Fucking Cold

"$10/hour for 24 hours to test correlation of nudity and susceptibility to contraction of disease (catching cold). Subjects must be 18 or older and sign fully informed consent."

Ryan had heard of these experiments. Researchers were basically out to prove that cold temperatures had nothing to do with whether you caught a cold or flu. Getting sick had more to do with hand-washing.

Neither was he a stranger to participating in experiments on campus. It was easy money. Psych experiments, clinical trials, he'd done them all. Thanks to the university's teaching hospital, a steady stream of graduate students were always hungry for subjects ... hungry enough to pay.

Two hundred forty sounded like a lot of beer. Ryan signed up with no qualms.

After signing about 400 forms, he was directed to report back the following Monday, first thing in the morning. The matronly clerk explained that, due to the sensitive nature of the experiment, the location was secret. After only mild hesitation, Ryan agreed to be blindfolded and escorted through a series of hallways. There was a short trip on an elevator -- it seemed to be going down, not up -- and he was led through a door where the blindfold was finally removed.

For all the world, the interior looked like a small apartment or dorm room, except a little nicer. All of the furniture was well-padded, and the carpeting was plush.

"Home sweet home for 24 hours," said the clerk. Her MILF looks were tempered with a hint of grey hair; her smile was kind. "Now all you have to do is remove your clothing." She gave Ryan a box to put his things in. Then she pointed out the chicken switch. If anything went wrong, or he panicked, all he had to do was hit the large red button, and the experiment would terminate immediately. Ryan signed one final form, and the door clicked shut.

Once nude, he strolled around the place to check it out. There were no blankets, linens, towels or napkins; there was only toilet paper. The couch cushions were sewn on, and the mattress was one giant pad. Three pillows were sewn in place along the headboard. It seemed every precaution had been taken to ensure the subject could not be covered.

There were no doors, either. From the main room, the kitchen and bedroom circled around to meet one another. Every room had its own thermostat. The bathroom was set up like the kind at the airport, so that he walked around one wall and then another. If one had to be a rat, it was not a bad cage.

Ryan had nothing to do but watch the TV which the researchers had thoughtfully provided. He had just settled in to a re-run of Ultra Violet when, unexpectedly, the door opened.

His first instinct was to get dressed, but there was nothing to dress in, so he flopped onto his belly and looked up.

The young woman standing there looked confused. "Oh," she stammered, "I thought I would be the only one here."

He looked her up and down. She was just as naked as he. "Me too," he answered, but the words leaving his mouth had no connection to the contents of his mind.

The lost stranger was not model-perfect, but she was no slouch, either. The natural golden tan of her skin was highlighted with medium-blonde hair, most of which was missing between her thighs. He guessed her breasts to be about a B cup; they weren't large, but firm and nice looking, with dark pink nipples which hardened as he looked.

She saw his glance and blushed. "This isn't going to work out," she said, and turned to go.

Ryan could not tear his eyes from the lovely rear view. "Wait. Maybe this is part of the experiment."

"I find that hard to believe." Her sea-green eyes did not hold amusement.

The door had locked behind her, though, and neither of them could get it open. Worse, the chicken switch failed to produce any response whatsoever.

"What do we do?"

It didn't register in Ryan's lust-clouded mind that she had said we. "How about introductions, at least?" he suggested. "I'm Ryan."

"Corinne." They shook hands. "Do you think you could stop staring at me?"

"I'm sorry." Instantly he felt ashamed of himself, and then self-conscious in his own right. He became aware of his pale skin, and the dark brown freckles that matched his hair. His looks were okay, but he was no Matt Damon.

"Why don't we just, um, watch TV?"

Corinne looked unhappy but shrugged and agreed. "I guess until we get hungry, there's no emergency."

"Oh, the fridge is full of food. I checked."

That seemed to cheer her up a little. "I'll go see."

Ryan stayed in the living room, not wanting to appear creepy by following her. Sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing reached his ears. Then he could tell she was checking out the fridge. In a few minutes she reappeared with a bag of chips and a couple of cold drinks.

"Thanks," he smiled.

"You're welcome." She seemed calmer now.

After a while they grew bored with the television and started looking around for something to do. They found a deck of cards and sat at the kitchen table, exchanging small talk. She told him she was a psych major.

Ryan nodded. "You're smart enough. You'll be a great doctor."

"I hope so." Her smile was very sunny, all the more appealing because her teeth didn't have that formica white look. "How about you?"

"Oh, math. I don't know what I'll do with it yet. It isn't even that I really enjoy it, it's just that it's easy for me, so I figured why not."

"Nice."

They concentrated on the cards for a few minutes. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Ryan kicked himself. Think, think, think! You are alone with a beautiful naked woman!

But yelling at himself didn't help him remember a joke to tell, or come up with anything clever to say. It also occurred to him that he couldn't just ask her to fuck.

"Don't worry, you'll think of something eventually." Corinne was smiling at him encouragingly.

"What?" How could she have read his thoughts?

"With your cards. It's your turn?"

"Oh. Yeah." He laid down a straight of hearts, winning easily. He won the next hand, and the next. It became obvious that his math skills were a social handicap. They spent the balance of the day watching movies and snacking. Eventually, unavoidably, it was time for bed.

Ryan gallantly offered to sleep on the couch. His prison-mate quickly agreed.

He lay awake a long time, thinking of what a loser he was. Naked with a beautiful woman for twenty-four hours, total privacy guaranteed, and he couldn't score. If his mother had known, she'd call him a gentleman. But he lay there thinking of all the places math could never take him. One place in particular was in the next room, and it might as well have been Mars.

It was her body, stretching out smooth and cat-long beside his, that woke him in the dark.

He breathed her name, but she silenced him with a kiss. Words didn't matter. The invitation was explicit. As quickly as possible he ran his hands all over her body, feeling her firm, supple breasts, her round ass, her mini-thatch of pubic hair. Her mouth was full as a southern peach in August, and he slurped in her warm kisses. As delightful as her lips were, he had to suckle those beach-warmed nipples, and the gutteral noise she made told him of her pleasure. The musky scent of sex curled in his nose like smoke.

Fiercely he pressed her back on the cushions and held apart her thighs to bury his face in her sex. The living flesh in his mouth again made him think of fresh fruit, ripe from the branch on a warm summer's day. He licked and explored, tasting her tang and enjoying her squirm. With one finger, then two, he probed her feminine entrance. Still with his nose and mouth full, he looked up; their eyes met over her horizon with a shared and certain knowledge. He was going to fuck her after all. They were going to take advantage of their youth and the situation. Why the hell not?

Ryan suddenly realized he had no protection, but Corinne was peeling open a familiar-looking packet. "Found these in the bedroom," she whispered.

She stroked the condom into place. His aching cock trembled at the touch of her hand. The thrill of being touched by someone else, by a hand not his own, made his heart feel as though it would crack open his chest. Involuntarily his dick jerked. Then he was on top of her, thrusting and pushing, spewing out his pent-up animal desire.

They made love twice more that night. The second time he got her to her hands and knees. He watched in fascination as his cock slid in and out of her body. He squeezed her sweet round rump, catching glimpses of her swaying tits. Then he hung on firmly and picked up the pace, pounding into her just as fast as he could. Her cries seemed to come from far away, through a twirling fog, and then he was spent.

In the morning the couch was stained and smelly. The lovers didn't say much; their bodies talked in telegraph, touching in dots and dashes of memory and suggestion. They couldn't find pen or paper, so they recited contact information to one another, speaking it several times in order to remember.

"It's like in that Hitchcock movie," said Corinne.

"Which one?"

"I can't remember the name of it, but it's the one where a spy learns a tune to carry a secret message..."

"Oh yeah -- I know the one you mean. The old woman."

"But at the end of the movie," Corinne looked downcast, "the hero forgets the song."

Ryan hugged her and smiled. "I won't forget."

The bottom panel of the door snicked open, and a box slid through.

"Our clothes!"

The two wasted no time in getting dressed. Whoever had delivered their clothing had unlocked the door. Along with their clothes were two blank envelopes, each containing $240 cash. Ryan thumbed it. It looked real.

"I'll call you!" promised Corinne, and she fled down the hall, leaving Ryan to puzzle his way out. He thought to grab a pear from the little kitchen. Eventually, he met an orderly who directed him toward the building's exit.

He thought it was odd that no one debriefed him. Those were the rules. Usually the debriefing was boring, but it had to do with protecting human subjects. No big deal -- despite the fun sex, he was kind of eager to get back to his familiar life. After a quick shower at the dorm, he checked his messages. There was nothing from Corinne, but maybe she was freaked out by the whole experience. Okay, he could be cool. He went to class, then shot some pool with his roommates. Still no Corinne.

The next day, he sent a short note, but it bounced. Depression draped over him. He hadn't mentioned her to the guys, afraid something like this might happen. She wasn't on vis-a-vis.net either. In fact the university directory had no listing of a Corinne Cummings. He tried different spellings. Nope. He'd been played.

The story broke in the student paper the following week. An entire chapter of a sorority was shut down, and the housemother and several of the girls were expelled. Apparently the hazing had gone a little too far when the new freshmen were forced to compete in a contest of sexual creativity. Apparently on "Nude Day," the challenge had been to not only have sex with a guy, but screw him in the process as creatively as possible.

Ryan recognized the picture of the housemother; it was the matronly clerk who'd directed him to strip. Her last name was listed as Cummings.

"Congratulations, Corinne," he muttered. "You won."