Beta Testing

Next, I wander over to the bookcase and peruse thick paperbacks with arcane titles like "Higher Order Perl" and the "Arduino Cookbook." I pull out the Perl book and thumb through it. The pages are filled with the same sort of alien technoglyphs as the white boards. I put it back and begin to reach for the book beside it, promisingly subtitled "Electronics for Earthlings." As I do, I hear voices and footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. Moments later, a thin, dark-skinned man bursts through it, nearly bumping into me, followed by Milt.

"Oh, hello!" the man says, obviously surprised.

"Angie!" interjects Milt with a broad smile. "I'm glad you made it. This is my friend Leroy."

"Nice to meet you," I say, shaking Leroy's hand.

"And you," he replies warmly. "Sorry to greet and run, but I'm supposed to be at work five minutes ago." He heads for the door, wrapping up with Milt on the way out.

"Like I said, tell Carla to take it easy this time." Leroy warns. "I installed a bigger servo to drive the piston, but she can still burn it out if she does a full-speed hammer action with one of those large-diameter attachments.

"I'll tell her," Milt chuckles, "but you know Carla. She'll peg the needle all day if Lauren asks for it. Hopefully the bigger motor will do the trick."

"We'll see," laughs Leroy. "Catch you later!" he yells as the door closes behind him, leaving Milt and me alone.

"So," says Milt, spreading his arms dramatically. "Welcome to my laboratory. What do you think?"

"Why thank you," I say with a smile and a curtsy. "To be honest, I was expecting something more, you know, labby. You don't even have any test tubes."

Milt laughs. "True. No white lab coats either, I'm afraid. But there is more to it than just the Brainstormitorium."

"Brainstromitorium?" I ask.

"That's what we call this front room," he explains, gesturing toward the whiteboards. "We use it to map out ideas."

"And eat pizza and play foosball?" I ask.

"Of course," he confirms with a wink. "They fuel the imagination."

"I see," I say skeptically. "So, what's beyond that door?"

"Ah," he says impishly, "that leads to the hidden workshop," adding with a conspiratorial air, "but before you enter, you must swear not to reveal the secrets within."

"I swear to guard the secrets of the nerd brotherhood with my life," I promise melodramatically, hand over my heart.

"Good enough," he laughs. "Follow me."

I follow Milt through the door into a room lined with dozens of transparent plastic bins stacked on metal utility shelving. Inside them, I see various tools and parts, gears and circuit boards, even a robot arm.

"This is the Toy Room, our storage area," Milt describes, gesturing to one wall. "Every member gets their own bin to keep personal stuff. And on this side," he says, pointing to the opposite wall, "is the free-for-all. Anyone can take parts from these shelves and hack it however they like."

"I thought hacking is something you do on a computer," I say.

"Sometimes it is," he explains, "but hacking just means modifying a thing to do something beyond its original purpose. For example, Leroy hacked his coffee-maker, hooked it up to an Arduino and a Raspberry Pi so he can start his brew via his phone."

"Really?" I ask, baffled. "Why?"

"Why not?" counters Milt. "He wanted to see if it was possible."

"That is both impressive and very weird," I observe.

"Most of the things we do around here are," he replies with a grin, turning to head into the next room. "And this," Milt says with pride as we pass through the next doorway, "is the Playground."

We enter into a large, well-lit warehouse bay, maybe 2,000 square feet. The air smells faintly of burnt plastic, solder and sawdust. One corner is devoted to computers on desks. The opposite walls are lined with more shelving, tool chests, and parts bins. In the center of the room, beside a power saw and some kind of metalworking machine, are a row of wide workbenches topped with projects in various stages of completion.

"Wow," I say, genuinely impressed. Then, recognizing my computer on one of the workbenches, I ask, "Is that mine?"

"Yep," says Milt. "All fixed up and ready to go. But before you take it away, I was thinking you might like to see the project I'm working on."

"Sure," I say, definitely not eager to leave.

"But before I show it to you, I have a confession to make," he admits tentatively.

"A confession?" I ask, curiosity piqued.

"Yes," he says, then pauses a moment before saying carefully, "I read your book."

"My book?" I ask.

At first, I'm puzzled as to which book he means. I published two historical novels under my own name before getting into erotica. One of them sold pretty well, so it's possible he could have heard of it.

"I didn't mean to," he continues. "It's just that, after I replaced the video card in your PC, it came up into recovery mode."

"Recovery mode?" I ask, still clueless.

"Yeah, document recovery mode," he explains. "You must have been in the middle of typing when it crashed, so when it started up again it automatically opened the latest auto-save copy."

Finally, the full impact of his admission slams into my sluggish brain and my eyes go wide. He means my NEW book! Remembering all the wildly perverse scenes it contains, my face turns instantly hot. I don't need a mirror to know that I'm blushing a deep crimson.

"You read the whole thing?" I ask, horrified, my voice rising.

"I'm afraid so. I just couldn't stop myself," he says, studying my face uncertainly.

My mind reels and I turn away, unable to look him in the eye. What must he think of me right now? This novel contains some of the raunchiest prose I've ever set down. No taboo was off-limits. I'm very open-minded, experimental even, when it comes to sex, despite my Catholic upbringing. Yet even I would not try some of depraved stuff my characters do to each other in this book. Suddenly, an even more horrifying thought hits me. What if he thinks it's autobiographical?

"Listen," he apologizes, "I know reading your book was a huge violation of privacy, and I really am sorry."

I am still processing, unable to speak. He interprets my silence as anger.

"I don't blame you at all for being mad," he adds hastily. "I was just hoping that you wouldn't be because..."

Milt trails off and casts his eyes downward. I can't tell if he is ashamed of his actions or disappointed by my reaction, or both. Clearly, though, he thinks I'm angry. Maybe I will be as soon as my brain catches up. Right now, though, I'm mostly concerned about what sort of judgments he's made about me after reading my novel. Does he think I'm a freak, or a slut, or both? All right, NOW I'm angry.

"Because what?" I spit. "Because you don't want me to sue you?"

"No," he answers meekly.

"Then why?" I snarl. "Why don't you want me to be mad?"

After a pause, he says simply, "Because I really like you."

His reply takes me off guard, and my anger softens a bit. What exactly does he mean? Only one way to find out, I decide.

"What do you mean, you like me?" I ask warily.

"I mean," he explains, "that I like you. I really enjoyed talking with you yesterday. You're funny and spontaneous, and..."

"And what?" I prod impatiently.

"And," he says sheepishly, a bit of color rising in his face, "I think you're hot."

At this, my anger is replaced by a flush of excitement. I had no trouble getting dates back in college but it's been a long time since anyone called me hot. That this sexy younger man thinks I'm hot is a huge ego boost.

"So you think I'm hot, do you?" I challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"Smoking," he says with conviction, fixing me with piercing green eyes.

"Well, you'd better," I assert bossily. He doesn't appear put off by my aggressive tone, so I press my advantage. "So, when did you decide I was hot, before or after reading my book?" I ask, more as accusation than question.

"When you opened your apartment door," he says.

Ding! My heart skips a beat. He just aced the quiz, but now comes the real test. I need to find out what he thinks of my twisted novel, and whether he thinks the story is fact or fiction. Outwardly, I maintain a brassy attitude, but inside, I brace for disappointment.

"And the book?" I inquire pointedly. "What was your opinion on that?"

"It's very well written," he says. "The characters seem like real people."

Ding! Ding! A perfect score. There is no music sweeter to a writer's ear. It could be just flattery, but he seems sincere. Or maybe he's trying to avoid the elephant in the room? I press him further.

"And?" I nudge. "What about the story?"

"Well," he replies, wincing slightly. "There were some scenes in there that made me uncomfortable."

My heart falls. He thinks I'm a sick pervert. I try to maintain a neutral expression, afraid my disappointment may be showing.

"Which scenes?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"The S&M scenes," he replies matter-of-factly. "The way Katya was working John over seemed more like torture than kink. I don't think pain is sexy."

"Me neither," I blurt defensively. "It's just fiction, of course. I wanted to show what happens when S&M is taken too far. Katya and John's marriage died long ago but they keep flogging the corpse. They are supposed to be a cautionary tale." Then I add cautiously, "What about the other couple, Tara and Bryce?"

"Those two," he says, "do some freaky stuff, but they seemed like they really love each other. Neither one does anything they don't want to do." He smiles salaciously and adds, "To be honest, their scenes got me more than a little excited."

"Oh they did, did they?" I tease. "Just how excited, exactly?"

"Let's just say that I didn't get much sleep. In fact, I was rock hard pretty much all night long," he admits, blushing.

"You poor thing," I pout. "Too bad you didn't have any way to relieve your discomfort," I add suggestively.

"Too bad indeed," he agrees, matching my lascivious tone at first, then shifting to a conciliatory one. "So, are you still angry?"

"I haven't decided yet," I answer coyly. "I'll think about it while we look at this project of yours."

Milt smiles and leads me over to the farthest work table, on which something is covered with a translucent plastic sheet. Beside it is some kind of articulating padded bench, like a cross between a weightlifter's bench and a dentist's chair.

"This," he says, "is a collaboration. You met Leroy, our robotics guy. He has done all the electro-mechanical work. Carla, who does creature effects for SFX Studios, came up with the basic design and molded all the soft parts. I wrote the control programs, and modified this," he says, picking up what looks like a video game controller, "to control the action."

"Action?" I ask. "What does it do?"

"A fair question," he replies with a mischievous grin, pulling back the plastic shroud.

On the table is a metal-and-plastic contraption that defies my understanding. I peer curiously inside its open frame, which is filled with belts, gears, motors and wire, trying to build a hypothesis as to what it might do. So far, I'm drawing a blank. Milt oversees my inspection with a bemused expression.

"I give up," I say, "What is it?"

"We call it the Love Machine," he answers. "Carla dreamed it up as a surprise for her partner Lauren and roped me and Leroy into helping, not that we minded."

"Yes, but what does it do?" I ask.

Before he can answer, a voice from behind me calls out "Milton!" I spin around to see what at first appears to be a short Latino man entering the workshop with a tall redhead on his arm. They head toward us as Milt returns the greeting.

"Carla!" Milt calls back, "When are you going to start calling me Milt?"

"As soon as you stop being such a nerd," comes the reply.

"I'll stop being a nerd the day you stop being an asshole," Milt retorts.

"Don't hold your breath!" Carla laughs.

Up close, Carla is clearly female, but she is quite butch. As she gives Milt a manly handshake/back slap hug, I have a chance to check out her numerous piercings. The red-haired beauty with Carla leans in to plant a kiss on Milt's cheek and I deduce that she must be Lauren. What Carla lacks in femininity, Lauren makes up in spades. Her curvy figure fills out a clingy sun dress that leaves little to the imagination, and the lack of bra straps or panty lines is conspicuous. Lauren is clearly very comfortable with her body.

"So, who's your friend?" Carla asks bluntly.

"This is Angie," Milt says. "Angie, this is Carla and her partner Lauren."

"Nice to meet you," I say offering my hand.

"Likewise," says Lauren warmly taking it in both of hers. "Any friend of Milt's is a friend of ours, right hon?" she adds with a smile to Carla.

"Hmph," grunts Carla, looking me up and down. "Is she cool?" she asks Milt, rudely directing the question to Milt while still eyeing me skeptically.

"Very," Milt assures her.

"Does she know about the machine?" Carla asks.

"Not quite. I was just about to explain it when you walked in," he replies.

"Then we'll find out shortly just how cool she is," Carla retorts. Then, challenging me directly, she asks, "You're not a prude, are you?"

"I'm about as prudish as you are polite," I snap back, pissed off by her condescending tone.

"Oh ho HO!" shouts Carla. To Milt she says, "She's got fire, I like that!" Then to me with a grin, "You might be OK, Blondie."

"Feel free to reserve judgment," I counter coldly, "and I'll try to do the same."

"Don't mind Carla," says Milt. "She's an bit of an asshole until you get to know her."

"And then I'm a LOT of an asshole," Carla adds with a belly laugh. "All right!" she says, turning to Milt. "Enough of this chit-chat shit. We're here to finish the beta testing. Is the machine ready?"

"Leroy says he upgraded the motor, so it should be ready to roll," replies Milt.

"Excellent," says Carla. "Then stop standing there like a useless prick and help me put it together."

Milt rolls his eyes in mock annoyance as he helps Carla lift the contraption from the table and settle it onto two upright supports near the base of the padded chair-bench. It clicks firmly into place and they tighten some bolts to keep it there. While they work, Lauren watches intently, shifting her weight impatiently from one leg to the other and back again. She is bent over the work table, leaning on her elbows in a way that pushes her breasts up and forward, her nipples straining against thin fabric of her dress. Milt plugs the machine into a nearby power outlet while Carla retrieves an aluminum briefcase from under the table. Lauren glances over at me with a sultry, knowing smile. I wonder what she knows.

Carla pops the locks on the briefcase and flips open the lid. Inside, nestled in form-fitting recesses, are a varied assortment of silicone dildos. Oh my, I think, raising my eyebrows. This just got interesting. I had been running out of patience with Carla's rude interruption of my private lab tour with Milt, but now curiosity has the better of me. Where is this going?

"You look surprised, Blondie," Carla says. "This too shocking for you?"

"I'm shocked that they're so small," I retort, pleased to see that Carla is now the one looking surprised.

"Oh, SNAP!" Milt laughs, praising my fast comeback as Lauren breaks into a fit of giggles.

"Hmm. I see you're a connoisseur," says Carla seriously. "Perhaps these are more to your taste."

She lifts the tray of dildos out of the case, revealing a lower compartment. Inside are a bottle of lube and three toys of far more generous proportion. The first is a foot-long black phallus with a realistically molded head and lifelike veins. The second is only six smooth, pink inches, but as fat around as my wrist. The last is large, but not obscenely so, and has a strange shape I've never seen in any toy catalog.

"This is unusual," I observe, boldly grabbing the strange dildo from the case to study it more closely.

"That's me," Lauren says with a playful smile.

"She means that literally," Milt clarifies. "Carla made it using Lauren as the mold."

"Impressive," I tell Carla sincerely. "Did you make all of these?"

"What, like I should buy them at Walmart?" she huffs, real pride behind the indignant sarcasm. "Now if you're done fondling the inside of Lauren's cunt, we have some work to do."

As Carla turns her attention to the machine, Lauren puts her arm around my shoulder and plucks the custom dildo gently from my hands. As she does, she whispers in my ear, "I hope you'll stick around to see the test results," then clasps the toy to her full bosom. A light fragrance hangs in the air as she tiptoes away, casting a Marilyn Monroe wink at me over her shoulder. I may be straight, but that doesn't stop Lauren's naked flirtation from stirring a wild tingle in my belly.

I spin around, searching for Milt. He is hanging back, leaned up against one of the other work tables, his expression carefully neutral. I walk straight to him and grab him by the shirt, yanking his face down to mine.

"Was this a set up?" I hiss, staring him straight in the eye.

"Absolutely not," he protests, hands up in surrender. "I didn't know they'd be here. I swear I was planning a private demonstration."

"I believe you," I say after studying his eyes for a moment, then let go of his collar. "You certainly have some interesting friends," I note, turning to watch Carla, who is absorbed with making adjustments to the bench.

"No kidding," he agrees, adding quietly, "I'm sorry about Carla. She's rude and crude, but she has a huge heart under all that bluster."

"I'll take your word for it," I say, then ask, "So, what exactly is about to happen here?"

"Version 2.0 beta testing," Milt replies cryptically.

"And what does that mean?"

"This the second incarnation of the Love Machine, Version 2.0" he explains. "Beta testing means we want to work out any final kinks, no pun intended of course, before putting it into production."

"Very funny," I lie. "Does that mean you're not going to tell me?"

"I am telling you," he insists. "Look, Carla is setting up the ECG right now."

"ECG?"

"Electro-cardiogram machine," he clarifies. "It will measure the electrical impulses in Lauren's heart during the session."

Sure enough, on a stand next to the bench, Carla is connecting cables to another machine that looks like it just rolled in off the operating-room floor. Meanwhile, Lauren slips off her high-heeled sandals and bangle bracelets. Carla has detangled a gaggle of sensor leads and appears ready to attach them to Lauren. I open my mouth to ask Milt why on earth they need an ECG. But before I can speak, Lauren steals my voice. I can only stare open-mouthed as she reaches down with arms crossed, takes her dress by the hem, then lifts it up over her head with the smooth grace of a ballet dancer.

Lauren's naked form is Botticelli's Venus brought to life, escaped from the confines of oil on canvas. Her smooth alabaster skin is nearly translucent, transcendent, seeming to glow from within under the bright glare of the shop lights. With her arms overhead, her full breasts hang high on her chest, pink nipples uplifted. Impossibly long legs lead up to wide, round hips that frame a neat triangle of hair. She shakes her long red hair free from the dress and it spills over her shoulders in loose, flowing curls. Casually, she folds the dress and sets it on the edge of the table, meets my eyes with a Mona Lisa smile, then walks over to settle herself onto the bench. My lips still ajar, I turn to Milt.

"Are you still straight?" he asks with a smirk.

"Barely," I gulp. "She's a work of art."

"And a cardiologist," he says.

"You're joking."

"Nope."