Clinical Trial

Dr. Greenwood walks into the exam room, shuts the door, and introduces himself to Jamie Lawson perched on the table. He thanks her for joining the trial—quick screener first, then they can start. He fires off the standard questions: name, eighteen, not pregnant, no health issues, decently active. When he jokes about flexibility from her yoga, she rolls her eyes. Clipboard cleared, he says they’ll do a few physical tests down the hall. She smirks that she doesn’t stress easy; he grins back, promising they’ll get her sweating soon. They move to a bigger room packed with exercise gear and monitors. He sticks electrodes on her temples and collarbones, then wraps a blood-pressure cuff around her arm. His hand grazes her breast—accidental, he chuckles, then keeps working. Jamie tries to chat about the trial while the cuff squeezes; he stays vague. She mentions needing cash because her dad’s hurt, and he nods, promising to keep her info for future gigs. Next he asks to touch her chest for heart rate. She hesitates—why not the neck?—but he insists on his method. His fingers press, brushing her tits again, and he doesn’t apologize this time. She flushes, stays quiet. He steps back, claps his hands: time to start. First up, jumping jacks. She bounces a few times before he stops her—bra has to come off, it messes with the readings. He turns while she strips it, then watches the bare bounce under her thin tank top. After what feels like forever she snaps; he tells her five more, then they switch. On the bike she pedals hard. Sweat soaks through her clothes while he stands behind, eyes glued to the seam of her yoga pants. He cranks the resistance until she’s dripping, finally calls it. She wipes the seat; he stops her—“leave it.” She reaches for a towel; he snatches it away, warns her she can leave if she doesn’t like the rules. She stays quiet. He has her peel off shoes and socks for flexibility tests. She bends, spreads, stretches; every pose clings to her sweat-soaked skin. After the fourth pose she catches him just staring, clipboard forgotten. She yells; he shrugs and moves on to stimulus tests. He pulls out a sleek vibrator and tells her to get herself off while he monitors reactions. Jamie refuses outright. He shrugs—no pay for quitting—but triples the money if she stays. She hesitates, makes him swear he’ll only watch, then peels her pants to her ankles. Sitting on the mat she works the toy, face burning while he strokes himself over his scrubs. He orders her to meet his eyes, keeps barking little humiliations. Minutes later he crouches, peels the electrodes, and says it’s time he fucks her. She protests—he promised to watch only. He laughs softly: she knew this was coming, and if she really didn’t want it she would’ve left already. He calls her a little slut and dares her to prove him wrong. Jamie swallows, voice flat: “Ok… just get it over with.”