again, I pinched my nipple with my left hand as I plunged my right into my cunt. The brains buzzed rhythmically. I lay down on the floor, replicating the masturbatory acts of two days before, and I began to bring myself to the brink of orgasm. That excited crackle of neural activity resumed, and it got louder the closer I got to coming. When I couldn't take it any longer, I stopped, unplugged a half dozen of my mini-brains and took them to the lab.  Within ten minutes, I had liquefied the lot of them. 

Within an hour, the centrifuging was complete and the distillation was underway. The next day, I had another, larger sample which gave me an orgasm for the ages. After injecting the dopamine into my arm, I had to submit to the experience. There was no stopping the climax once it had started, and it continued for about sixty seconds.

I must confess to upping the dose immediately.  I worried that I could become some kind of dopamine junkie, but I had a room full of mini-brains and an inkling I could make a better drug.  The real trick was coupling the dopamine with an agent that would gradually release it into the brain.  Too little dopamine is associated with Parkinson’s.  Too much is associated with schizophrenia.  If I could figure out that balance, I’d have a product I could sell for billions or a drug I could enjoy for hours at a time.

Within a month, I had depleted my inventory of mini-brains, but I was zeroing in on that elusive chemical.  Unfortunately, it was dawning on me that my synthetic brains might not be up to the task.  I performed experiment upon experiment, having orgasm after orgasm next to my mini-brains so they’d be turbocharged on dopamine.  They complied – the mini-brains were as responsive as could be. But that final chemical reaction was thwarted at every turn. The samples were either too small or too imperfect.  My research required taking that next step.

~~~

Fieldwork is not an ordinary part of a neuroscientist’s repertoire, but I was no ordinary neuroscientist.  It had taken a month, but I finally had my hair appointment with Claude Mallet.  He was Boston’s top stylist, but he was also an eccentric.  The man wore ridiculous amounts of leather; black leather jeans, black leather vest, black leather boots.  There were even pictures of him sporting studded arm bands and spurs. He had to be an S&M leather daddy advertising his proclivities.

I sat in his chair as he played with my hair.  “What would you like to do today?”

“Well, I’m not sure.  Quite frankly, I’ve spent most of my life in a laboratory and it just dawned on me that I’ve forgotten how to have fun.  Can you make me fuckable?  I’m tired of being a nerd.  I want to be HOT!”

“You’re already fuckable, my darling.  You just don’t know it.  But I can help.  Are you feeling long or short? Either length will get you laid.”

“Whatever you think is better, Claude.  I trust you.”

“We’ll leave it long, then.  How do you feel about changing your color?  Some auburn highlights will accent your green eyes.  We can do a cut and color today, if you like?”

“Count me in, Claude.  But while you’re working, I want you to tell me all about the fabulous leather you’re wearing.  I see the black handkerchief in your back left pocket.  I know why it’s there.”

Claude chuckled, and then proceeded to give me a rundown on Boston’s BDSM scene.  I liked the sound of something called “Young and Kinky” that met once a month at a small bar in Cambridge.  A google search revealed that the next meeting was only a few days later.  I created an account on FetLife to do some preliminary research.  I chose “Neuromancer” as my screenname because somebody had already scooped up “NurseJones.”

The message boards gave me a feel for how formal and popular the “Young and Kinky” meetings were.  I didn’t want to attend, but I wanted to be in the room.  The organizers always chose a semi-public place to accommodate the needs of the shy, or those who’d like to assess the crowd from a distance before committing to participate.  On average, about twenty people showed up, ranging in age from college kids to young professionals in their thirties.  There were even a couple of participants with a medical fetish.

On the day of the “Young and Kinky” meeting, I spent extra time getting dressed.  I wanted to look alluring and appealing, but I also wanted to look like I belonged.  I settled on a knit dress in a rich purple, patterned tights, and knee high boots.  I put my hair in hot rollers to give it extra body and pizzazz. Claude had given me a beautiful haircut, and I wanted every layer to look just as it had when I left his chair.  He had pronounced me “hot and fuckable.” And as I sat in the salon, I knew Claude was correct.

I arrived early and settled into a corner where I could see everyone coming into the space.  A few obvious leather-clad kinksters arrived minutes after I did.  They commandeered a large table opposite me.  I nursed a beer and pretended to read a novel.

There was one man in particular who caught my eye.  He was cute, but not in a studied, self-conscious way.  He was very lean, of average height, with a boyish haircut.  He seemed a little shy and reluctant to join the group.  I watched him gather his nerve and sit down, off to the side.  He didn’t say much during the gathering, even though he had aroused the curiosity of a few of the women.  I guessed his problem was one of compatibility.  Everything I’d read about these gatherings suggested there was a surplus of submissives and a shortage of dominants. Topping is hard work and most pervs just want to lie back and enjoy their torture.

The meeting ended and everyone but my guy left the bar.  As he was gathering his things, I caught his eye and waved.

“Hi!  Was that a tech Meetup that just ended? I was trying to decode what you guys were discussing, but it was beyond me.”

“Oh, no.  It wasn’t about tech.  It was just some friends talking shop.”  He looked at me sheepishly.  “Oh, what are you reading?  It looks interesting.”

I held up my copy of Frankenstein.  “It’s an oldie, but a goodie.  Have you read it?”

“Oh yes. It’s a favorite of mine, too!  I’m always struck by how Frankenstein started out with a beautiful, noble purpose, but instead, he created a monster.  My name is Jeff, by the way.”  We shook hands, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card.  His name was Jeff Meier and he worked nearby as a software engineer.

“I’m Joan Smith. Yes, that poor Creature.  Scientific research isn’t always for good, is it? But truly, what choice do we have?  Turn our backs on progress? Ignore potential?  Fail to explore?”  I was getting excited. “It’s so funny that we’re talking about this.  I’m in medical research, and we wrestle with these issues all the time.  Medical testing, for instance, can be dangerous.  Does the collective good outweigh the cost to the individual? Can desperate people really give informed consent? How much suffering or sacrifice is appropriate?”

“You’re in medical research? No kidding. I find that field fascinating. Do you work at one of the universities?”

“No, at a small private lab.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.  I’ve always wanted to see what a research lab looks like.”

“Seriously? You’ve wanted to visit a lab? I tell you what, my bosses are pretty private, but no one will be there this weekend.  I can give you a tour if you’d like.”  His eyes widened slightly. “Do you live around here? Let me give you a lift because it’s hard to reach by subway.  I’d enjoy seeing you again.  We could do dinner afterwards.” I hoped it would seem like a date.

“Count me in, that sounds great.  But you don’t need to pick me up.”

“Actually, I do need to pick you up.  The place is hard to reach and even harder to find. Shall we say Saturday at 5PM?  That should give me time to show you around and then we can go to a restaurant.  I can pick you up here or at your place.  It’s up to you.”

“Why don’t you just pick me up here? That’s the easiest – you know where here is!”

I grabbed my burner phone, and asked for his number. As we sat next to one another, I texted him. “Can’t wait to see you again. Joan XXX”

His face lit up in front of me. 

It was dark when I drove the last mile along Ocean Avenue to my home.  It’s at the very tip of Marblehead Neck, a sparsely populated island that’s connected to the town of Marblehead thanks to a sandbar that was transformed into a causeway.  There are a hundred or so large houses on “The Neck.”  Mine is at the end, right next to Chandler Hovey Park and its lighthouse.  The living room looks out onto “Half Tide Rocks” a stark, jutting series of large grey stones where myriad ships ran aground before the lighthouse was built. 

As a kid I used to dare myself to get on my belly and peer over the cliff and down onto the water.  At high tide, the waves came all the way up the cliffs, submerging the rocks entirely.  It was exhilarating looking down while the tides churned violently.  Every twelve hours, the cycle resumed. The seas off “The Neck” were consistent.  They flushed every dead seal, stray dog--and even the occasional monkey--out to the deep waters of the Mid-Atlantic, beyond the continental shelf.  The tides left nothing behind but salt and foam.

My parents had chosen the place for its privacy.  They built large stone walls around the property, with sharp, pointy rocks protruding upwards to discourage any local kids from climbing over.  Between the cliffs out back and the walls in front, there was no way a casual observer could see anything.  When I was twelve, I thought it was excessive.  Now, I thought it was perfect.

I opened my laptop and set about researching Jeff Meier.  I quickly figured out his FetLife identity.  He called himself “PatientZero.”  No wonder he wanted to check out the lab – this was his fetish. My plan was coming together.

I set about making my examination room perfect.  I studied the Nurse Jones video again, and put some lube and latex gloves in a cabinet behind the vintage dental chair I’d had installed. The chair was a retro marvel.  It had been built by Ritter in the ‘60s.  It had a long, swooping leg rest, adjustable armrests and a headrest that was removable.  Everything operated via hydraulics.  It lifted, swiveled and reclined, all at the touch of a foot pedal.

Details are important, so I’d had it painted deep red and reupholstered in easy-to-clean black vinyl.  The custom modifications I installed personally were all but invisible. The chair looked sexy and menacing in my gleaming white exam room.

I then sat down at a computer and reviewed some of the footage of my monkey surgeries.  It had been a long time since I’d actually dissected anything breathing.  I got out some retractors, forceps and scalpels, and practiced excising tissue with a sucker.  Solo surgery is difficult, but not impossible.  A few mini-brains later, my delicate touch had returned.  I put the instruments in a packet and into the autoclave for sterilization.  I resumed my study of the surgical footage, reminding myself of all the critical structures in the midbrain.  In particular, I wanted to lock down the location of the dark grey substantia nigra, because it was the key to my dopamine collection.

I was so lost in thought that I hardly heard the autoclave when it beeped, indicating that my favorite instruments were ready.  I placed the sterile packet inside the cabinet, alongside the lube and the gloves.  The package clinked as I closed the drawer.

The next day was a blur as I tended to my mini-brains and anticipated Jeff’s arrival.  Everything was ready for my guest.  I even put a bottle of champagne in the laboratory fridge, next to some tissue samples.

I woke up Saturday morning filled with anticipation.  I gave myself a small shot of mini-brain dopamine to turbocharge my day.  It put my receptors on overload.  My pussy was still drenched when I went into my closet to retrieve my outfit.  I decided to pick up Jeff in a black leather skirt and thin white blouse.  Lace-top high-highs and a pair of spiky booties would complete the outfit. I wanted his libido on overdrive.

I drove into Cambridge, had a light lunch, and killed time before meeting up with Jeff at 5PM.  I sent him a text, “Hope you’re ready to be immersed in science!  Will you be my subject? Joan XXX.”

My phone pinged immediately. “Consider me your personal lab rat. Jeff XXX.”

I parked my car near the bar and went inside.  Jeff was already there.  He looked me up and down, taking in the short skirt and spotting the sheer blouse beneath my leather jacket. “Wow, Joan, you look amazing.”

“Thanks. You look great yourself, Mr. Lab Rat! Follow me.”  We walked the block and a half to my car, when he whistled again. 

“Holy shit. You drive a Porsche? I love these cars.”  I drive a slate gray Cayman, chosen specifically because it can accommodate only one passenger.  It was quick and nimble and its interior was so tight, I preferred to put my purse in the trunk.

“Yes, I drive a Porsche, and I drive it fast.  Put your knapsack in my trunk, and I don’t think you’ll be needing your jacket either.”  He reached for the phone in his jacket pocket when I stopped him. “Do you really think you’ll be having a conversation with someone else while you’re in this car?” He looked embarrassed as he returned the phone to his jacket and folded everything into the tiny compartment.

As soon as he climbed into the Cayman, I accelerated out into traffic and onto the ramp leading north of the city.  I drove up Route 1, enjoying the flat, open stretches where I could let the car fly.  Jeff seemed nervous at first, but once he tightened his seatbelt, he relaxed.

“Where are you taking me?”

“How often do you get into cars with strange women, without knowing what’s in store?” I teased him with the truth of his decision to accompany me.

“I don’t make a habit of it.  But it is kind of exciting. So, where are we going?”

“North.” I drove up 1A, past Revere and then past Lynn.

“Are we going to Salem?  Where they had the witch trials?”

“Not exactly. But you’re close.  The lab is in the next town over.  By the way, Salem didn’t have all the fun.  Marblehead hanged four witches, too”

It was dusk as we arrived in Marblehead.  I decided to give Jeff the full experience, and we drove through the center of town.  “You like Mary Shelley, right? Have you read any H.P. Lovecraft?  He was so taken by Marblehead that he based Kingsport on the town.  He imagined some very dark, scary things happening here.”  Jeff sat quietly, taking in the town, with its archaic buildings and water views.  I reached over and took his hand.  “This is fun, right?” I pointed to a local seafood place on the main street. “I thought we’d have dinner there, after we’re done at the lab.  Do you like lobster?”  He nodded and smiled.

I drove back to Ocean Avenue and sped across the causeway.  It was now dark, just as I had planned. I stayed on Ocean, even though it would have been faster to drive up Harbor.  I liked the twists and turns.  They gave me a chance to test the handling of the Porsche and a chance to test the resolve of my guest.  Jeff seemed unperturbed, even when a light mist began to swirl, making the roads slick and obscuring vision.

We reached the end of Ocean, and I pulled my car into the driveway and punched in the code that opened the massive gates that provide privacy and security.  The hinges opened with a squeal. I pulled in and let the car idle for a moment while the gates locked behind us.  I backed into the garage.  I hopped out of the car and Jeff followed me.  I waved at the trunk.  “Don’t worry, your stuff is safe here.  Nothing gets in or out of this facility without permission.  –Would you like to see the grounds?”

“Sure. Although the fog is a little thick.  You know where the land ends and the water starts, right?”

I laughed and took his hand.  “Don’t worry, the waves won’t get you.  Besides, it’s almost low tide.  We should be able to see the rocks even if we can’t see much else.”  I led him to the edge.  “We’re about a foot away from the cliff, so don’t move.”  I began to kiss his lips, teasing his mouth with my tongue.  He responded, gently holding my hair as he clutched at my body. The water was still and the fog muffled the noises around us. 

I held my hand up, pointing towards the horizon.  “Just over there, is Marblehead Rock.”  There was a vague outline of something offshore. “Just beyond, is Catt Island, where they quarantined people with smallpox during the 18th century.  Satan’s Rock is out there, too.  It’s the last piece of land that comes between us and Spain.”

I held tight to Jeff.  His heart was beating rapidly.  I let my hands graze down the front of his jeans, and he was erect. It was time to take him inside.  We stumbled over the uneven ground, the mist was so thick. It was a relief when we reached the grey stone building.

I brought Jeff to a side door that led straight to the basement. The retinal scanner approved my identity, of course, and the door popped open.  I took Jeff’s hand, “Just follow behind me.” At the second door, a scanner read my fingerprints.  At a third, I punched in a code. We were finally inside.  I flipped a switch.  Soft lights flooded the workbenches where I had left the centrifuge in position and where I’d readied the distillation setup.  “Cool, isn’t it?”

Jeff seemed staggered.  He spotted the electron microscope in the corner, and the array of beakers, cylinders and flasks. “What do you do here?  Is this part of the Audubon Society’s work?”

“No bird research here.  We’re more interested in basic science.  I’ve been examining tissue samples for months, looking for something that can regulate neurotransmitter levels.”

Jeff seemed reluctant to touch the equipment, but he was clearly curious.  I undid a top button of my blouse.

“Would you like to see something really special?” I gazed down at Jeff’s pants, noting that his erection was still present.  I placed his hands on my breasts and backed into the room filled with my mini-brains.

“Hi brains!  I have a friend here, I’d like you to meet!”  The brains started to hum. Jeff looked at me baffled as he gazed at the rows of beakers, each containing a mini-brain with multiple probes jutting out.  I turned to Jeff, “I’d like to show you something crazy… “

“You’ve already shown me something crazy.  Are these fucking brains?”

“They’re mini-brains, made from stem cells.  They’re synthetic… They don’t bite, but they do make noise!” He kept shaking his head.  I ran my fingers along the front of his pants.  “Seriously, they like this. And so do I.” I unzipped his jeans and eased his boxers down as I reached for his penis. “Wouldn’t you like to see science in action? I promise, it’ll be worth it.” He paused for a second as my fingers played with the head of his cock. “Oh god, yes. Show me.”

I removed my blouse and hitched up my skirt, and then I pulled his pants down to the floor. I began to stroke his exposed cock, and the brains began to crackle with neural energy.  He looked around, surprised by the cacophony.  “The brains like you almost as much as I do.  But here’s the catch.  The brains only respond to arousal. So if you want them to accompany us, you can’t come.  Neither of us can. They’re nasty little sado-brains!” 

I gave Jeff a demo, of how the brains would react to his arousal.  I’d tease him with my mouth, and the brains would crackle.  I’d then stroke him hard, until he was panting, and the noise the brains emitted became like lightning.  There were sharp, loud snaps as the neural activity intensified.

“Holy fuck. This is amazing. But I don’t know how much of this teasing I can take.  Man, I want to screw you so bad.”  This was like music to my ears. 

“Oh, I can’t do that in front of the brains.  It wouldn’t be right… But there’s an exam room next door that might be fun to use.  What do you think?” Jeff was incapable of thinking.  He nodded and shuffled behind me, his pants still down around his ankles

I unlocked the exam room and turned on one very dim light.  I wanted the room to have a sensual ambiance.  I pushed him back onto the dental chair. “Here, lie down.” I removed his shoes and socks, pulled off his pants, and then I wriggled out of my skirt and straddled him wearing only my thigh highs.  I channeled Nurse Jones. “Gee, Mr. Meier, are you here for your physical?  There are a few extra exams I’d like to conduct.  With your consent, of course.”

Jeff didn’t skip a beat.  “Nurse Joan, some extra exams? Are they necessary? Will they be painful?” His cock grew at the prospect.

“Well, Mr. Meier, they’re extremely intimate, and they could be uncomfortable, but you will be helping scientific understanding in a very profound way.”

“Nurse Joan, if you say it’s for science, what can I do?  I yearn to donate my body to science.  Could there be anything more noble than that?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Meier. I thank you for your sacrifice.” And as I said those words, I began to suck his cock. I ran my tongue the length of his shaft, teasing every last inch of his organ with my mouth. I grazed my teeth along the head, and pulled the sensitive skin deeper into my throat.  He arched.  “Oh, Mr. Meier, I should have told you, but you are not to come without permission.  Do you understand?  It’s essential.  For science.”

Jeff’s breathing deepened even as he collapsed into the exam table. “Are you sure, nurse? There’s a lot of science in orgasm.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Meier, you’re absolutely right.  And when it’s time, you will be permitted.  But until then, it’s better for science if you wait.  Can you do that?  I’d hate to stop now.” I gave him a proper view of my full breasts as I resumed licking his cock.  “Science demands no orgasm.  And so do I.”

Jeff began to writhe in the chair.  “I know science demands it….but my cock might not be able to comply!” It was time to deploy my modifications.

“I know how to help, Jeff.”In a couple of swift motions I had his arms latched into the armrests, and his chest secured to the base of the chair.  “Let me keep your legs still.  Sudden movements could really harm this research.” Jeff was beginning to get alarmed, but his cock had become rock hard. I played with it. “Isn’t this delicious, Jeff?  Isn’t this what you’ve always fantasized about? I saw your profile on FetLife and I had to meet PatientZero.  We have so much in common.”

“You’re on FetLife, too?  Fuck…”  Jeff’s brain wanted to stop and process, but his cock wanted to continue.  Typical male response, I noted, where arousal overrules cognition.  My plan not only seemed feasible, it seemed replicable. 

I spread his legs and strapped them apart, fully secured to the chair.  I put a second strap around his upper chest. To immobilize his head, I secured a padded leather belt around his forehead, which in turn locked to the headrest.

It was dawning on Jeff that he could not get out of his predicament; that he was entirely at my mercy.  I did my best to put him at ease. I resumed stroking his cock, and he resumed responding to my touch.

“I’m sure you realize you’re a little vulnerable, Jeff.  That I can do anything to you and your body that I want.  Well, what I want is your arousal.  I want to get you to the verge of orgasm—repeatedly—without coming.  If you come, there will be consequences.  If you don’t, there will be pleasure.”

I opened the drawer behind the chair and grabbed the lube.  I squirted a large dollop of it onto my hands and got them very slick.  “I want you on edge, Jeff, begging for release, pleading for mercy.” I grabbed his cock with my right hand and his balls with my left and I began to massage the lube into the skin.  He had no choice but to lie back and take every stroke. 

I climbed up on the chair, sitting astride Jeff’s legs, so that he could see my pussy and the tops of my black stockings.  He deserved a good view while I approached his cock with scientific curiosity.  It was a puzzle to optimize his arousal, but he offered many clues.  Whenever I played with the soft ridge of skin at the head of his cock, he’d moan deeply.  Whenever I’d rub his balls gently, he’d sigh.  I’d give him ten slow strokes, making sure my hand pressed firmly on the entire surface of his shaft, and then I’d give him ten fast strokes, concentrating on the head.

First slow, and then fast. Over and over.  Soon, he was straining against the straps, panting. “Please, Joan, I’m so close. Let me come.”  I’d stop, pull out my penlight, and peer into his eyes.  His pupils were dilated, but they weren’t as wide as the man’s in the video.  I needed to continue.

I stroked him furiously, and brought him to the brink.  He jerked against his bonds when I squeezed the head of his cock, just below the glans, forestalling his climax.Jeff pleaded, but his pupils indicated that his brain still wasn’t flooded with dopamine.  I needed to further heighten his arousal.  I pulled out the latex gloves, put more lube on my hands, and took the experiment to the next phase.

Luckily for Jeff, my fingers are small and deft.  I was able to insert my left index and middle fingers into his anus with only minor resistance from his sphincter.  Soon, I was pushing against his prostate as I teased his cock with my right.  His sighs became louder and his panting was unmistakable.  I got him to the edge of orgasm, and there was a catch in his voice, suggesting a deep sincerity. “Please, Joan, you need to stop. I can’t take this anymore. Fuck me, do anything you want. But please, stop this teasing.”

“Anything I want, Jeff?  Do you mean it?  You said you’d donate your body to science… How badly do you want to stop this torment?”

I removed the gloves, grabbed the penlight and realized he was telling the truth.  His midbrain was marinating in dopamine and his pupils proved it.  It was time to take him at his word. My research demanded it.

“I meant it, Joan. Please.”

“Oh Jeff, that’s fantastic. Thank you.” I slipped on a fresh pair of gloves, and then I inserted a needle filled with Propofol into his neck. I reassured him, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.” He slumped in the chair.  I whispered in his ear, “I promise that your life will be dedicated to pleasure.” He let out a deep, contented sigh as I retrieved my instruments and went to work.


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