Yvette Nguyen, in callisthenic mode, is a mesmerizing marvel. Programmed to complete a pre-planned regimen, she is thorough to a fault—that fault being a metronomic tempo, monotonous and mechanical:

respiration measured

heartbeat strictly monitored

energy output gauged.

Automaton-like, robotic, she performs without emotion—without awareness, possibly—but not without sensation. Flush from staid exertion, awash in glossy sweat, her flawless flesh exudes explicit physicality—provocative for anyone enamored of form over substance, body over mind, beauty over acumen. Rockefeller, ashamed of his lust for an empty-headed vessel, tempers his embarrassment with an action-plan benign: damage done by the father, by the son will be repaired; faculties disengaged, given time, will be reconnected. To this end, he resolves, days, weeks, months, years if necessary will be devoted. 'Selflessly', he adds, admiring the texture of set-in-motion limbs, arms employed in a rowing exercise, thighs and calves extended, flexed, extended, knees apart, feet set in stirrups, crotch proceeding out and in aligned with Rockefeller's shift to an advantageous site, rude were it detected, perpendicular to the vertex on its rhythmic to and fro, now closer, farther, looming large, diminishing, near enough to nuzzle, or, if he tilts his head a trifle forward, near enough to kiss, albeit fleetingly, yet repeatedly, each advance a provocation, each retreat a mute rebuff:

she looms / recedes

she looms / recedes

the oars are handles

merely mock-ups
that she squeezes
pushes / pulls
and
with a subtle
shiver
ships

her humid labia poised an inch beyond his injudicious pucker—if unapprised of said proximity, ill-equipped to grant consent or issue protest should he close the gap, engulf defeneless tissue, foist desire upon a subject more an object much abused by her existence as a lab rat cum experimental sample from whom ovum have been gathered, stem cells harvested, chromosomes reaped without the least concern for vestiges of Yvette Nguyen's humanity—once more on the verge of suffering exploitation, molestation should his mouth encroach, make contact, should his tongue carouse, caress, engage what hitherto has been a portal for the exchange of wastes and nutrients, a speculum-dilated shaft from which genome could be mined, a conduit more than an organ unaccustomed to feeling pleasure, titillation, or arousal grown intense because of something wet and tender infiltrating parts, torturing them with flicks of excruciating gentleness, ticklish yet endurable, soothing yet intense, heightening sensitivity to an almost painful threshold that, of a sudden, crests with an overwhelming surge as if her body has been tapped, its liquid centre siphoned, non-stop spasms spreading to extremities in peristaltic waves, Rockefeller's self-restraint, annulled now reinstated, making sure that she not he breathes the orgiastic sigh.