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“That is certainly something to consider, but at a later date,” Will admitted.After enough time had passed for the sodium pentothal to wear off, the three men decided to go back into the training room and check on Darla. The teen looked at the three men through tear-filled eyes and begged, “Please, just let me go. I swear that I will not tell anyone that I was here. I just want to go home and forget that I was ever here.”“I am afraid that is not possible now. You are going to be staying with us and we are going to get to know you very intimately,” Will told the teen.“Oh God no! Please! You can’t. I’ve never...,” Darla cried out while Dr. Penning took a pair of scissors that he had brought from his office. Starting at the bottom of the teen’s pull-over knit top, he cut it all the way up to her neck. She frantically pulled at her restraints as Will laid open her top; revealing her bra, that barely contained her breasts as she struggled. Helpless to defend herself, big tears were rolling. He craved human touch. He needed the touch of a woman as a thirsty man needs water. He was slowly withering away in his abstract wonderland of intellectual delights.Then he discovered Sassanid Dynasty love poetry.The translations couldn't do it justice. Learning the old Persian dialects had posed no great difficulties for an accomplished language afficionado. The poetry, in its primordial, untranslated version, rang as clearly as a bell in the empty cathedral of his heart.His previous attempts to approach women had invariably ended in disaster. They either laughed or totally ignored him. In the shark-infested waters of the dating market, a balding middle-aged professor is dead meat.But the poetry, ah, those magic syllables, that hypnotic rhythm.Some crazy impulse made him walk into a dance club. The Snakepit was a maelstrom of drifting blue cigarette smoke, mirrors, flashing multicolored lights, and loud heavy metal music that made meaningful conversation superfluous. He sat down at a.
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