Sex without Stress

"So how are you feeling?" said Professor Troup lightly, flicking a new page open on a legal pad and leaning his desk chair back.

"Good," Naomi said, leaning back into the soft office sofa and letting her eyes droop shut. "Better than good. Honestly, Professor, I slept probably better than I have in weeks last night."

"Please, isn't it time you started calling me Gerard?"

She shrugged. He scratched something on his pad. The elderly stereo next to the potted plant blatted avant-garde jazz, which as usual was playing at an almost anti-social volume. It had driven Naomi crazy when she first started working with him, but she supposed she must be getting used to it.

"Better sleep," he rewound, grinning. "As in, you found it easier to fall asleep?"

"That's right. I'd had kind of a fight with my partner, too. Normally after something like that I'd have been spending all night in my head, re-examining everything I said, just spiraling for hours. But when I put on the collar afterwards, I found I was able to shut that out and...boom."

Absently, she reached for the prototype haptic collar at her throat, adjusting it with her fingers. It seemed to respond with a comforting pitter-patter of feedback against the nape of her neck.

It had originally been a plain leather collar that she'd ordered for him on Etsy. She'd been reluctant to wear the thing, because she'd never been quite sure if it was supposed to be some sort of bondage equipment. But it was for science. The paper-thin electronic strip she'd helped him stitch into the leather attested to that.

"Hmm," said the professor. "On the one hand, that seems promising. On the other hand, I do worry that it could be too much of a good thing. Stress and anxiety have a protective function, after all. I'd hate to find out that someone became unable to leave a toxic relationship because of the calming effect of my device."

"That's true," Naomi pondered. "Like how my grandpa couldn't feel pain in his feet, and he would have festering cuts down there that didn't heal right, because he didn't notice or take care of them."

Professor Troup -- Gerard -- grinned at her, acknowledging the aptness of the analogy with a tap of his pencil to his long nose.

"Indeed. What was the fight about, if you don't mind me asking?"

Naomi didn't really want to spill all her romantic woes to her professor, even if she had agreed to be his first guinea pig. She'd had enough older dudes try to chat her up about her love life for the subject to make her wary.

Gerard hadn't said anything obviously creepy during her time with him, but she had noticed him checking her out a little bit. Not that there was anything really long with looking, she supposed, as long as it didn't cross the line.

Naomi had heard whispers about undergrads who were said to have slept with their gross, predatory professors, and she'd sworn never to let something like that happen to her.

She shrugged, preparing to brush him off with something vague, but what tumbled out turned into a full-blown rant about her partner's messiness, their freeloading off their family and friends, their inability to do their own laundry...

"Sounds like a mismatch in maturity," Gerard said at last, tapping his pencil against his chin. "You might need to get out of there and find someone more on your level."

He handed her a sheaf of xeroxed printouts. Each one was headed, Haptic Collar Stress Journal, followed by a black space for a date.

"I want you to jot down notes throughout the day, so we can track the effect of the device. It's not a controlled study, of course, but perhaps we can think of it as more of an exploratory evaluation."

"No problem," she said, shoving the wad of papers into her backback.

The jibe about a 'mismatch in maturity' stuck in Naomi's mind as she left his office. She couldn't believe her professor had counseled her to break up with her partner. Ridiculous.

But...

She did need to find someone more mature -- more on her level -- didn't she?

* * *

"I broke up with Dani," Naomi announced as she dropped her stress diary on the professor's desk and sank into the gray office sofa.

Gerard's eyebrows shot up.

"I didn't... I mean..."

"No, you were right."

"And," he hesitated, sitting back thoughtfully. "Your anxiety level?"

"Better than ever," she sighed, slumping. She allowed herself to slip sideways until her head lay against the armrest. "No more inner monologue of self-recrimination. I'm sleeping like a baby, my neck pain is gone. I managed to actually study for my test last night at a reasonable hour, instead of procrastinating all evening and then cramming at 2 am."

"Amazing," he breathed, his eyes lighting up. "I'd dreamed of something like this, but I have to say I didn't expect so much, so quickly."

"Is there going to be a clinical trial soon?"

"I hope so," he said, scratching on his legal pad. "But I want to continue our little informal stress test for a few more weeks."

"Well, I don't mind," said Naomi, putting her feet up on the other armrest and folding her hands over her stomach.

Pitter-patter, went the haptic collar, seeming to spread relaxation shivering up and down her spine.

* * *

She texted back and forth with him all week, performing various small tests at his direction, many of which she didn't quite understand the point of.

On Tuesday, he had her dress all in blue, which didn't seem to have much to do with the stress-relieving effects of the collar, unless this thing was far more woo-woo than she'd suspected.

Nonetheless, she dutifully went to her classes in a blue shirt and jeans and a Brooklyn Dodgers cap, and recorded her notes and her self-assessed stress levels throughout the day as usual.

That night, he instructed Naomi to wear all red the following day, including her underwear, which was really kind of weird. Besides, she didn't even own red panties.

Specifying her underwear color? Was he getting off on this?

Lying in bed, wondering if her professor was some kind of weirdo after all, she resolved to blow off his stupid test. But very soon, her thoughts sank away into a deep and restful slumber.

In the morning, she carefully dressed herself in her reddest bra, shirt and skirt. Not a great match, but it would have to do. It wasn't the longest skirt, and Naomi really didn't want to be going commando in it, but she managed a fast and stealthy waddle to the discount store down the block, where she bought a new pair of red panties to wriggle into in the bathroom before class.

She stopped by his office later that day, cracking the door and peeking inside. He looked up at her from some papers, and smiled.

"Fully red?" he said.

"Of course."

"Come in -- let me see."

She slipped inside and did a little twirl to show off her outfit.

Without quite understanding why, she lifted the hem of her skirt to prove she had managed to acquire red panties. Immediately, at his look of shock, she drew back her hand to her lips and backed awkwardly against the door.

"I'm so sorry," she babbled. "I didn't -- I mean --"

"No, no, it's quite alright," he soothed, standing and placing a hand on her shoulder.

What on earth had possessed her to do such a thing? She'd been harboring suspicions about him, but at the moment he just seemed genuinely aghast.

Maybe I'm the gross one.

"What is up with this color thing, anyway?" she tried to change the subject, sitting on the edge of his desk.

"There's been a fair amount of research into the effects of different colors on stress levels," he said, wiping his glasses with a little cloth. "I'm probably getting ahead of myself, but I was curious how the effects of the collar and the colors might mesh."

She giggled at his unintended half-rhyme, and he flushed slightly. He really wasn't bad-looking, for an older guy. He wasn't even that old, really, she supposed. Maybe upper thirties? Way too old for her, of course, but he could probably make someone very happy.

Flashing her professor had certainly affected Naomi's stress level, but she was already finding her equilibrium again. She leaned back on her hands, relishing the collar's soothing massage at her nape -- so gentle as to require an effort to even feel consciously.

"How about white, for tomorrow?" he said.

"That's easy enough," she said. "At least I own white underwear."

"Actually, I'd like you to try going without any underwear."

"What?" Naomi froze. "What possible reason--?"

Okay, he's definitely getting off on this, she thought.

"I thought it could be relaxing..." he began.

She glowered at him.

"I wouldn't ask this of you," he said hurriedly, "But -- you've been the best research assistant I've ever had, truly. I trust you to give me good, honest feedback, even if it's about something strange. And I hope you'll extend that kind of trust to me in return."

"Uh-huh," she said, heart hammering in her chest.

"This collar is such an important, life-changing discovery," Gerard went on. "We have to study everything about it that we can, and to do that I need you to trust me and follow my directions without question."

"Of course."

Trust? Naomi thought as she excused herself and hurried down the hall blindly. He's a creep. He's definitely a creep, and...

She'd gotten herself turned around. She'd meant to head straight for the President's office, to present a complaint. There was no goddamn way Professor Troup had a scientific justification for wanting his undergrad research assistant hanging around braless and bouncy.

Was there?

The collar really did work. She'd felt it for herself. He couldn't be some predator inventing fake science to exploit his students. The science was real. The collar was important. For Naomi, it had already proved life-changing.

Ah. This way. She turned a corner and headed towards the President's office.

It did feel nice and relaxing to take off your bra after a long day. Perhaps there was something to that. Why had she gotten so worked up over a perfectly plausible form of stress reduction? They had to study everything about the collar that they could.

She should trust him. He'd asked her to trust him, and he'd never done anything to betray her trust before.

Naomi's hand was on the doorknob leading to the President's office. She let it fall, shaking her head. This was too much to think about on an empty stomach. A slice of pizza, that was what she needed.

She made for the street.

* * *

Naomi's cheeks burned as she walked to class the next day. The only plain white outfit in her wardrobe consisted of a tank top that showed off the color and shape of her dark nipples quite clearly in the morning sun, and a pair of shorts she never wore because they were too tight.

Normally, she'd have been too embarrassed to go out her door dressed like this. And she was embarrassed, but instead of the old swirling anxiety, she felt oddly serene. The security of the haptic collar seemed to transmute the gawking eyes upon Naomi's body from daggers of unease into gentle touches.

She didn't need to listen to the gnawing voice in her head telling her that she looked like a slut, or that she ought to lose some pounds before dressing like this. She didn't need to stress out over the guys watching her tits jiggle free in her translucent shirt. Let them watch.

As the morning wore on, she was surprised to find herself beginning to warm to the attention. Or at least, her body warmed to it. She felt no more fondly disposed towards her leering male classmates than she had before -- but with her alarm bells dulled, she found that what loomed larger in her mind was the sexual charge of their gaze, tugging at the edge of her thoughts and tickling at her nerves.

Over lunch, she sent Gerard a text reporting on her experience so far.

"That's wonderful," he responded. "Keep going in this direction. Let your imagination free. Fantasize. What would a totally anxiety-free, sexy and uninhibited Naomi do? Don't be shy about your own desires."

There was a cute girl in Naomi's next class who kept sneaking peeks at her, and Naomi followed the professor's advice. She wound up not absorbing much of the lecture, instead spinning up erotic daydreams -- the cute girl confronting her after class, pushing her up against the wall and kissing her; or the pair of guys who'd been checking her out at lunch, finding her in the halls and sandwiching her between them, hands all over her body; or herself, coming into school completely nude, everyone staring and whispering and shouting vulgar comments.

By the end of the day, she was squirming in her seat, and she was sure that the crotch of her shorts must be soaked. She stayed after to jot down some notes on this in her stress journal. She was sure Gerard would find it very interesting. She wound up writing about it in far more intimate detail than she'd meant to -- but it was all in the name of science, right?

She decided to stop by his office on her way out and drop off the journal sheet for him.

"Sit, sit," he welcomed her with a smile, picking up the scribble-covered printout.

He pored over it for a minute, eyes widening, and -- yes -- occasionally flicking over to her chest. Well, he was hardly alone in that today.

"My goodness," he said, glancing down between her legs. "Soaked through your shorts?"

"Not literally," she giggled. "Fabric's too sturdy. But it's a swamp in there for sure."

God, she couldn't believe she'd said something like that. But her professor took it in with his usual mildness.

"Well, I think this could open up some fascinating new avenues of study. When you get home tonight, why don't you masturbate for me, and log your experiences in your journal?"

She blinked, stunned at Gerard's bald suggestion that she rub one off for the sake of his 'exploratory evaluation.' She hadn't meant for her stress journal to become erotic fiction. But as she mulled it over, another thought crossed her mind.

"What color should I wear tomorrow?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. For now, I'm more interested in this new avenue. For example," he said, pointing to a line on her journal sheet. "You mentioned that you thought the collar might be helping with your body-image issues. The applications for something like that could be of profound value to many women."

Naomi nodded along with this.

"God knows a month ago I'd have never worn anything that showed off my muffin top like this," she said, gesturing to the thin strip of midriff where her shirt failed to conceal the flesh spilling out over the waistband of her white shorts. "But look, here I am, like so what. It's honestly nice."

"That's wonderful to hear," Gerard said. "I won't specify what you wear tomorrow, but I'd like to see you embrace what you so vividly called your slutty side."

"God, did I really write that?" Naomi laughed, cringing slightly as she opened the door to leave. She hoped he wasn't beginning to think of her as too unprofessional. But he didn't seem to mind, so why should she?

He only smiled and shook his head as she walked out.

* * *

In the end, Naomi wound up not only rubbing one out for his study -- lingering deliciously on a long-awaited orgasm -- but logging her masturbation habits for the next week.

Gerard encouraged her to mix it up. They talked about pornography, which Naomi usually didn't watch, and she expressed her discomfort with the industry and its focus on young women being used and degraded by older men. The professor suggested she try to watch some, and record her feelings about it.

By now, she was not entirely surprised to find that, with the haptic collar, her unease was much softened. With the professor's encouragement, she found herself turning, a little sheepishly, to videos that were more and more hardcore, with an edge of the old discomfort that, in its reduced form, only enhanced their spicy allure.

Her daydreams became spicier, too. Attending class in a tight new crop top and extremely form-fitting leggings that she'd only ever previously worn in public underneath a skirt, Naomi pictured her classmates bending her over a desk and spitroasting her. She pictured them filling her and drenching her with load after load of come, until she looked as degraded as any porn lady, and then forcing her to attend her next class without washing up.

Depraved, ugly thoughts that she would once have ejected forcefully from her brain now seemed only to turn her on.

The week floated by like a fluffy cloud of pleasure. She was having a little trouble concentrating in class, but she made up for it by spending less of her evening doomscrolling -- instead settling into an efficient routine of reading and homework, self-maintenance, and working on Gerard's masturbation study. She felt happy, productive, and increasingly in touch with her sexuality.

There was one bad morning in the shower, where she had something like a panic attack. Sinking to her knees in the tub, leaning heavily against the wall, she slammed off the water, dried herself as quickly as she could, and hurried to grab the haptic collar from the sink and re-fasten it around her neck.

Her breathing began to return to normal almost immediately, and, to her relief, her next shower went off without incident.

That morning, Gerard suggested she dress up a little fancier than usual, so she took the time to do her party makeup. She picked out a patterned midi skirt matched with a sheer black top that showed off both her nicest bra, and a couple tattoos that rarely glimpsed the sun.

After class, she followed the strains of Ornette Coleman down the hall to his office and dozed gratefully on his couch for a few minutes while he read her latest journal entry.

"I was going to go get dinner," he said, slipping the sheet into his case. "Care to join me?"

"Professor, are you asking me on a date?" Naomi said. Of course, their working relationship had grown rather intimate, but she had trusted him to keep it scientific, and he had done so.

"I would never date one of my students, of course," he said hastily.

"Damn right you wouldn't," Naomi teased him, wagging a finger. "I'd kick your ass."

"But that doesn't mean we can't go out to dinner together, does it?"

Did it?

"I...uh, I suppose not."

"So just don't think of me as your professor, and I won't think of you as my student, and it'll all be fine."

Something didn't seem quite right about that. Was he trying to ask her out on a date, or not?

She should really say no.

Gerard clicked off the stereo, put a hand on her shoulder, and began to make for the door.

It was probably fine. If it wasn't, wouldn't she be the first to know?

"Great! Let's go. What are you in the mood for?"

* * *

"Oh, that looks delicious," Naomi hummed as the waiter set down her plate of drunken noodles.

She'd learned far more about Gerard's life in 30 minutes of casual conversation than the last few months combined, and she found that he was beginning to draw her out as well, trading stories of past romantic partners and family trips gone wrong.

She was enjoying herself, but a note of mild concern continued to sound the back of her mind as the meal went on.

"We really shouldn't be mixing the personal and the professional like this," she finally said.

"Things needn't be in conflict. There's nothing wrong with two adults going on a date."

Naomi opened her mouth to offer a rejoinder, but to what?

She'd never thought she'd be the kind of girl to date a guy almost twice her age, but she was an adult. She was allowed. And she'd certainly been on dates with guys her own age who were less attractive and less charming than Gerard.

"You look gorgeous, by the way," he said. "You should do your makeup like this every day."