In the morning I heard a splash through the window. Maddie and Madison were swimming in the sound. Harry was again shirtless, sawing a large hunk of wood, having evidently decided to turn the tree he’d chopped down into a portico. Then, a new sound, a loud engine, from the front of the house. I hurried across the hall and looked through the window of the billiard room to see Clara speed away down the long country driveway on a motorcycle.
“Are you aware that our experiment just left the property?” I asked Harry as he held a tape measurer against the wood.
“My wife,” he insisted, “just needed a little air. Said she’d be back before lunch. Hopefully before I start driving these foundation rods into the ground.”
“Sir, everything seems to be going fine, but this early in a new lifecycle, anything could happen.”
“Quoting my own book at me?”
“What if she has a neurochemical overload, god knows where, with no identification—or even worse while she’s driving?”
“Relax.”
“To say nothing of the fact that she’s considered legally dead.”
Harry stopped measuring. He looked at me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“She never lived here. No one will recognize her. Hand me that wood planer.”
Even if the professor was too disenchanted with our project to worry, my career was still on the line. My reputation as a scientist. I stood by the broken billiard table, watching through the window for Clara’s return. When I at last saw the motorcycle approach around 11:00, I hurried downstairs. She drove past me as I opened the front door, so I followed the sound of her engine to some far side of the estate.
I found her parked in an old stable. The motorcycle still hummed between her legs, and Clara was just shaking her hair free of the helmet when she saw me.
“Charlie!” she said. She was dressed in head-to-toe riding gear. Black knee-high boots over a tight pair of khakis, a white button-up shirt primly tucked, and a blue blazer.
“Didn’t know you could ride one of those,” I said.
Clara shrugged. She cut the engine and pulled her right leg over the seat to stand. “I was looking for a horse. Found this in the corner, instead.”
“Well do me a favor,” I said. “Next time you want to take that for a spin, could you do it on the estate?”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a mocking pout.
“It’s important that you stay close by. Just for a couple of weeks.”
“You too?” Clara slipped the gloves from her hands and set them on the motorcycle seat. “What exactly are you and Harry worried about? Should I be concerned?”
I laughed. “No. Harry and I are worried about very different things. I’m just trying to follow standard protocols, really.”
“And Harry?”
I hesitated but Clara crossed her arms over her chest.
“He thinks you’re slightly different than you were before,” I said.
“How so?”
“It’s really none of my business.”
For effect, Clara repeated the motion of crossing her arms.
“I think he used the words ‘voracious appetite,’” I sighed. “Sexually speaking.”
Clara laughed. “Voracious?’ That’s what he said?”
“He feels that’s how you used to be, yes.”
Clara shook her head. “Agree to play out a handful of fantasies,” she mumbled to herself, draping the helmet strap over a handlebar. “So he’s frustrated that we’re not…sleeping together?”
“He’s building a portico,” I nodded.
Clara leaned back against the bike. She crossed her ankles and stared absently at the stable wall.
“He’s just been so focused on, I don’t know…wooing me. Like we’re in high school. Those boat rides, breakfast in bed.”
I stayed silent, feeling I was intruding again.
“It’s all very sweet, very romantic,” she said. “But…” She fiddled with one of the side mirrors. “What’s the point of all those muscles if he’s not just going to grab me?”
I was ready to turn and leave when all of sudden the kickstand gave out, rusted from years of rainwater. The motorcycle crashed to one side and Clara, who had been using it for support, leapt toward me with a sharp cry. I caught her in my arms, one hand on the small of her back, as she braced herself against my chest. She looked at me, then away, and I, desperate for something to say but being so terrible with words, decided to keep talking about the professor.
“He said your disposition is suddenly very…” I paused feeling her palms rub ever so slightly against me. “…nun-like.”
She looked at my mouth. Her knee brushed between mine.
“Well,” she began. “I guess I am technically a virgin.”
We looked at each other for a moment, but then she pulled away. She bent down to try and lift the motorcycle and I stepped forward to help. We managed to set it upright, my arms entangled with hers as we each scrambled about for the best grip. We rolled it across the floor, struggling to navigate the shattered crates, the water pails, all the old baggage which might crowd a derelict stable. I lifted the back wheel to help it into a stall, Clara jerked the handlebars, and eventually we managed to shove the bike against a side wall. Both a little out of breath, but with our task complete, we gradually realized our compromising position: Clara, bent forward slightly, her hands on the bike, and me pressed innocently against her backside, my hands on hers.
She looked at me over her shoulder, still panting.
“Thank you,” she said. She looked away, but made no effort to move.
I put my hands on her waist beneath her blazer. She pressed back against my pelvis, subtly enough that she could claim it was an accident. I tried to slip my fingers into each side of her khakis, thinking again about her turtleneck, but her pants were impossibly tight. I reached around and unbuttoned them. We looked at each other. She bent lower, resting her elbows on the seat.
I got down on my knees against the dust of the floor. I grasped both sides of her pants, and, even undone, they were difficult to remove. I peeled them from her skin, an inch at a time, and quickly realized she wore nothing underneath. Clara breathed harder the lower her pants became, until at last, with one final tug—the full curve of her bottom, supple and fair.
I stood. Clara began to shake. I unbuckled my jeans. She glanced back to watch as I lowered my pants and I saw her bite her lip as I took my cock in my hand.
But as I began to raise myself between her legs, hovering just below and against her lips such that I felt her wetness against the length of my cock, she reached back and took my hand.
“Not here,” she said breathlessly . “I’m saving myself for Harry.”
She ran her palm along my cock, examining its stature. Then she wrapped her fingers around and slowly guided me higher, squeezing my tip between her soft cheeks.
“Here,” she said, flashing a girlish pout as she wiggled her bum. Shyly, quietly, as if requesting a secret, she said “will you fuck me in the ass, Charlie?”
I bunched the back of her blazer into my hand as she let my cock slowly disappear within her milky vale, and we spent the next half-hour gently rocking the bike against the stall.