Patty’s Big Score
Though there are empty chairs available, Patty sits on top of the well-polished mahogany table. That way she is higher up than the seated adults around her. It is a subtle way of asserting her power.
Dressed in their business attire, looking up at the nude teenager are Kathryn Posen, M.D., Assistant Chair of the Department of Experimental Biology; Stefan Redl, M.D., Psy.D., Department Chair; Georgette William, Vice President for Faculty Affairs; Harry S. Cook, Applied Research Grant Director of the RXT Corporation; Rear Admiral Raji S. Patel, M.D., of the National Public Health Service; Henry X. Moyer of the National Institute of Health; and Lillian Churchman, Coordinator of EIGWGOC (the Education - Industry - Government Working Group on Neuroscience). The Group’s Recording Secretary is not present; this meeting is off the record, and classified. Patty has been so informed.
They wait for her reaction as she studies the one-page summary of the 128-page proposal, which is watermarked “Confidential per 35 U.S.C. §181”. One foot folded under her, the other leg extended out, with her other hand she idly twirls her pubic hair, her toes wiggling as her foot extends out almost to the edge of the table, near Adm. Patel in his uniform. They see her silhouette against the 25th-story window, a view of downtown Providence, her left breast eclipsing the dome of the state Capitol, the crowning statue of “The Independent Man”, tiny in the distance, seeming to plant his little spear on top of it so as to claim ownership. Then she turns slightly and her breast moves upward as if knocking him off his perch.
Toes continue to wiggle, then undulate. Anyone who knows Patty knows this means she is interested in what she is reading. Then she puts the paper down and turns to Dr. Redl. “Can I see the whole thing?”
They have no choice, of course. He fishes it out of his briefcase and soon Patty has spread the various sections around her, eyes darting here and there, arranging and moving around papers with the heel of her foot and her toes. She is almost using her feet like hands, wiggling a page into eyeshot here, pushing another away there, arms and legs extending, spider-like, with the natural flexibility of an 18-year-old girl.
“I -- don’t understand some of these words,” she says, brow furrowed. “Splanchnic -- what does that mean?”
“It is one of the spinal nerves,” Dr. Posen says. “It goes to the lower colon.” She pauses. “Mr. Barker, your biology teacher, has probably taught -- ” She is cut off by Patty’s giggle. The nude high school student’s breasts jiggle with merriment. Nobody knows what this means.
Patty exhales, banishes the grin from her face, and reads on. “So this is -- a special kind of -- orgasm?”
Mr. Cook, clearing his suddenly dry throat, says, “Yes. Your orgasms have been extensively studied.”
“I sure as f**k know that! . . . Sorry.” It is rare for Patty to offer an apology for profanity, but she does, with such an august audience. “How many times did you guys make me come?”
Dr. Posen taps on her tablet. “Over the course of sixty-three sessions . . . we have brought you to three hundred forty-six climaxes.”
Patty blinks and shakes her head in wonder. “That last one . . .”
“Yes,” Dr. Posen says. “Using a partial prototype of the techniques you see here, we extended it. I’m proud to say we achieved nineteen contractions.”
“You achieved . . . I came and came and came. I couldn’t stop. Then I came some more! I almost went crazy.”
“In a sense you did,” Dr. Redl says. “Briefly. Post-orgasm ideation has been part of the research also.”
“Ideation. The ability to think clearly.”
“Oh yeah . . . that.” They are referring to the last few sessions, when Patty was positioned on all fours, and Mrs. Ginsberg, her social studies teacher, was brought in to face her as she was pounded from behind with alternating rectal and vaginal dildos, her nipples tugged down in rhythm, grabbed by bristly suction cups on cams. With a loud voice Mrs. Ginsberg asked Patty the same questions from quizzes which (being Patty) she had just scored 100s on. It took the gasping, besieged girl some time to grunt out the answers but she missed only one or two out of twenty. Which caused her friends, watching and rooting for her, to cheer.
Patty gets up and walks upright on her knees to the pitcher of water at the other end of the table. They all watch as her breasts bobble and her knees thump against the mahogany, and as she pours herself a cup. She turns, still up on her knees, and sips, studying the papers scattered in front of her. Her breasts come to rest, as if calmly thinking too. “It says ‘confidential’. Can you finally tell me why you’ve been -- using my body all this time?”
“Yes we can tell you,” Adm. Patel says. “Production of spontaneous, rhythmic motion, such as is found during orgasm, will help research into paralytic enervation.”
“Those who are paralyzed, from the waist down, or maybe even from the cervical area down.”
The girl rests on her haunches, butt cheeks on her heels. “This is about . . . making paralyzed people come?”
“Not just orgasm,” Dr. Redl says. “The special character of orgasmic contractions opens up neural pathways in a thus far unknown way. You have given us neurological techniques to allow people to awaken formerly unresponsive nerves.” He pauses. “Those who could not walk, can walk again. Or at least it looks like we are well on the road to that.”
Upon learning this, a mystery she had wondered about for five months, Patricia Mary Faustina Kowalski’s pretty mouth falls open. She nimbly but slowly stands up. Her head is now far above them as she sips again and turns to the bay window, and takes a few steps toward the city of some 200,000. “This sounds important.”
“Yes,” Dr. Posen says. “It was daring and unusual research, and we were very lucky to find such an ideal subject in you.”
“Yes,” echoes Mr. Moyer. He stands up. “Miss Kowalski, we owe you a great debt.” And then the rest of them stand too and clap!
Patty looks down at these adults applauding. An unusual emotion overcomes her. She feels her scalp prickling, goose bumps all over, her nipples stiffening as if to accept the cheers. Even her pubic hair seems to stand on end. She has been donating her orgasms to science but never knew it was so important -- that she has been so important. She has always known her true worth, and used it to get what she wants, but this is a surprising new world.
“Um . . . you’re welcome. Really.”
The adults sit down and then Mr. Moyer, who is in charge of this meeting, proceeds. “Miss Kowalski, as you know, we brought you here to ask if you could continue onto Phase II of the project.”
“Yes . . . research into recursive orgasms.”
“Recursive means that accomplishing one thing is the spur to the next thing. You input and input, and get the same result.”
Patty thinks for a second. “You mean like the cosine function?”
“On a calculator, you can punch in any number, and hit the cosine key, and keep hitting it, you gradually close in on the same number. It’s point seven three nine zero something. Cosine is a recursive function.”
The adults look at each other with an unaccustomed sense of inadequacy. Suddenly Ms. Churchman, who was once a math major, laughs and says, “You’re right, Patty! That’s exactly right!”
“We’ve got a smart girl here,” Mr. Cook says.
“I know that!” Patty says, with lopsided smile. She puts the cup of water to the side and sits down, cross-legged.
Dr. Redl passes a foldout to Patty. “We have identified twenty-seven triggers to orgasm, in your vagina, your cervix, your fornix, your nipples, your anus, your rectum and your colon. Note the diagram.”
Patty shakes her head with an I-know-this-goddamn-well expression. “Well you’ve certainly hit me in all these places.” Her butt squirms, remembering all those long probing sticks pushing far up inside her.
“They’re triggers, and with the right sequence we can make your orgasm recursive. Such that one contraction activates the next. Once that happens, further external stimulation is not necessary.”
Patty’s mouth drops open again. “You mean . . .”
“Yes, an orgasm that is self-perpetuating. Here is the apparatus.”
Now it’s Patty’s eyes that are wide open as well as her mouth. She studies the computer-generated drawing. “I’ll be up on . . .”
“Yes, suspended, though with cuffs in the right places for your comfort. This way the trigger points can be accessed from any angle. And then the actuators can be withdrawn when recursion is achieved.”
“It’s . . . on a . . . stage . . .”
“Yes,” the Admiral says. “For display and recording purposes.” His voice lowers. “International observers will be invited. We hope that our purpose will be seen as instructive and not . . . exultative.”
“But you’ll make me come and . . . it won’t stop . . .” Her eyes get wet. “I’ll go crazy for sure! No one can take that much! I’ll have a” -- she opens her mouth and bites her fist -- “heart attack!!” She shakes her head.
“No of course you won’t,” Dr. Posen says, in as comforting a voice as she can manage. “Well before you get to the point of fibrillation or exhaustion, we will stop you.”
“How can you do that?”
Dr. Redl answers. Unfortunately he lacks Dr. Posen’s natural warmth. “An injection of magnesium sulfate would suffice. It will simply put you to sleep for a while.”
“After how many --”
“You’re a healthy girl. I think you can go maybe five minutes, which would be about three hundred contractions.”
“Oh Jesus --” Patty crunches herself into a little ball, hands over her face, toes pointed inward. They hear sniffles. It is almost as if she wants to hide her nakedness, something hard to imagine with Patty Kowalski. Now she withdraws her hands and Dr. Posen offers her a tissue. “Mind if I take a minute?”
They all know Patty needs time. She walks toward the door, her tough bare soles brushing against the hardwood floor, then out onto the veranda. They watch as she looks out onto the city, her butt cheeks flexing with her thoughts. They also know what her decision will be. Patty’s Catholic sense of obligation and responsibility can dictate only one answer.
When she comes back, she faces them, bolt upright, shoulders back. Her nipples point at them as if to punctuate her words. “You -- you guys are going to pay me for this, of course -- big time!”
“And we will,” Ms. William says. “If you participate, and it’s a three-week program,” and now she draws her words out, “you will get a full undergraduate scholarship to our university.”
Patty wipes her nose and casually throws the tissue into a basket. They were expecting her to be surprised and elated.
“We’ve been told that you haven’t applied to college, even though you graduate in three weeks,” Dr. Posen says. “I don’t know why that is, perhaps the reason is financial, but you will be able to matriculate with us in the fall.”
Patty doesn’t recognize the word “matriculate” but figures it means she can start classes. In fact she has decided to spend the next year working and earning money. She has sorted it all out. With her unique talents she has gotten offers but most would require her to travel out of the area and of course she can’t do that. There’s that porn guy who keeps showing up at Teaser’s. He’s been offering some serious money but the other girls have been warning against it. On the other hand, she’s been offered to model and dance at “Rizdy” -- RISD, the Rhode Island School of Design -- $1000 for five hours a week! -- and that seems legit.
Also, whether she goes to Brown or to U.R.I, even though each is less than ten miles away, with all the classes she won’t be able to get back to the house until night and she’s not sure if Jimmy, the second oldest, is ready to watch over things. He’s going into tenth grade and still pretty immature, caught up in the recent “sneaker wars”, not gang activity but a lot of verbal sparring with boys in his grade. He needs another year to settle down.
Patty takes a deep breath and lies back, then stretches out her arms and legs, looking up at the skylight. By habit she assumes a modeling pose. Her left hand almost touches Dr. Posen, her left foot Dr. Redl, her right hand Adm. Patel, her right foot Ms. Churchman. Her legs are well separated and Mr. Cook at the end of the table finds himself staring right at her pubic bush, her lower lips slightly opened. Now she twirls her pubic hair again and clears her throat.
“You can keep the scholarship. Just give me money.”
There are puzzled glances around the table.
“You can pay off our house instead. There’s seventy-eight thousand left on it.” She takes another breath, her breasts rising, her concave tummy undulating. She flexes her toes. “And another fifteen thousand so I can get a new car, free and clear.”
Dr. Posen, who has learned a lot from chatting with Patty’s friends during the research sessions, says, “I thought you were putting the old one back on the road.”
She watches as the nude girl shakes her head, then gets up on one hip to face her. “There’s no saving that big old thing. When I took the engine out I saw the firewall was rusted through. And the drive tunnel.” She glances at the fourth toe of her right foot, the cut, almost healed now, that she got from stepping on the solenoid to loosen it. “Plus I have to give back that hoist.”
“Your friend Taylor, her father says he can tow it away for you.”
Patty shakes her head and says quietly, “No, it stays. We want to hold on to the memories.”
Dr. Redl, glancing at Ms. William, says, “It’s not like you can ask for money, instead of refusing in-kind compensation. You can’t exchange one for the other.”
“You save on the deal,” Patty points out. “I’m asking for under a hundred thou. You can’t say four years of tuition is anywhere that low.”
Ms. William says, “Miss Kowalski, I would not so quickly turn down a scholarship to an Ivy League school.”
“I’ll be a scientist someday, and I’m sure I can get in. If not your place, then U.R.I.” They all know that’s true. Her grades are excellent and she would surely qualify for financial aid. She earns a good income from various places but it’s all off the books. Also her family situation would make her a shoo-in.
Ms. William, who has been given the authority to do just this if needed, says, “O.K. Done.”
Patty smiles, and looks around at the papers, then at the distinguished adults. “This will not be easy -- but I’m in. Where do I sign?”
“We suggest a forty-eight hour wait period -- ”
“Where do I sign??”
Mr. Moyer presents the last page and with a steady left hand Patty signs.
Dr. Redl says, “There’s an orientation session we can set for next Sunday morning, the 5th, at ten.”
“I can’t do that. We have church. Make it Saturday.”
A quick check with Mr. Cook is all Dr. Redl needs to say, “That’s fine. Let’s make it the 4th.”
Characteristically, bravado has banished any inner fear. Patty extends her big toe to bring page 98 closer to her. “What is this thing?”
Dr. Redl says, “That is the rectal dildo. Don’t worry, it’s not any larger than the one you have become used to.”
“That’s plenty big enough. It’s like a f**king battering ram. . . What are those knobs?”
“They correspond to your trigger points.” Then after a second he says, “We have a model with us here. You can take it with you to uh, get acclimated.” He brings the irregular, knotted shaft out of his satchel.
“I’ll try it here!”
“Miss Kowalski,” Mr. Moyer jumps in, “it’s really not proper --”
“Can you stop me??” Patty is back in control. She places the dildo upright on the table and squats over it. With well-practiced motions she lowers herself onto the eight inches of stiff rubber.
“Don’t you need lubri --”
“I cleaned myself out before we came here . . . this is nothing . . . unhh . . .” In fact it hurts a little but Patty is not about to show it. Inch by inch disappears as her toes squirm and her breasts shake. She shifts by millimeters up and down, allowing the natural lubrication of her rectum to slick up the intrusion. She shivers with little thrills. After maybe thirty seconds her bare butt meets the table.
She stands up and with a surprised gasp almost falls forward, her knees shaking, eyes bugged out. “Jesus!!”
The adults watch silently, the men trying to control the erections in their expensive suit pants as a waft of female musk washes over everyone. Patty, on all fours, her head down, tries to catch her breath.
“Oh God . . .” Patty says, panting, sweating. “You guys know what you’re doing! I almost f**king came just now!”
Dr. Posen says, “Patty, you can -- finish if you want.”
Patty shakes her head. She does not give out her orgasms for free. Even when her friend Terrence wanted her to scream for his rap CD, she made him cough up twenty dollars first.
“Somebody -- take this -- out,” she grunts.
She turns her butt toward Dr. Posen, who has much familiarity with removing things from Patty’s lower digestive tract. The doctor grasps the flange at the end. It is an old familiar dance for the two of them, she pulls, Patty inhales, she pulls, Patty inhales. Finally the shaft leaves the gaping anus and bounces onto the table, slick with the teenager’s colorless secretions. The fragrance of the girl’s recent strawberry enema fills the room.
Patty’s face turns to the side. The Stephen Hopkins Faculty Tower is a traditional place, with an actual clock in each conference room. “It’s -- three -- thirty. I have to get back for the kids.” She looks to Dr. Posen, who gave her the ride here.
“Are you o.k.?”
“Yes -- I just -- need -- ice for my clit. I have to cool down.”
“There’s a refrigerator in the lounge next door,” Ms. William says.