Inspirati Scientia

I heard him growl, "Like royalty, huh? That's a laugh! 'E doesn't know that ya like ter be treated like a cheap tart, now does 'e? Fine girlfriend you are, keepin' secrets from him!"

"Trevor, please don't do this!" I heard a light slap.

"Shut it, slut. Yer've got the bloody wool pulled over 'is eyes, now, don't ya? 'E don't know yer slaggy secrets like I do, right?"

She began pleading, "Trevor, stop, please." I heard another slap.

"Ya don't really want me ter stop now, do ya? Yer enjoy me squeezin' them big teats then, don't yas?"

"Trevor, I..."

"Answer the bloody question, bitch," he snapped, "yer enjoy me pinchin' them nipples like THIS, right? Or maybe I should give them a few bites like THIS..."

I heard Rachel whimper and moan, then surrender in a quiet, one-word reply, "Yes."

I heard a slap. "I believe you meant, 'Yes SIR' my girl! Try again!

"Yes, sir."

"Your pussy's wet now, isn't it? Don't lie ta me, I can smell ya excitement."

Once again, she meekly answered, "Yes, sir." I couldn't believe my ears. My sweet Rachel was allowing her ex to treat her like a slave, and what was worse, she seemed to be enjoying it!

"Go on, then, take me ovary tickler out, ya slut. You're going to give me a jobby, like a good little trollop." I heard another slap. This angered me greatly; if I'd been there, I would have broken his fucking hand off.

"Yes, sir." Her voice was quiet with a tremble as if holding back tears.

I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper, then Nichols snapped, "Before ya takes it in yer mouth, 'ave off with that stupid necklace. Otherwise it'll dangle on me balls and put me off."

Surprisingly, Rachel protested, "Trevor, I... I can't take it off."

Nichols scoffed, "Why the fuck not? Looks to be just a cheap piece of jewelry they sell at a dollar shop."

"It's not costume jewelry, it's 14 karat gold and two real gemstones. Patrick gave it to me."

"Yer cunt boyfriend gave ya jewelry to buy 'is way into your pants? Seems I underestimated the bloke."

"He wasn't trying to buy his way into anything, he gave me this necklace because he loves me." Hearing the woman I adored recognize my feelings was small solace, given she'd done it as she was about to suck off another man.

I should have disconnected the call, but listening to it was like watching the Tacoma Narrows Bridge collapse; it was horrifying, but I couldn't tear myself away.

Apparently, Nichols was angered at Rachel's weak attempt to resist him. Snarling now, he shouted, "Oh, PLEASE! Nauseating, is what that is. I take back what I said about underestimating the little queen. 'E's just a whimpering faggot bitch who can go fuck himself. Now, then, are you gonna 'ave off with the necklace?"

Surprisingly, Rachel protested. "Trevor, I can't! Patrick loves me and wants to marry me!" I heard another slap.

"How dare ya disobey, ya bloody bitch!" I heard Rachel crying, but anger was returning to her voice.

"Why shouldn't I?" she shouted, her voice half-crying, "You were the one who dumped me and told me marriage was just an archaic institution!"

The tone of Nichols' responding laughter was scornful, to say the least. "MARRY you? Really? You're a really stupid cunt for a PhD, Rachel. Marry a slag like you? That's a laugh! Why would I when I'm already married to a bird who's way posher?"

Wow, this guy was a real piece of work. Not only was he brazenly cheating on his wife, but he was a cruel bastard on top of it! Hurting Rachel's emotionally wasn't enough for him, oh, no, he wanted to totally crush her self-esteem. I could hear Rachel whimpering in the background as Nichols continued to deride her.

"All I ever wanted from ya was ta use ya as me fuck toy. You know what they say about fat birds, don't ya? Fucking 'em's like riding a bloody scooter. It's fun, but ya don't want yer your mates ta know yer doing it."

Then, her sobs stopped, and I heard Rachel gasp, "What's my phone doing on the dashboard? Who did you call?"

Nichols laughed. "Oh, I took the liberty of dialin' your sissy boyfriend. Either 'e's been listenin' the entire time, or it's recordin' on his voicemail." Then he chuckled, "I'm guessin' 'e won't want ta be with yer no more, after hearin' alla this."

When Rachel cried out "TREVOR, NO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" I'd heard enough, disconnected the call and turned off the recording app.

~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday, I stayed home and did what any scientist who's been emotionally devastated would do: After listening to the recorded conversation a few times so I was good and depressed, I turned off my phone, then watched a Science Fiction Network movie marathon.

A few times I heard my doorbell ring, but when I viewed the security camera and saw Rachel in tears at my front door, I didn't answer. Eventually, I fell asleep on my sofa as I heard Helen Benson utter the immortal phrase, 'Klaatu, barada nikto!' to the giant robot Gort, making the Earth stand still.

Sunday I changed things up, going into the basement to work on building my 1700-piece Lego Rebel Blockade Runner in between doing three loads of laundry. I also ordered my week's groceries through an on-line delivery service. By keeping occupied and not leaving my house, I was able to keep from thinking about the harsh reality that my relationship with Rachel had disintegrated in a ball of fire like the Space Shuttle Columbia.

As much allure as science fiction movies and building Lego sets held, there was still no getting around the fact that on Monday morning, I'd have to return to work at the research lab, and so would Rachel. Damn it!

Seeing Dr. Berrigan -- I found it less painful than referring to her as Rachel - in person at work was very different from seeing her in two dimensions on my security camera. My immediate reaction was a dichotomy of feelings: half of me wanting to yell at her, demanding to know in what way was I so inadequate that it compelled her to give her body to her ex, and the other half wanting to take her in my arms and reassure her that Nichols was a fucking scumbag liar, and she was the most desirable woman I'd ever known. Not knowing which road to take, I took neither.

For the majority of the day, we both did our jobs, while acting as if the other person didn't exist. It was only partially successful; I caught her looking at me a time or two, her eyes brimming with tears behind her safety goggles. I'm sure she saw the same thing when looking at me. At lunch, eschewing my usual seat at 'our' lunch table across from Dr. Berrigan, I instead sat at an unoccupied table on the periphery of the big cafeteria. It meant consuming my meal in solitude; painful, but necessary.

Things continued this way for the next two days, until the actions of my fellow co-workers provided sufficient inertia for me to take some action.

In addition to occasionally breeding lab rats, ChemMolecular's research lab prolifically bred gossip; I quickly realized that by no longer sitting in my usual spot with Dr. Berrigan, I'd become a catalyst for chatter amongst the lunchroom scandal-mongers.

These nattering nitwits were making zero effort to be discreet; even sitting across the room, I caught the gist of their cutting remarks. What made it worse, since they were seated at the table next to Rachel's, I'm sure she heard every single word. Surprisingly, she hadn't moved, instead just sitting there keeping her head down as she ate her lunch, enduring their verbal jabs.

To me, this was beyond the pale. True, my heart had been crushed by what had occurred Friday night, but this was still the woman I'd ardently pursued and adored since I'd first eaten my lunch at her table. If these people theorized that they could get away with behaving like bitchy Kappa Alpha Theta sorority sisters, well, Dr. Patrick Dawson was about to disprove that theory once and for all!

Jumping to my feet, I strode quickly towards their table. One of the group looked up; seeing the enraged look on my face, she uttered, "Uh oh," and the group immediately went silent.

"Show me your company IDs," I commanded. They all quickly complied. "Thank you," I snapped, "I just needed to confirm you are all actual scientists because you sound more like a bunch of bitter old housewives, bad-mouthing people at a laundromat!"

The entire cafeteria had gone silent, even the food servers; every eye and ear in the place was on me, including Dr. Berrigan's. Good.

I now spoke as if I was in a huge college lecture hall, making sure the onlookers in the back could hear me. "Let me remind you people that Dr. Berrigan is a brilliant scientist, having long ago mastered things that you boneheads are still struggling to learn! In addition to Dr. Berrigan's exemplary job performance, she's been published in three journals within the last year! I happen to know during that same time period, between all five of you there have been exactly one article published."

Letting that fact sink in, I could practically hear their collective sphincter valves clenching. Then, I continued.

"Statistically that means while Dr. Berrigan is twenty percent of your group size, she's produced sixty percent more publications. Dr. Berrigan is an exceptionally gifted scientist, far superior to any of us, myself included, and I'll thank you to remember that before you engage in any shit-talk about her."

I maliciously added, "By the way, budgetary meetings will be starting in two weeks. In preparation for that, by 5pm tomorrow I expect a progress update from each of you reporting on your current research progress and what value it's providing, so I can make funding allocation recommendations -- or funding cuts, as the case may be." One benefit of my seniority was being on the lab's executive budget committee. The look of horror on their five faces verified I'd really hit them where it hurt.

I then launched my pre-emptive nuclear strike: "Also, given your collective low productivity, any of you that I hear spouting malicious rubbish about Dr. Berrigan will find themselves transferred to the Special Projects group."

This was no idle threat, and thinking of it in nuclear terms was apropos; it was well-known that at ChemMolecular, the Special Projects group was where careers went to die. Being assigned to the SP group meant your career was essentially radioactive; no other department wanted you, but the company wasn't quite yet ready to fire you. Either they gave you busy work research to do until they found a place for you, or your name went to the top of the downsizing list at budget time.

As I was the senior-most scientist in the research lab, all five of them knew my recommendations carried quite a bit of weight; one word from me, and their careers here were over. My point now made with the five trash-talkers, I dared not look at Dr. Berrigan; I didn't want to know what effect my words might have had on her.

My outburst had given me a pounding headache, so I walked out of the cafeteria and back to the quiet solitude of my office. Closing the door, I sat down at my desk, reached into my bottom desk drawer and took out a bottle of ibuprofen. Popping a couple of 200mg tablets, I washed them down with the cold remains of my morning coffee and laid my head down on my desk. I closed my eyes to rest for a bit, hoping the pain would soon recede.

Alas, this was not to be. After about two minutes I heard a knock at my office door. I sat up and called out, "Come in."

Dr. Berrigan stepped in, softly closing the door behind her. "Patrick," she began, "I don't know exactly what to say about what you just did in the cafeteria, especially in light of what happened last Friday."

"There is nothing to say, Dr. Berrigan," I retorted, my voice cold, "Those people are supposed to be some of the best scientists in the industry, but they were acting like a bunch of high schoolers. On top of that, they were disparaging you, their colleague, and that's simply unacceptable."

My headache had not taken a break, and if anything, Rachel physically being this close to me made it worse. Nonetheless, I persevered. "The events of last Friday are totally unrelated to your professional competence. You have been, and continue to be, ChemMolecular's best scientist, better than anyone else on staff." Despite my shattered emotions, this was the truth, and I had no qualms admitting it.

"I know you probably hate me, which is why I'm so grateful you stood up for me." For some reason, her saying this really irritated me. She really wasn't reading me. But then I remembered Dr. Berrigan had problems reading people; the way her mind worked, I had to be direct.

"There's nothing to be grateful for," I snapped, "any decent person would have done the same."

My professional demeanor slipped for a moment, letting my personal feelings out. "As you yourself pointed out, you're a single woman who can, in your own words, 'go where you damned well want to go and see who you damned well want to see, and NOT see'. You had every right to act as you did. It had nothing to do with your work, so as the Senior Scientist in this lab, I cannot in all good conscience hate you or excoriate you for it, no matter how it affected me personally. Doing that would be entirely disingenuous and self-serving, and I like to think I hold myself to a higher standard than that."

Tears formed in Dr. Berrigan's eyes, and she lowered her head humbly. "Patrick, you're kinder than I deserve. I am so sorry for what I put you through. It's all my fault."

Ah, an apology. It was like a band-aid on a shark bite at this point, but it was something, at least.

Maintaining my cold tone, I told her "I'm not blaming you for anything, Dr. Berrigan. Everything you did, you were within your rights to do. I was a damned fool, thinking we were emotionally on the same page without getting the data to verify it. I accept that my pain is my problem, not yours."

Without asking, Dr. Berrigan sat in one of the chairs on the other side of my desk. "Patrick, that's not true! After all the time we spent together, we were -- we ARE on the same page, I swear!"

This conversation was making me feel like my headache had now joined forces with a miniature drum corps in my brain. I shook my head.

"On the same PAGE? Dr. Berrigan, how can you even say that with a straight face? I loved you, I adored you, I wanted to get married and have babies with you! Being on the same page as me does NOT include you kissing a lecherous Englishman and letting him paw your breasts before giving him a blowjob!"

I don't know how Dr. Berrigan expected this conversation to go, but judging by the look on her face it was probably not turning out the way she'd hoped. "Patrick, please," she pleaded, "let me explain! I know it's hard to believe, but what you heard gave you the wrong impression about what was going on that night. Can I tell you what really happened?"

My headache was now moving from tension headache to early-stage migraine. I felt like I might vomit any second. "If I agree, will you go away afterwards? I'm really not feeling well, and I want to go home."

Dr. Berrigan began her explanation, "Trevor was passing through Albuquerque on a business trip to Santa Fe, and wanted to meet. He said he felt badly about how things ended between us."

Before I could stop it, my bitterness slipped out. "Oh, well, yes, I see now. He dumped you, now he feels bad about it. That makes perfect sense, why didn't I see it before?"

"Patrick, please stop," Dr. Berrigan pleaded, "if you respect me as much as you say you do, you'll let me finish."

Fair point, she had me there, using my own words against me. "OK, I'm shutting up. Go ahead."

"I drove to meet Trevor in the bar of a restaurant near Old Town, the Turquoise Pajaro. When I got to the bar, he'd arrived there ahead of me and gotten us a table in a back corner. He stood and hugged me, and told me how good it was to see me. Being his usual charming self, he even had a whiskey sour waiting for me, knowing it was my favorite drink."

That comment raised my eyebrows. In our time together, Rachel had only had wine or beer. She'd never once mentioned she had a favorite drink! Maybe it was a simple omission, but then again, maybe not. I jealously wondered what else that British prick knew about her that I didn't.

"We sat down, and he began filling me in on his career. He'd started working for Produits Chimiques as the Sales Manager for the Western US region, and was on his way to the Santa Fe facility for product training. Then he asked me about how I liked working at ChemMolecular, and what projects I was working on. I told him I liked it, but of course I didn't share anything about my projects."

OK, so this son of a bitch Nichols wasn't just looking to pump Rachel's pussy, he was also looking to pump her for inside information to feed our biggest competitor! This guy was the epitome of a scumbag. Now that my curiosity was piqued, my headache began to lessen. "Since he didn't molest you in the restaurant where there would be witnesses, I assume there's more. What happened next?"

"We walked out into the parking lot, and he pulled me to his rental car. It was an American SUV with a bench seat in front."

I was incredulous. "He pulled you? Against your will?"

Dr. Berrigan's voice got quieter, as if she was embarrassed by the answer. "Not exactly. It was cooling off and I was just going to leave, but when we said goodbye, he asked me to come sit in his SUV and stay warm because he had some of my stuff that I'd left at his place, buried in the back of the truck.

"I see. So after dumping you and not seeing you for months, all of a sudden he's such a nice guy he felt compelled to bring back stuff you'd forgotten about, is that it?"

Dr. Berrigan took a deep breath. "Once we were inside, he kept kissing me even though I tried to get him to stop. Then he took my top and bra off and started kissing and biting my breasts."

Preachers will tell you confession is good for your soul, but the funny thing is they don't tell you how it fucking sucks for the soul of the one being confessed to. Picturing that smarmy bastard with his mouth on Dr. Berrigan's breasts was a picture in my head I did NOT want, yet here it was.

My anger and jealously simmering, I cruelly barked, "I heard this part. He didn't exactly call them breasts. Quit sugar-coating it, Dr. Berrigan. You're a scientist, be factual."

In a quieter voice, she answered, "He was kissing and biting my tits."

I pressed her, "Go on. What else did he do?"

"Every so often he would stop and slap my tits, then pinch my nipples. Then he wanted a blow job, so he made me unzip his pants and take his cock out."

Hearing this, my jealous rage was now boiling. Walking over to my office door, I locked it, then turned to Dr. Berrigan.

"I need to see your tits," I said, sitting in the chair next to her. It was ironic how I hadn't been this physically close to Dr. Berrigan since seeing her in the breakroom on the morning of that fateful Friday. Then, I'd wanted nothing more than to lovingly wrap my arms around her. My current intentions were not nearly as tender-hearted.

"Patrick, we're at work," she protested, "I can't just undress in your office!"

Scowling, I barked, "The fucking door's locked, I'll take that chance. You need to realize that your ex didn't just damage you. He damaged me, too. I want to see what you let him do to you!"

Not wanting to be overheard by others in the lab, I leaned my head down, close to her ear. Using the same humiliating language Nichols had, I softly growled, "Show me your tits, you slag! You had no problem showing them to him, you can bloody show them to me!"

Reluctantly, Rachel removed her lab coat, then unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor.

"Take off your bra as well, you fucking tart," I snarled. "Your tits are in the public domain now, remember?" Her head bowed, she removed her bra, and I was shocked at the number of visible bruises and bite marks that still remained on her breasts. Some of the larger bruises were turning an ugly dark purple color. I was sickened at the desecration of Rachel's lovely pale breasts, the same ones that I'd lovingly kissed and caressed not so long ago.