Bimbo Builder Academy Ch. 04

"Hey, lover..." Julia's tone was overtly suggestive as she settled next to me on the couch.

It was Saturday morning, and I had barely spoken last night after getting home from the Academy.

I wondered if Julia thought it was her fault, like I was mad at her for something, but I couldn't even bring myself to reassure her. If I did, I would have to acknowledge the way I'd been acting.

She'd ask for an explanation. I couldn't give her one.

I couldn't even bring myself to be scared shitless, like I knew I probably should be.

"Hey, babe," I murmured. I brought the mug of coffee up to my mouth and sipped.

Black. Bitter. Good. It fit my mood.

I leaned forward and set it with a soft click on the glass top of the coffee table.

My girlfriend nestled up against me, her own mug cupped in both hands. She kissed my shoulder and I glanced down into her face.

"So..." she murmured, her lips curling into a sly grin. "Any plans for the morning?" She took a sip, eyes far too wide and innocent.

"I'm actually just about to head out." I stood, too abruptly. I bumped the coffee table. The dark liquid sloshed and spilled over onto the glass. "Shit..." I shook my head, swearing softly under my breath. "Just a sec." I strode to the kitchen, grabbed a couple paper towels and returned. "I'm sorry," I muttered, not looking at my girlfriend as I wiped at the spill.

Julia was watching me carefully, her brows furrowed and a look of hurt and confusion in her eyes.

I swallowed, glanced away. I sniffed. "Well..." I picked up my mug, still mostly full, and carried it into the kitchen. The bitter flavor was suddenly harsh on my tongue. It twisted in my empty stomach. I dumped the rest of the cup down the sink. I glanced back over at the couch.

My girlfriend was still watching.

"I'm going to head to the gym," I said. With the new job and all, I hadn't had time to reintegrate working out into my schedule.

Julia narrowed her eyes. "Is something wrong, Mitch?"

I knew her tone wasn't suspicious, just concerned, but I had to control the urge to flinch and grimace. "Of course not, babe. Just antsy." I gave her a smile that I hoped looked slightly normal. It felt like a sickly mask on my face. My stomach churned with burning guilt.

"Okay..." She blew out a sigh and glanced away, tugging her phone from the pocket of her lounge pants. She glanced at it, then back up at me. "It's still pretty early. And I don't have anything to do today. I'll probably be here when you get back. If you want to do something..." But the teasing tone of invitation was gone from her voice.

I nodded, swallowed past the tightness in my throat. "Yeah, that sounds great."

I escaped.

* * *

My feet pounded out a dull rhythm on the treadmill, slower than my usual pace. I wasn't really here for a workout. I was here to think. To think and to get away. The pounding of my wordless EDM running music drowned out the rest of the world. I focused on my churning legs.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three four.

I counted it out. Mathematics. My safe place. Even just a small infusion of order in the chaos.

What the hell is wrong with you, Mitch? I demanded. One, two, three four. First, you cheat on your girlfriend with a student. Then you cheat on your girlfriend with a student again. ... two, three, four. You're teaching better than you ever have in your life and yet apparently using your brain less than ever.

I'd been mulling it over last night, lying awake next to a slumbering Julia, and I'd come to a conclusion. The sensation of focus and concentration that I had been feeling during my classes, the flow state that had excited me so much, wasn't real. It was fake, an illusion, somehow... It was too good to be true.

And then, I continued. Then you're physically unable to confess, unable to ask for her forgiveness or beg her for advice.

And that was what scared me. No matter what I tried — and I hadn't given up easily last night — as soon as I started to talk about what had happened at the Academy it was like my vocal cords betrayed me. If I tried to write a note, my hands froze.

One, two, three, four.

Three miles. Four miles. Just for a few minutes, I let my thoughts slip away. The slow, steady addition of steps to my run made sense. Five miles, and I hit the Cool Down button.

The treadmill groaned, then began to slow. As I gently came to a stop, I shook my head and paused my music. I blew out a breath. My face was slick with sweat, my hair falling into my eyes. I pushed it back.

You need to figure this out, Mitch. If you thought Denton was bad, this is ten times worse. At least with that whole fiasco you had Jules to lean on. Now... My throat was dry when I swallowed. I tried to imagine losing Julia and I felt my stomach wrench.

No... I couldn't let that happen. Then you know what to do. I nodded, filled my lungs, squared my shoulders. I had to figure out what was going on. And I had to put a stop to it.

Afterwards... I turned and eyed the weight room. Yes. That was a method of dealing with tension that I knew I could trust. Because I could trust myself. Couldn't I?

At the end of the day, lifting weights is just about numbers. In a workout, I might lift thousands of pounds. But that weight was broken down into individual pieces, an accumulation of divisions so that my relatively weak human body can handle the overall load. Each rep just adds to my overall total. Each set is just another piece of arithmetic. And a sharp, strong physique is the output at the end of the function.

I slid the thick, metal plates onto the bar at the nearest bench press, wondering why I wasn't freaking out. This isn't normal, Mitch. You know it isn't... My body was failing to obey my explicit orders, and instead of flipping out my response was to spill some coffee and head to the gym.

I shrugged. I slid under the weight and lifted it easily into the air. I pushed out some warmup reps, then lowered the bar back down into its rack. It settled in with a heavy, satisfying solidity. I pushed myself out from under and went to add more weight.

I turned the problem over and over in my mind. The problem is at the Academy, that much is obvious. I nodded to myself, hefted a 45-pound disk and added it to the bar. And... The realization struck me with the force of an obvious truth. There's no way that it's happening on accident.

I grimaced, added the second disk to balance the other side of the bar. And if it isn't an accident, then Principal Clayton is the obvious source. After all, he's the one who made me sign the NDA.

I double checked the weights, making sure they were even as I took a few slow breaths. So weird. What is it that he wouldn't want me talking about? What would he possibly have to gain by keeping me extremely calm and mute? And how?! It's not like he has some secret magical powers to just take away my normal emotional responses. And yet... I still couldn't get riled up. Even though I had determined that my employer was fucking with me, my mind, and my relationship with Julia.

Instead, I eyed the weights. 225 pounds. A respectable number. 45 times 5.

It was like there was a disconnect between my brain and my body, preventing my heartrate from increasing, preventing my breaths from becoming shallow and panicked. My mind raced and my body maintained a semblance of calm. I laid back on the bench, lowered the bar down onto my chest, pushed it back up into the air.

But it doesn't make any sense!

I scowled, lowered the bar, pressed it up. And again. And again. My arms began to burn. I was pushing myself, trying to find a limit. More mathematics. I needed to be logical about this. Everything manmade has a logic to it, in the end, I reminded myself. To someone... I just need to find the building blocks. I need to figure out what problem they're trying to fix, what equation they're trying to solve.

The bar came down to my chest and stayed there.

I grunted, felt the weight pressing down heavily on my sternum and remembered why you shouldn't chase limits without a little bit of help. I strained, failed, then turned my head side to side. My view was partly obscured by my angle and the weights, but I hoped to catch the eye of a helpful stranger or gym employee.

"Need a spot?" The voice was feminine, smooth and a little amused. I couldn't see very well upside down, just a pair of brightly-patterned leggings.

I nodded vigorous acknowledgement and a pair of slim hands entered my field of vision. "I can't help much," I wheezed. My arms felt like rubber. Was this random female passerby going to be able to help me lift this much weight?

There was the soft huff of a laugh. Then, a low grunt from behind me. I strained, doing my best to help, and then the weight was away and up with a soft clatter into its normal resting place.

I rolled up into a sitting position.

I took a few ragged breaths, felt my racing pulse. Even though you usually aren't in any real danger, the feeling of being trapped beneath a heavy object is a primal one. It makes your heart pump faster, adrenaline floods your system, and all your muscles are primed to lift and push and move the thing away.

My mind took note, analyzed. So I guess I have a normal stress response, I mused. Just not when it comes to... Even just thinking of the Academy, I felt myself growing calmer, my thoughts smoothing out. I let air fill my lungs, sighed it all out in a low, smooth stream. Fucking odd.

I turned around to thank my anonymous helper.

"You good?" She was attractive, no doubt about it. Her slim physique was toned just the right amount, her body wrapped in those leggings and a matching sports bra. The bra was tight, restraining breasts that were obviously larger than average. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which swung to one side as she cocked her head at me slightly and raised an eyebrow.

But I didn't feel anything. My emotions were mellow. The usual 'I have a girlfriend' thought had flashed through my mind, and I didn't feel any particular urge to check out this random stranger.

I nodded. "Thanks."

"No problem." The stranger gave me a nod in return, her pretty features neutral, and then walked away.

I did resist the urge to check out her ass as she left, then noticed myself resisting. I chewed thoughtfully at the inside of my cheek and thought about how unable I had been to resist my student. The angry demon of guilt, having been momentarily forgotten, clawed once again at my mind.

Is that the Academy as well? My inability to resist ... I sighed. I hunched forward, elbows on my knees, and ground my palms into my face. Nothing was making sense. Even my own mind and emotions were turning against me, and I didn't understand why.

I straightened. "Well..." I muttered quietly to myself. I rolled my shoulders. "Then you're just going to have to solve it."

* * *

It's not drugs.

I was still musing when I got home, parking the car in the garage and taking the elevator up to our floor. I usually tried to take the stairs, but I was just too exhausted. Physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted.

I forced my mind to trawl back through all the memories I had of the Academy. When did things first start to go strange? And why didn't I notice immediately?

Something interesting happens when you look closely at your recollections of the past. At first, like a frustrating equation, it seems like everything is vague and difficult to navigate. But then, as you stare at it, things start to come into focus. Things rearrange themselves into a recognizable form.

I remembered my initial talks with Principal Clayton.

Nothing strange there, as far as I could tell.

He knew things about you, I reminded myself. He made references to Denton like he knew about it. But no. I'd made no attempt to hide that particular incident on my resume. Besides, he would have found out everything he wanted to know when he called my previous employer.

I paused outside the front door to the apartment. Then, sighing, I fished for my key and went inside.

Julia wasn't home.

I knew it as soon as I walked through the door. The apartment had an empty feeling to it, and I knew it was my fault. I was acting weird, and it had upset her. I shook my head.

You can't worry about that, Mitch, I told myself. I ignored the rising guilt, shame and sadness that threatened to break through my focus. You can't. I forced myself to walk into the bedroom and drop my gym bag on the bed.

I pulled my sweaty tee shirt over my head and slid open the sliding door to the closet so I could toss it into the hamper. I walked into the bathroom, stared at myself in the mirror. I looked into my eyes and I saw the raging chaos that threatened to overwhelm my composure if I slipped.

"You can't worry about Julia, now," I ordered myself. I stared into my face, willing myself to understand. "The only way out is through. You have to get through this... this... this fucking situation as quickly as possible. Then, maybe, you'll be able to explain. It's the only way, Mitch."

My face was twisted into a frozen, stoic mask. My eyes were dark and dull. I felt dull. I shook my head. "No time to feel sorry for yourself, either," I commanded. "You're going to man up, solve this problem and then get things back in order."

I swallowed, took a deep breath, and jerked my chin in a nod.

"Good man."

I turned on the shower, stripped out of the rest of my workout gear, turned on my phone's stopwatch and then tested the water. Perfect. This was going to be a long one.

In the course of my life, I've learned that some mathematics problems simply require me to sit by myself and think. Others, trickier ones, require a pencil and paper so I can write out ideas, follow trajectories of thought and then discard them if they prove useless. Finally, there are shower problems.

In grad school, which I entered to at the tender age of 19, I had once encountered an assignment that required an 87-minute shower marathon. I had come out with wrinkly skin and a wide grin.

The Academy problem was another lengthy journey.

When I finally emerged, I dried off and wrapped the towel around my waist. I crossed the tile and tapped my stopwatch to a halt.

36 minutes and change. Not as bad as I'd expected.

Barefoot, I crossed the bedroom and scooped up my satchel. I took it to the couch, propped my feet up on the coffee table, and then took out my laptop. I flipped it open and pursed my lips.

I had a couple ideas I needed to chase down.

* * *

Thank you for your interest in LucidSpecs. If you are a new customer, we must unfortunately inform you that our products are no longer available for public purchase. If you are a returning customer, please log in with your username, password and PIN.

I stared at the screen, then reached up and adjusted my glasses. LudicSpecs was the company that sold them. Now, apparently, they were catering to a different clientele.

It was the kind of coincidence that was too inconvenient to be a coincidence.

I frowned, took off the glasses, turned them this way and that in my fingers. I'd bought them two years ago, and they'd been the best pair of glasses I'd ever purchased. They took the strain off my eyes, looked stylish, and were so comfortable that I often forgot they were there.

I gently settled them back onto my nose.

"Alright," I muttered, and tried to piece things together.

For some reason, my glasses were triggering Natalie. That was the only word I could think of that made any sort of sense.

99% of the time, Natalie was a normal, even an exceptional, student. She treated me with deference and respect, and engaged with the course and our material with enthusiasm. Then, the final 1% of the time...

She's just as enthusiastic, but about something else entirely.

My mind started to wander and I clamped down. She acts different, I told myself, and tried to ignore the prickling sensation of heat in my chest. My face felt hot, and I wondered if I was blushing. "Get ahold of yourself," I muttered, tightening my jaw. I pointed my mind back toward the problem, redirecting it from the lurid fantasy it was beginning to envision.

The difference was so big that it was like Natalie was two different people at once, the second hiding behind the first. Which brought us back to the glasses. I remembered something I'd read once, or heard, in one of my few university psychology classes. I had taken them for easy General Education requirements.

I opened up a new tab and ran a quick search. I scrolled, clicked a promising link and began to read. About a quarter of the way into the article, I paused. I blew out a long, slow sigh.

"Post-hypnotic triggers can be auditory, visual or even sensual cues. They could take the form of a spoken word or phrase, an image, a touch or even a particular place and time."

The article continued, but I had taken off my glasses again and glanced away from the screen, tapping them against my lips thoughtfully. Post-hypnotic triggers...

I felt another sensation of excitement, but this one was one I embraced. It was a feeling I recognized, a gut instinct that told me I was onto something.

Post-hypnotic triggers... Hypnotic triggers... Hypnotism...

My mind twitched and an image flashed in my mind. Swirling stars and a man wearing my glasses. I shook my head. It seemed fantastical. Impossible.

Not impossible, the rational part of my mind corrected. Just highly improbable.

So... what? I retorted. One of Natalie's professors is hypnotizing her? So that when she sees him and his glasses she turns into a nymphomaniac? I shook my head and ignored the small, lustful part of my mind that commented, Wouldn't you do that to her, if you could?

I took a deep breath and forced myself back to the article. Then, I followed links to others. There was a lot I needed to learn before Monday.

Maybe it had happened to Natalie, I thought. But how had it happened to me?

* * *

The front door swung closed with a dull thud.

I jerked upright and swung my head around, then settled back down as I saw my girlfriend enter. She was wearing running clothes — a loose tank top, sports bra and clingy black yoga pants. Her peppy running shoes, pink and yellow and blue, padded quietly across the floor and into the kitchen. I heard the sink running, filling a glass of water.

If she noticed me or my reaction she didn't acknowledge it, and when she turned her head I saw the wireless earbud in her ear.

I closed my laptop. "Hey, Jules." I raised my voice a little, and Julia glanced my way.

She raised her eyebrows, held up a finger. "One sec," she muttered. She tapped the earbuds, pausing her music, and then nodded at me. "Alright," she said. "What's up?" She sauntered halfway around the counter and then leaned over against it.

I tried to ignore the dull sensation of sadness in my chest at her tone. She sounded tired and unwilling to engage. I nodded at the couch next to me. "Sit with me?" I asked. "Only for a second." I smiled hopefully but her expression stayed neutral.

She shrugged. "You want to talk now, or something?"

I glanced down at the floor. I realized that, as much as I wanted to, I couldn't just keep putting Julia off. I might be in a crazy, insane, off-the-wall situation, but she had a stressful life, too. I needed to be better. She's a freaking doctor, I told myself. And how often do you hear her complaining? Most of the time I didn't even know how she managed it.