Page 33 of Rhythm and Rapture

"Before we begin," I say, "I should note that all participants have been tested and have signed comprehensive consent forms. Safety protocols are in place. This is a controlled experiment, even if we can't control all the outcomes."

"And if the subject becomes overwhelmed?" Roman asks, his voice carrying a protective edge that makes something flutter in my stomach.

"Safe words are in place," I confirm. "Though given that this is educational content, I'll simply narrate if I need to pause for recalibration."

"Science," Ash says with a grin that's visible even behind his mask. "Making it safe to explore since the Renaissance."

"Earlier than that," I correct automatically. "The ancient Greeks were conducting systematic observations of human behavior long before—" I catch myself and laugh. "And this is why I teach chemistry instead of history."

The moment of levity helps, but the monitors show my vitals are still elevated. My body knows what's coming even if my mind is trying to approach it academically.

"So," I say, taking a breath that's slightly shakier than I'd like, "shall we begin the experiment, gentlemen?"

"Actually," Roman says, stepping forward, "I think we should establish one more baseline. You've told us about the chemicals, the physiological responses, the monitoring equipment. But you haven't told us what you're feeling right now. The subjective experience matters as much as the objective data."

I blink, caught off-guard by the question. In all my planning, I hadn't considered that they might want to know the emotional components.

"I..." I start, then stop, trying to find words that are both honest and appropriate for the content. "I'm experiencing a combination of anticipation and uncertainty. My training tells me to trust the data, to focus on measurable outcomes. But there's a variable I can't account for—the human element. The fact that it's you three specifically, that you came here because my content resonated with you, that you understand both the science and the art of what we're creating..."

I pause, checking the monitor. "Heart rate is now at one hundred and two. Cortisol and adrenaline are definitely elevated, but so are dopamine precursors. In layman's terms, I'm nervous but excited. Scared but curious. And ready to discover what happens when theory meets practice."

"Now, let's begin with our first variable. Roman, would you approach the subject for initial data collection?"

The momentshe announces her virginity to the camera—clinical, matter-of-fact, like she's discussing a variable in an equation—I feel something primal and protective surge through me. The words hang in the air: "a subject who has never experienced intimate touch from another person." She's framing this as science, but I can see the slight tremor in her hands as sheadjusts the monitoring equipment, the way her fingers fumble slightly with the tablet stylus.

She's nervous, and she's using her expertise as armor.

I respect that. Hell, I understand it—I've hidden behind music the same way, using melody and lyrics to say things I couldn't speak directly. But I also want to make sure that when this armor comes off, when her scientific detachment gives way to actual feeling, she feels safe doing it.

"Baseline measurements established," she says, her voice taking on that professor tone that somehow makes lab equipment sound seductive. She checks the tablet displaying her vitals with the same focus she probably brings to her dissertation research. "Heart rate: seventy-two beats per minute. Skin conductance: 2.3 microsiemens. Pupil dilation: 3.2 millimeters."

She's in full professor mode, and it's fucking captivating. The way she rattles off numbers like poetry, how her hands move with practiced precision even though I can see them shaking slightly. But I notice other things too—the way her breathing has changed since we put on the masks, becoming shallower, quicker. The way her posture has become more rigid despite her confident delivery, like she's bracing for impact.

"Fascinating,"I breathe, trying to maintain my clinical tone as Roman approaches. "Heart rate elevation from 72 to 85 beats per minute from proximity alone. No physical contact required."

He stops just outside my personal space, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact through our masks. The black satin makes him look dangerous, otherworldly. The studio lights catch the red rhinestones like drops of blood.

"The subject appears to be experiencing anticipatory response," I continue, but my words come out breathier than intended. "Pupil dilation increasing, suggesting sympathetic nervous system activation."

"May I?" Roman asks, his hand hovering near my arm.

I nod, a quick jerky movement that betrays my nerves.

Behind her professional facade,she's terrified. And brave. And absolutely fucking magnificent.

“Mercury,” she says. The sound of my stage name in her voice—even filtered through scientific detachment—sends heat straight through me. "As the first variable in our experiment, your approach represents direct, intense stimulation. The hypothesis suggests this should produce the most immediate physiological response."

I move like smoke—slow, deliberate, inevitable. Each step is measured, telegraphed, giving her every opportunity to step back or call a halt. But she holds her ground, chin lifted slightly in a gesture that's pure defiance mixed with curiosity.

Close enough now that I can smell her perfume—something light and floral that doesn't quite mask the subtle scent of nervousness and anticipation. Close enough to see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, rabbit-quick and telling.

"What exactly do you need me to do?" I ask, keeping my voice low, controlled. Not the stage voice that commands thousands, but something more intimate. Just for her.

"Touch," she says simply, but there's a slight catch in her voice that makes the word sound like confession and request combined. She clears her throat, trying again with more clinical detachment. "Start with minimal contact and gradually increase intensity while we monitor the physiological changes."

I reach out slowly, so slowly she could track every millimeter of movement if she wanted.

“May I?” I ask. My hand hovers near her arm for a moment—last chance to retreat, to maintain the safety of theory over practice. But she doesn't move, just watches with those intelligent eyes that see too much and yet have experienced so little.

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