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17 August 2016-- Memo
From: Dr H.
To: Dr Z.
I am new at the centre and I have to ask, are the subjects aware that they are being watched in their dorms?
I was assigned to keep eye on a handful of the male subjects during their downtime, and most of them proceed as normal, as if there are no cameras there. Others seem aware. In particular, 14M-RFT13 often turns to look at the hidden camera, and he will address me indirectly with nods and smirks.
And, of course, I have seen many of them, for lack of better way to word it, --be intimate with themselves--. This is the particular reason why I ask. Some of them do it in the most banal manner. 15M-RFT18 has little technique, and does it almost as a function more than anything. He only touches the length. Never anything else. Is he really so insecure in his masculinity?
Anyhow, this is not a memo to nitpick the masturbation techniques of the subjects. Well, not technically. I am just curious on if they know they are being watched because of two odd behaviours I've witnessed.
14M-RFT03 has notes in his file that sometimes during experiments he will begin to experiment sexually, even at the detriment to his ability to survive the game, and that he has been recorded engaging in some unsavory behaviour. However, I have never seen him do such things alone in his room. He is rather dull to watch, in fact. He simply brushes his hair, meditates, or practices yoga. It makes me ponder if he refrains because he knows I can see him. However, on the other hand, 16M-RFT25-- he makes quite the show of it. The mirrors at the side of the room? He does this thing with his that broadcasts it into the camera, as if he's trying to put a show on for me. It's really something to see. But if he doesn't know about the cameras, why would he do it like this? I'm just trying to understand.
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19 August 2016-- Memo
From: Dr Z.
To: Dr H.
Welcome to the team, Dr H. I'm not sure at this point how much information you've been briefed; we're very busy here so sometimes things are a bit disorganized.
I do not feel the lack of masturbation habits in 14M-RFT03 is out of character, despite what you've read in his profile. He is a strange case. He is very faithful to his religion, and to my understanding, Sikhi is not direct in its forbiddance of it, but it is highly discouraged as it is a thief of the mind, and it is a worldly desire that is to be avoided as it breaks their connection with God. And because sexual desire is a poison of the mind, he avoids it. However, the important thing to keep in mind with 14M-RFT03 is that on the field, his stance will often change. As bulletproof as his faith seems, once he is vulnerable on the island, his core is shaken and he grows doubt. His whole foundation of faith crashes down, and as he knows he is about to die, sometimes it results in him trying to make up for lost time, as it were. This repeats over and over because he is consistently unstable after, and we end up erasing many of his memories of the experiments. Whether he is being watched or not, and whether he knows it or not, on the base, he has little drive to do such things.
However... have you ever spoken to 16M-RFT25? You must understand that he is the classic example of Manic Eros. There is no official statement that we are not allowed to engage in relationships with the subjects, but I would say, as a personal matter, to avoid 16M-RFT25 in particular. He is in love with himself; he sees sex as a way to reinforce this, for it proves how desireable he is. It's a thing to ponder if he knows or not. On one hand, I wouldn't put exhibitionism past that particular subject, especially as my familiarity with him leads me to be sure that he is sure such a 'show' would serve to increase your interest in him, which would cleanly feed into his ego. On the other hand, he truly could be doing it just for himself.
I think the only solution to this is for you to give me a buzz next time he's at it, so I can see and determine. For his file, of course.
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Camilo did feel victorious that evening, even though he'd not survived the last game; he'd been in second, and while he firmly remembered the shattering, literally life ending pain that had cut through his chest as Arda's steel-tipped around soundly shut him down once more, it was gone now. It never seemed to last long. In some ways, defeat was more affirming to him than victory.
Camilo had little interest in interacting with the others most evenings. He'd return to his room, instead, for a round of interaction with his very favourite person in the world-- one who never disappointed or let him down. One who was always beautiful, always charming, one he was always happy with.
Two full length mirrors adorned the wall of his dorm, positioned next to each other. He stood before them, still clothed in his lab issue scrubs. He, of course, had a personal taste in clothes that veered more towards the fabulous, but really, a true sign of beauty was the ability to appear handsome no matter what one wore. He certainly fit it here. His well toned muscles slipped out of the round, grey sleeves, taut as he held his arms behind his head, tensing them. When he leaned back slightly, his belly peeked from under the shirt. Its soft trail of platinium hair led down into his tight black lab issued pants, and gave a place for the eyes to settle on his sculpted moon pale abdomen. One hand moved there, and his painted nails stroked over the muscles, played with the sleek length of hair. He smiled down at it, and his prick gave a twitch. His eyes lifted, meeting himself in first the left mirror, then the right; he took in his face in both, enjoying the slight difference in angle.
"Hello there," His thumb hooked into the simple elastic waist of his scrub pants, and Camilo began to wriggle them down, just a bit... Slowly, slowly, teasing himself. "I know, dear, I've kept you waiting. I was busy, I promise. I wouldn't leave you hanging."
Camilo had never found it odd how he talked to himself, to his reflection. There was no awareness whatsoever that this was strange behaviour. Rather, people had pointed it out to him in the past and he simply would dismiss it. He was the greatest company he could keep, so why would he not speak to himself? That was simply obvious to him.
His arms crossed to opposite sides of his shirt's hem, and he pulled it up and over himself, tossing it aside. His eyes popped open wider, just for a moment, as his nude chest came to view. Shoulders rotating slowly to a beat inside his mind, Camilo's hands moved to his chest, circling where he'd been shot last.
It was fully healed now and not a scar showed to marr his flawless skin. His hairless chest looked the same as the day he'd been admitted into the program-- that was, perfect; hairless, strong, with small, dusky pink brown nipples.His middle and ring fingers did a tip-toeing dance up over his nipples and quickly they turned hard and pebbly; a moan and a laugh fluttered from his lips as he then began to circle around them teasingly with the pads of his fingers.
"You're a beautiful rose, Camilo," he said, and he glanced down; there was a tent in his pants, straining for attention, but he didn't touch just yet. "Soon, soon, dear, soon. Let's not rush right into it." His left hand stroked his face, cheek to jaw, then passed over his lips; he kissed the fingertips, then pressed them against the lips of one of his reflections. "Preserved in the prime of your life, never ever to wither. Nobody else in the world is as lucky as you are, and you know it, don't you? Yesss." His other hand brushed down, palming at his groin for a moment, before moving to a more indirect approach, stroking upon his inner thigh. "Those others can't compare even with the same gift given to them. In fact I'd say to give it to some was to squander it." He stepped out of his pants, shamelessly hard in just his underwear. "Look how thick your cock is. How powerful. Look at your strong thighs, your-- oh, Camilo!"
Camilo leaned in. His eyes shut. His lips brushed against cold glass. With a smack, he left a kiss on his reflection. Both his hands touched his chest again, but this time, it was upon the image of himself before him. Soft fingerprints appeared on the ssmooth surface wherever he'd tap, and he loved this; they were like lipstick kissmarks, indicating exactly where he'd let his fingers wander.
His cheek nuzzled his own cheek. One hand tickled over his pectorals, while the other palmed over his mate's inner thigh, fingers swirling over silver-backed flatness. He'd turn his face enough to give kisses to himself, and occasionally, he'd dash out his tongue and tickle it with the glossy flatness of his other self's, leaving wet trails. His breath fogged the glass. A wet spot slowly grew on the front of his thong.
"I love you," He said it often, but he only meant it in moments like these. 'Love' was a fuzzy concept. It was so easy to state and so easy to swallow, even when it didn't exist, but others would decline to say it even when they felt it deeply in their soul. Camilo found these people to be especially stupid. If you loved someone that strongly, he felt you should say it, and say it he did. "I love you," When he repeated it, it grew in exhaltation. A skip went through his breath. His prick pulsed in his underwear.
He drew back. Both hands pressed to the mirror, and he leaned in, touching his forehead to it. His feet spread apart, he looked down at his bulge; it bobbled with the beating of his heart in the thin strip of fabric. Finally he let himself touch. His fingerpads encircled the head through the garment; he undulated his fingers up and down, stroking the tip. He'd push the foreskin up and down in little pops over the back of the crown, moving it off and on it again, with the minor roughness of cotton a barrier between skin and skin. His eyes rolled. A suave smirk crossed his lips and they pressed together. His breath shot like bullets through his nose.
"Are you ready, Camilo?" He drew his hand back. The fingers were slicked in a thin coating of pre, even having not touched himself directly. A cloud formed about his face in his reflection as he breathed out firm through his open mouth. His tonguetip flickered, drawing lines in the fog.
He then stepped back, and moved to the other mirror. He'd not marred it up with his body yet, so it would be used. Strong arms took the side and lifted it up and off the wall. He laid it over the floor, and then Camilo stood on his knees, his legs on either side of the mirror's frame.
He brushed his long braid over his shoulder, letting it fall down his chest, to get it out of the way. Peering at his reflection over his shoulder, Camilo's tongue trilled. One finger hooked the thin strap of fabric wedged up in his ass. Wriggling it back and forth, he saw small flashes of his hole, but never the whole thing outright. His eyes rolled. "Wicked tease," he mumbled, before finally pulling the back of his thong away.
His hole was a small, tightly closed little pucker, delicate and sweet; sighing as he did, Camilo bore down his muscles, making it part just slightly, giving a glimpse of warm, pink insides. "There you are, my precious." One hand still held his panties aside, but the other slid in the front of them, now playing around on the oozing head of his cock directly. Withdrawing his hand, he looked down at his fingers, and he spread them apart; his transluscent, milky pre spread in threads between his fingers. His thumb met his fingerpads, and smeared the liquid about.
Then two painted nails clicked against his pucker. "Shhh, shh. Relax, relax." The moistened tips circled over the wrinkled skin, and they'd spread it out in small increments, working steady but slow. "Shhh. Don't worry, my love. I'll make your little rosebud feel so wonderful."
Gradually, his ass began to open up, warming to the touches. In went a fingertip, then a second. Vision momentarily blurring, Camilo looked over his shoulder again, to see his two fingers creeping casually into his ass, pushed in to the first joint. Steady, he spread them open, teasing himself with his own carmine insides.
He rose up only long enough to toss off his underwear, finally fully nude. Back upon his knees, his hands worked himself, one in the front, one in the back. Two fingers slid into his ass up to the middle joint, and he sang out through open lips. He squeezed his muscles taut around them. His other hand took up his cock, and in long, swirling strokes, he twisted his palm up and down it.
He looked over his shoulder at first. Slow, even breaths racked his body while his fingers went in and out, edging ever deeper. His digits churned inside of him, rotating in a dexterous circle. His hips swayed the opposite way, while his belly undulated to music only he could hear.
Camilo turned his head around. Now he looked down at himself in the mirror. An intense warmth swelled up inside of his chest. His fingers returned to a more simple up and down movement while his fingertips moved like little running feet over his prostate. A large bead of pre bubbled on the tip of his slit, and tumbled down onto the mirrorpane, landing on his double's cockhead.
"Yes yes..." Placing his free hand to the floor, Camilo leaned forward, over the mirror. His other hand left his body, coming out of his hole with a wet slurp. Once more, he glanced over his shoulder, and bore down, looking at his reflection with the same intensity others would look upon their beloved, though there was a logical reason for that. His hole gaped open beautifully, about an inch wide, and its rose red insides made his tongue trill inside his mouth. He tugged at his left cheek with his hand, spreading it open a bit further. A hiss came through his teeth. "If only I could lick you, my dear, but even I'm not that flexible..."
Both hands clapped to the floor on either side of the mirror. Camilo's eyes looked squarely down; his platinum braid trailed over the floor and the right moulding of the glass frame. His hips angled downward, hanging his cockhead precariously low. He watched the reflection, rather than himself, as he pushed his hips down. When his cock met its reflection, he mouthed out some less than beautiful words, but did not speak them. Such things never would come from his lips. The chill had been shocking, as it always was, but it was something he'd grown to adore.
He angled himself. His prick smashed between his belly and the mirror's surface; his balls rest on the glass pane, while his knees hugged the frame. Shoulders rotating forward, he arched over the surface. His hips began to buck. His pre wet down the slippery surface of the mirror further, and he was soon in an easily glide, stimulating himself by simply frotting his length between glass and skin. His cool eyes opened and looked down at his reflection. He stared back, grit-teethed, huffing through his nose, while inelegant, loose strands of silvery hair escaped and glued themselves to his face with his sweat.
His muscular form undulated in a smooth, easy motion. Sex was much like a dance and he was equally talented and coordinated here. His prick rubbed its own reflection, and his balls pressed back and forth with the motion; his cheeks would part and close with each stroke, giving a teasing, easily missable flash of his hole to anybody who would be watching.
He shifted his weight. He laid down entirely on the mirror's surface, his arms on either side of the frame. His nose touched his reflection's; his forehead met the glass. Tongue flicking out, he touched its tip to his double's, and it dashed over the smooth surface. His panting breath obscured his face from himself in just a few seconds.
Shoulders bracing the glass, he moved once more, up onto his knees-- face down, ass up high. One hand reached back to take up his length, and quickly he tugged it from base to tip. Lewd, moist slipping sounds rang out in the almost empty room, but it was second to his wanton moaning. Camilo made no effort to silence himself. Were he to be caught, he would have no shame. He was doing what anyone else as lovely as he would.
His ass clenched, and his balls drew up. His legs gave a few sporadic jolts. With a monumental cry, orgasm cracked through his body like lightning. His hand clutched his cock as it jumped, leaping wild as it spurt out one, two, three thick shots of seed, followed by another as an afterglow-starting sigh rolled from his lips.
Camilo sat up, panting for breath. He looked down at his muddied reflection. A combination of pre and seed and spit and his skin's natural oils had smeared his image, but he didn't mind. This was indicative, and reflective, of his love. He watched his chest rise and fall. He looked down at his half-hard prick, and he stroked it just enough to make its foreskin glide.
"You're a mess, my dear." he said. "Let's get you cleaned up, mmn?"
As he stood, and reattached the mirror to the wall, he looked himself in the eyes once more. A sorrow hung in them, as it always did after he was done making love to himself. His only regret was that he could not bring himself to bed like this.
He'd tried before. It just simply wasn't comfortable.