Page 1 of Obey

one

The Variable

The observation room is all dark walls and dim lighting, designed to make us ghosts behind the glass. The low, steady hum of the prototype carries through the speakers, accompanied by the occasional strained breath from the woman on the other side.

"Mr. Baptiste." Dr. Smith straightens at my arrival, nearly swallowing her next words. "I—we weren't expecting you."

Her white coat hangs off her small frame, and she's gripping that clipboard like it'll do her any good. I can practically hear the excuses forming before she opens her mouth again.

I step past Dr. Smith toward the glass. The volunteer lies naked against black leather, her wrists secured in medical-grade restraints as her fingers repeatedly curl into fists before relaxing again. Her head is tipped back as the device continues its steady rhythm. Sweat gathers between her breasts, but it's the tension in the rest of her body that catches my attention.

She's holding back.

That's a problem.

“How long has she been at this level?” I ask.

"Six minutes, thirty-four seconds." She checks the monitor. "She's plateauing. We were just about to increase the—"

"Don't."

Dr. Smith's attention snaps back to me.

"It's not the prototype," I tell her. "She's too caught up in her own head to let it do its job. You're testing someone who needs to surrender control with a product that leaves her responsible for it."

"With respect, Mr. Baptiste, the readings suggest otherwise."

"Then stop watching the readings for a moment and watch her."

I leave Dr. Smith at the observation window and enter the testing room. The volunteer has her eyes squeezed shut, each breath escaping in a broken little moan.

“Eyes on me.” The command falls without heat, and her head instantly jerks to me.

I settle my hand against her throat, keeping the pressure light. Her pulse races beneath my palm, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, her chin lifts, offering me more access. I brush my thumb along her jaw, waiting until her attention settles entirely on me.

"Cum."

Her back arches off the leather. The first cry escapes before she can swallow it, and the next comes louder, her thighs trembling as she pulls against the restraints. I keep my hand steady until the last shudder passes.

Behind the glass, I know the researchers are already documenting the results, but I pay them no attention. My focus is on the volunteer still catching her breath, waiting until her body finally relaxes against the leather.

She isn't mine, but I know that kind of surrender. And I know the toll it takes after.

Once she's steady, I look to Dr. Smith. “How’d she get picked for this round?”

“Volunteer pool,” she says, straightening. “Matched all the benchmarks; sensitivity, product familiarity, stamina. On paper, she was ideal.”

"On paper," I repeat. "She's an ideal candidate. But she's treating pleasure like another task she has to get right. She doesn't need more intensity. She needs the freedom to stop thinking for five damn minutes and let somebody else take the lead."

She blinks, surprised. “Our screening didn’t flag that.”

“Then maybe we need to look at our screening process,” I say flatly. “That’s a different need, and it deserves the right tool.”

Dr. Smith lowers her pen, considering that. Good. At least I've given her something worth examining.

I leave her to it.

Outside the lab, the black glass and gold detailing of SOLAÉ's executive wing are as immaculate as ever. Not a single unnecessary flourish. Every inch of this building was designed to remind people exactly where they are—and who they're dealing with.