Peer Review, Intermezzo - Educational Enclave

by Tritium

The woman stood in the fluorescent lighting nightmare that was the department kitchenette. The lighting in this room, and much of the university, for that matter, was of the humming, flickering harsh gas-discharge mercury vapor variety. While cheap in every conceivable way, it was not pleasing to any human sense. Just being at the university gave the woman a headache. On her last trip the kitchenette, she had depleted her coffee pot and forgot to start another, something for which she was deeply regretting, as it had forced her to wait till a new pot brewed.

Her office, which she had equipped with much maligned incandescent lighting, would be no respite from the harsh reality of fluorescent fatigue; long ago the university banned the use of CRT monitors, and forced all departments to use LCDs; a technology based around a fluorescent lamp. She had a suspicion that her headaches were more frequent since the switch, but as a true scientist, would not act on it until she had hard evidence. She would have gathered that evidence already, but the university had made that impossible; without the use of the now banned CRT, she had no control with which to make a proper study.

"Fuck it." She spoke her response to the frustrations she listed in her mind.

It took far longer than she had remembered for the machine to bring forth its nectar of life, and fatigue had started to set in on her. Her eyes closed and her mind played images for her; images of her family, images of her girlfriend's smile... then other images of her girlfriend that made her smile. Her eyes shot open when her mind betrayed her, and showed her the girl; rather the rendering her imagination had created for the girl. Afraid to close her eyes, least her mind betray her again, she stared at the carafe as it filled at a painfully slow rate.

"I need to get laid." She again responded verbally to her thoughts, and then quickly checked to make sure no one heard it. She was still alone.

The woman poured herself a cup of the steaming black liquid the second the machine emitted its telltale click, signaling that it had dutifully completed its task of advancing science, for at least another hour. She thankfully and hurriedly returned to her office. She threw out another love letter from the campus green-washers, turned on her inefficient incandescent desk lamp, and continued her work, transcribing interviews.

She had been avoiding five files for days, and it was becoming apparent that she could not avoid them much longer; she had only one recording left before she would have to start on the five she feared. She longed for a few more hours of mediocre sex stories from gay boys or more of the complete and obvious fabrications from fad and fake lesbians; a longing which shocked and disgusted her upon later reflection.

"Maybe I it won't affect me. Maybe I can be scientifically detached a second time through." She thought these things, which made her laugh aloud. One thing was becoming apparent to her, though; she was almost entirely ignoring the recording she was trying to transcribe.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She cursed herself quite loudly. She closed Windows Media Player and Word. She was not going to be getting any more work done tonight, she convinced herself, but only before a moment of realization; she would not meet her deadline if she stopped.

"Maybe if I get it out of my system, it won't build up so much inside." That thought sounded logical to her. She opened up a browser, and tried to navigate to one of her old standby sites for emergencies just like this. The IT department of the school thwarted that attempt, and to her dismay, the computer told her the attempt was logged. "I can't catch a fucking break." She did not remember if she said that aloud or if she just thought it.

She whimpered to herself, resigned to the torment she was going to have to endure. After locking her door, and closing the blinds, she sat back at her desk. She turned off her speakers and put on headphones; no one was going to hear these stories except her. Privacy, she thought, would make it go smoother. Then again, privacy would allow her to do things to herself she would rather no one knew she did; especially to the dulcet tones of a fourteen year old girl's voice.

After adjusting her jeans, in the form of unbuttoning them and undoing the fly, she launched a new document and began the transcription of the Jane Doe Two interviews, session one.

The first forty-five minutes went well; she had not needed to stop playback to relieve herself, and she thought she would be able to keep control. She corrected her jeans and sat up straight, resolve to complete at least the first session of interviews before giving up for the night and going home.

"Home." She thought. Home with her girlfriend, where she would make sweet love to her, not once mentioning that her arousal was born not of her girlfriend, but of the tales of promiscuity as told by a subject of research. Home, would be her salvation.

She had taken a break from the recordings to refill her mug with the now slightly burnt tasting nectar of life. She would have to get a small coffee maker for her office, another luxury that would win her friends with the green-washers of the campus. She shrugged off the thought of more love letters, and returned to her office and the recordings.

Midway through the second recording, she was forced to stop. The girl had started to describe a bath she took at age six, and her imagination took over. She fought her urges, but her arousal was too strong. She readjusted her pants and let her hand slide into her panties. She would not, could not, pause the recording. Every word brought her more excitement, and later, more shame.

The girl's description of her mother licking her drove the woman to a fever pitch in her self-stimulation. She pressed her fingers roughly against her clitoris and ground at herself; to bring herself pleasure, to punish herself for what aroused her. When the girl told of her mother's desperation for release and the lengths she went to get it, the woman slid fingers inside herself, and thrust them lewdly. She had lost herself in the story and in her own orgasm.

When the afterglow faded, she stopped playback, and saved the document. Before she left her office, she checked herself in a mirror, and found she could not look at herself the same anymore. She didn't know what she felt about herself now, and she was more confused than she was at the girls age; when she discovered her own unique sexuality. She wiped a tear from her eye, a tear brought on by frustration and a little shame.

'Home' didn't seem as appealing as it had a few hours ago, but she could not stay in her office.