The Official Study, So Scientific

Part 1: “An Accident for A Question”

Amara could not believe what she had just heard. The words that washed over her ears hit her with the unforgiving consistency of a cement bollard. She was so shocked that she lost her hold of the dinner tray, sending it together with its contents crashing to the floor with a loud clatter that turned all the heads within earshot in her direction. At the same time, Amara felt the muscles at the centre of her vagina involuntarily spasm. She felt a disorientating dizziness rise to her head, and a warm, wet glow flooded her pussy.

“Do you think it would be correct to say that your face looks exactly like your pussy?”

Amara tried to clench her fists, willing herself to hold her balance. Instead, her hands hung limply by her sides. Her rib cage thudded with powerful thrusts, her heartbeat having accelerated to a frenzy. She felt her knees weakening, and her pussy lips tightening and loosening inside her panties. If she hadn’t just eaten, Amara felt sure she would have fainted. She closed her eyes to clear her head, not bothering about the mess she had just created on the polished floor of the restaurant.

She had been on her way to deposit the used dinner tray when the accident happened. He had casually walked up to her; had said hello, and had asked how she was, and how work was, et cetera. They had chit-chatted for a few minutes, slowly walking and talking, through a bustling company restaurant nearing the end of its lunch service. And then he had very calmly, and very simply, gone ahead and said it.

“Your face looks exactly like your pussy.”

Oh my God!

“I…I…what!?” Amara blurted out. She looked around to see if anyone was looking. People were looking. It was the busiest time of the day, on the busiest day of the week, and she had just made the loudest clamour, dropping her lunch set. Amara decided to ignore the looks and sniggers and to concentrate on the delicious things this young man was saying. Had she heard him correctly, she wondered, or was she hearing things? Had this man just asked her if she thought her face looked exactly like her pussy? She thought she could actually feel her clitoris pulsating between her pussy-lips.

“I’m sorry, Amara,” Keaton, the usually courteous man from Customer Management, was saying. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stooped to the floor and started picking up the broken ceramic pieces, placing them on the empty tray. “It’s just that…I…I…well…I’m doing a project for my part-time course. It’s a master’s in hereditary genetics, and we have that question as part of a study. So, I just wondered if you would agree that your face looks exactly like your pussy.”

Oh my God! He was saying it again!

“Your face looks exactly like your pussy.”

Again, her vaginal muscles convulsed, and Amara felt wetness oozing out of her hole and soaking the material of her underwear. Her skirt was long enough—it wrapped tightly around her pinch-thin waistline, ballooning down over her curvy hips and ample ass and stopping halfway down towards her knees. But on this lunch hour, Amara felt inadequately dressed; in her tight skirt, her equally tight-fitting blouse that barely contained her double D-cups, and her five-inch heels. She feared that a trickle of her vaginal liquids might easily run down her legs unhindered. She had her panties on, but in that moment, Amara felt exposed. As if her pussy was already on display. As if Keaton was already looking at it and comparing it to her face.

Because that was what this concept meant.

That is what this meant, didn’t it? If Keaton’s notion was taken on its merits—Amara thought—which was to say: if it was true that her face looked exactly like her pussy, then by looking at her face, Keaton was in fact already looking at her pussy.

This was a torturous thought to Amara, and her vaginal walls contracted again and released more of her cream. Right now, where this man stood looking into her face, he could very easily be carrying in his mind, the idea that by looking at the details in her face, he was matching those details to a set of her intimate body parts; like her shaved mound, her smooth outer labia, her soft inner lips and her clitoris.

She should be outraged, she thought. Nice gentlemen never walked up to a lady in the company restaurant and just blatantly asked her if she thought her face looked like her pussy. And yet the tingly hot flush that had started at the centre of her vulva and crawled deliciously up the crack of her curvaceous ass, up her slender spine, up her belly and surrounded her ample breasts, betrayed her lack of anger or annoyance. Instead, her breathing had quickened, and her chest was heaving. Amara stood rooted to the spot, feeling so dizzy that she thought she might fall over in a heap if she moved. Everything, even time itself, seemed to have ground to an eerie, slow motion.

What on earth is happening to me, she thought. I should be shouting at this man, and I should certainly be in total control of myself. But even as she thought that, Amara knew it was futile. There was a delicious, hot sensation inside her pussy, and there was no way she was in control of that at all. Instead, it made her want to squeeze her thighs tightly, and to put some much-needed pressure on her genitals.

She didn’t understand why just hearing those words had such a powerful effect on her; on her body; on her pussy. It wasn’t because of Keaton: yes, Keaton was attractive, but he wasn’t exactly her type. He was almost exactly the same height as she was, which made him too short for her. Besides, she was already taken, and that naturally meant she never thought that way about her co-workers—or about anyone, for that matter, except for a few infrequent fantasies. And it wasn’t because of his voice: again, yes; there was a rich, vibrant timbre to Keaton’s voice, but as voices went, it was just a voice. It didn’t particularly do anything to her. No, there was something else. It was just…. It was the idea… That idea….

It was the very notion that someone—anyone, yes, perhaps even Keaton himself—could possibly, literally look at her pussy, and then look at her face, and then maybe look at her pussy again, and compare them. As in, someone literally comparing her pussy to her face; in real-time….

God, that was so hot!

She wondered what she would say or do if Keaton—who had just picked up the last piece of broken dinner plate, and placed it on the tray—if he were to ask her right there and then if he could do the physical comparison, what would she do? A realisation hit Amara: she had not automatically ruled out the possibility that she might allow him! No, she couldn’t, could she? As Amara wondered, it occurred to her that the way her pussy was responding, it had its own answer to that particular question.

This was so unexpected, so shocking, that it unnerved Amara. She had never thought of herself as an exhibitionist, and she usually liked to have sex in low light so that her lover would not be able to see too much detail. But she admitted to herself that she always felt a different kind of excitement whenever someone looked directly at her nakedness. That excitement always came with a mixture of shyness, pride and longing. And, of course, power. Could her reaction right now be connected to that?

They were interrupted by a lady from catering, who arrived at the scene and offered to clear up the mess.

“Are you okay, miss?” she said. “You look a bit pale. Was it all a bit of a shock?”

“Oh, I’m fine thank you,” Amara said. “Yes, it just suddenly slipped. Thanks for helping.”

“Oh, don’t worry, miss. I’m just doing my job. And it’s okay. Accidents are part of life.”

Amara nodded. The interruption had allowed her to regain some of her composure, although Amara still felt the hot, sticky wetness that had formed inside her knickers. She took a few deep breaths, eager to steady herself more, as Keaton handed the tray over to the catering lady. Again, Amara looked around the restaurant. The lunch parties were all now more or less minding their own business.

“You said what!” Amara said when the caterer left. She was trying to get the upper hand in the exchange, and steer the conversation into a safer direction. “You realise that…that I could report you for asking me a question like that, right?”

“No, please don’t,” Keaton pleaded, his voice hushed, making certain no one else could hear. “Look, I can explain. I mean, it’s a serious programme, and I can show you. Even if you don’t want to take part. It’s just not a good idea to involve the likes of human resources, because that will just complicate things and could lead to a misunderstanding. This is a very rare thing, and most people just respond with shock, you know. Because a vaginal study is a taboo subject.”

Keaton was still explaining something but for a few seconds, Amara wasn’t even listening.

“A vaginal study is a taboo subject…”

A powerful mixture of pleasure and desire washed over her, even as her vaginal muscles shuddered again. She knew this time that her panties were practically gushing with her hot juice. God, how desperately she wanted to come!

“Hey, are you okay?” Keaton was saying when Amara came to her senses. “You looked like you were going to faint, or something, for a minute there. You had your eyes closed and everything.”

“What? No…I mean, sorry,” Amara squawked. “So…Uhm, what you are saying is that…wait…what are you saying? Are you asking people to take part in this study?”

“Well, yes,” Keaton said. “But I’m not getting a lot of success. Most girls just think I’ve gone crazy.”

“I can imagine,” Amara said. “So, how can someone know if you are not just being a pervert? That’s the problem with this crazy study.”

“But I have the project release notes from the university. People are not even bothering to come and examine it, in spite of my assurances and invitations. It’s all perfectly in order.”

“You have a document from this university of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure,” Keaton said. “I’ll bring it with me tomorrow. Do you want to come round to my office, say after lunch, or shall I come to yours?”

“Does it matter?” Amara said. “Just let me know when you have it, and we’ll figure the rest out.”

“Oh, thank you,” Keaton said. “I don’t even know what to say. Just, please don’t mention it to anyone else. Is that okay to ask? I need to be in control of the messaging. You know…to avoid any misunderstandings.”

“Okay, you have yourself a deal. And no bullshitting, okay? Otherwise, it’s HR for you, and then jail.”

Amara left a relieved-looking Keaton and headed for the lifts. A forefinger extended to press the lift-button, and Amara noticed that her hand was shaking. The lift came and she got in, relieved that she was alone.