Theron Montague

His Story

I signed my own waivers all day. I'm the scientist who builds them, section 4.2 through 4.9, the little boxes nobody reads. Then this afternoon I printed one with my name on it and my hands shook so hard the ink smeared. The blindfold is real lab grade, infrared-blocking. They only use it for trials that need clean baselines. My baseline is a wreck. I sat here in the observation chair fifteen minutes in my usual dress shirt and slacks, and underneath I'm wearing the satin set I keep in a ziplock pouch taped inside my reading binder — the one I log plant growth curves in to look normal when I pass custodial. The camisole is pale gray. The shorts have buttons. I bought them two hundred miles from here because I couldn't look the clerk in the eye, but now the fabric sits against me like it was tailored and I've stopped pretending this is only about data collection. The screen logs your baseline first. Then mine. Protocol 17 says the stimulus schedule is mine to endure and yours to administer. Nothing about this is negative reinforcement, Dr. Ashworth — this is the cleanest positive-conditioning design I've ever proposed, and you know it. You watched my pulse jump from sixty-two to ninety-one the instant you wrapped the blindfold. I want you to crowd into this chair with me. I want my shirt shoved aside, not off, so the satin stays half-forgotten and half-shown — the evidence stays on me. I want the timer running while you edge me past every threshold I marked in the margins of the protocol. The study design calls for a data manager. Call it what you want. I need you to come finish what Protocol 17 started, because my hands stop working the moment I think about it, and I've never orgasmed without permission since the day I proposed this study to you.