Chapter 72 Sexual orientation confirmation panel (1)
The elevator doors slid open on the forty-seventh floor with a whisper so soft it felt illicit.
Alex Carter stepped out, clutching the matte-black appointment card that had arrived by courier two days earlier.
No hospital name, no logo, just a single line of embossed silver type: HART INSTITUTE : Sexual Orientation Confirmation Panel
Thursday, 21:30. Come alone. Come curious.
Alex had found the Institute the way everyone did, a friend of a friend who spoke about it in lowered voices after three drinks, the kind of story you weren’t sure was real until the invitation appeared.
The fee, transferred silently from Alex’s account the moment the acceptance link was clicked, had been astronomical.
Worth it, the reviews whispered, if you truly needed to know.
The corridor was warm, dimly lit, scented faintly of cedar and something clinical underneath.
At the end, a heavy walnut door stood ajar. Alex hesitated, then pushed it open.
Inside was not a waiting room. It was a loft-like space with floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the glittering city, a wide, low platform bed disguised as an examination table, and two people waiting beneath a single spotlight.
Dr. Julian Hart stood with his hands clasped behind his back, white coat open over a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
Tall, dark-haired, late thirties, the kind of man whose stillness felt dangerous.
Beside him, Dr. Selene Hart leaned one hip against the counter, coat unbuttoned entirely, revealing a silk camisole the color of midnight.
Her hair was pinned loosely; a few auburn strands had already escaped, curling against her throat.
They were beautiful in the way predators sometimes are, perfectly groomed, perfectly calm.
“Alex,” Julian said, voice low and precise, as though he had been expecting them for years. “Right on time.”
Selene’s smile curved slowly. “Close the door, sweetheart. Soundproofing starts the moment it latches.”
Alex obeyed. The click echoed.
Julian moved first, crossing the room with unhurried grace.
He stopped just inside personal space and extended a hand, not for a handshake, but palm up.
After a beat, Alex placed the black card into it.
Julian read it, nodded once, and passed it to Selene without looking at her. She tucked it into her pocket like a secret.
“We’ll keep this simple,” she said, stepping closer. Her perfume was subtle, something warm with a bite of citrus.
“You’re here because you want certainty. Words have failed you. Dating apps have failed you. Tonight your body does the talking. We only listen.”
Alex swallowed. “And… how exactly does that work?”
Julian’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile he had shown.
“We test response variables. Visual, tactile, olfactory, auditory. Male stimulus, female stimulus, both in combination. We measure physiological markers: heart rate, galvanic skin response, pupil dilation, lubrication or erection latency, intensity of orgasm. Then we tell you, without ambiguity, which direction your arrow points. Or if, like some of our favorite patients, it points enthusiastically in all directions.”
Selene brushed past Alex’s shoulder, letting her fingertips trail.
“Some people already know and just want permission to admit it. Some people are terrified they’re wrong about what they thought they knew. Either way, we’re very thorough.”
She moved to a side table and lifted a crystal tumbler of water, offering it.
Alex took it with hands that trembled slightly. The water was cool, faintly cucumber.
Julian watched the swallow travel down Alex’s throat.
“You’ve read the consent framework. You initiated the liability waiver. You understand revocation is available at any moment with a single safe word, ‘red.’ Until then, we have clinical discretion. That means we touch you, taste you, and take you as far as required to reach conclusive data. No judgment. No recordings. No permanent marks unless you beg prettily.”
Alex’s laugh came out shaky. “People really pay for this?”
“People pay for truth,” Selene answered. “And for the kind of sex they’re too afraid to ask for anywhere else.”
Julian gestured toward a lacquered privacy screen in the corner.
“Everything is off. There’s a robe, silk, and shorts. When you’re ready, come back and lie on the table. Feet in the stirrups we’ve marked with red tape. We’ll begin with the baseline.”
Alex disappeared behind the screen. The rustle of clothing sounded obscenely loud.
Shirt, trousers, underwear; each item folded neatly on the provided stool because stalling felt worse than obeying.
The robe was black silk, cool against overheated skin, barely reaching mid-thigh.
When Alex stepped out, both doctors turned in perfect synchronization.
Selene’s gaze traveled slowly downward, clinical and appreciative at once.
Julian’s eyes lingered on the pulse beating visibly at Alex’s throat.
“Good,” Julian murmured. He moved to the table and patted the padded surface. “Up.”
The vinyl was warm, heated, Alex realized. The stirrups were wide, padded, set at an angle that felt shockingly exposed even before anything had happened.
Alex climbed up, laid back. The ceiling above was a mirror. Their own nervous faces stared back, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
Selene moved to one side, Julian to the other. Soft leather cuffs waited at wrists and ankles.
“We start restrained,” Selene explained, fastening the left cuff with gentle efficiency. “Some patients try to hide reactions. The cuffs remove that option.”
Julian secured the right. His fingers brushed the inside of Alex’s wrist, deliberate, measuring the leap of blood beneath skin.
Monitors beeped softly to life on a rolling stand, heart rate already climbing, oxygen saturation, a discreet sensor clipped to one finger.
Selene rolled a stainless tray closer. On it, nitrile gloves, a bottle of medical-grade lubricant warming under a heat lamp, a sleek wireless wand, and something that looked suspiciously like a curved glass speculum.
Julian snapped on gloves, slow, deliberate, the sound cracking through the room. Selene followed suit a moment later.
“Deep breath,” Julian said. “We’re going to establish resting arousal first.”
Selene’s gloved fingers settled lightly on Alex’s inner thigh, tracing upward with the barest pressure.
Julian mirrored the motion on the other side. Four hands, perfectly coordinated, mapping skin like they had done this a thousand times.
Alex’s breath stuttered.
“Already responding,” Selene noted softly, glancing at the monitor. “Heart rate one-twenty. Beautiful.”
Julian’s hand slid higher, stopping just short of where Alex desperately wanted touch.
“We’ll begin with visual and light tactile stimulus. Then auditory. Then direct genital contact, female lead first, then male. You may speak, moan, beg, or remain silent. All data is useful.”
Selene leaned over, lips brushing Alex’s ear. “And Alex? Try not to come until we tell you. Holding back gives us cleaner numbers.”
The first gloved fingertip finally grazed slick, searingly sensitive flesh, and Alex’s hips jerked involuntarily against the restraints.
Julian’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Baseline established. Beginning Phase One.”
Above them, the mirrored ceiling reflected everything.
Alex spread open and trembling, Julian’s dark head bent in concentration, Selene’s wicked smile as her fingers began their slow, merciless work.
The city sparkled forty-seven floors below, oblivious.
Inside the room, the only sounds were ragged breathing, the wet click of lubricant, and two doctors murmuring numbers to each other like lovers sharing a private joke.
Phase One had only just started.