Page 64 of Return to Sender
Her assessment stings because it contains truth I prefer not to acknowledge. “We are perfect together,” I state with certainty backed by extensive observational data. “But yes. I want external validation of what we both know to be true.”
“Then we should probably practice,” she points out with characteristic pragmatism that makes my blood redirect away from higher cognitive functions. “You know, for mission success.”
The suggestion triggers immediate physiological responses. My hands tighten on her waist while my patterns shift toward the deeper blues that indicate arousal and anticipation. “Practice is always advisable for optimal performance outcomes.”
“Especially when the mission involves synchronized climaxing,” she continues with mock seriousness that does nothing to diminish the impact of her words on my increasingly compromised composure. “That requires very specific skill sets.”
“Very specific,” I agree, my voice roughening as she begins to move against me in subtle rhythms that make logical thought increasingly difficult. “And extensive coordination.”
“The kind of coordination that can only be achieved through dedicated training,” she elaborates, already beginning to move against me with deliberate intent that makes my academic terminology feel ridiculous.
“Dedicated, thorough, comprehensive training,” I confirm, my hands sliding up to cup her breasts with practiced expertise. Thefamiliar weight and warmth triggers cascading neurochemical responses that make clinical discussion impossible.
Her response is immediate and gratifying—a soft gasp as my thumbs find her nipples through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt, already peaked with arousal. The knowledge that she wants this as much as I do creates a feedback loop of desire that makes my previous attempts at emotional regulation seem laughably inadequate.
“Show me,” she whispers against my throat, her breath warm and inviting. “Show me how you plan to make me come apart in front of alien technology.”
The challenge in her voice triggers competitive instincts that override any remaining professional detachment. She wants to see what I’m capable of when I stop analyzing and start demonstrating. Very well.
I rise smoothly, lifting her with me, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically as I carry her toward our bed with newfound confidence in my ability to reduce my brilliant, challenging wife to incoherent satisfaction.
“I plan,” I say with the same precision I use for tactical analysis, “to use every advantage my anatomy provides to ensure you achieve multiple climaxes while maintaining perfect synchronization with my own responses.”
The clinical description makes her laugh, breathless and delighted. “Every advantage?”
“Every advantage,” I confirm, settling her on the bed with careful control before beginning to remove her clothing with systematic thoroughness. “My superior stamina, my ridged anatomy designed for optimal stimulation, my prehensile appendages capable of simultaneous multi-point stimulation.”
Each piece of clothing removed reveals more of her perfect skin, already flushed with arousal and marked with fading evidence of our earlier activities. The sight triggers primitivesatisfaction that she bears my marks, my scent, proof of my claim on her body.
“Multi-point stimulation,” she repeats, arching beneath my touch as I map familiar territory with newfound confidence. “That sounds very... comprehensive.”
“Extremely comprehensive,” I agree, settling between her thighs with predatory satisfaction. “Beginning with thorough preparation to ensure optimal responsiveness.”
What follows represents the complete application of everything I’ve learned about her body, her responses, her preferences. No clinical detachment, no analytical distance—just focused attention on reducing my wife to trembling, gasping satisfaction using every technique I’ve discovered drives her beyond rational thought.
I begin with my mouth, using lips and tongue and carefully applied suction to bring her to the first peak while monitoring her responses with scientific precision applied to entirely unscientific purposes. Her taste, her scent, the way she moves beneath my attention—all contribute to feedback loops that enhance both her pleasure and my own growing arousal.
When she comes with my name on her lips, back arched and hands fisted in my hair, I don’t stop. The mission requires synchronized climax, which means I need to understand exactly how many peaks she can achieve before we reach the point where coordination becomes possible.
“Wi’kar,” she gasps as I continue my attentions, adding careful penetration with one finger while maintaining oral stimulation. “What are you—oh.”
“Research,” I explain against her sensitive flesh, feeling her internal muscles flutter around my finger as I locate the precise angle that makes her breath catch. “Comprehensive baseline measurements.”
The addition of a second finger, combined with strategic use of my ridged thumb against her most sensitive point, brings her to the second peak within minutes. This time she sobs my name, her body clenching around my fingers with rhythmic contractions that make my own need almost painful.
“Two,” I announce with satisfaction, withdrawing slowly while she trembles through the aftershocks. “Excellent responsiveness parameters.”
“Parameters,” she pants, staring at me with wide eyes and thoroughly disheveled hair. “You’re conducting an experiment on my orgasms.”
“I’m optimizing our synchronization potential,” I correct, positioning myself above her while she recovers enough for phase two of our research. “The ceremony requires sustained coordination. I need to understand your full response range.”
The explanation is both accurate and insufficient. What I really want is to demonstrate my mastery of her body, to prove that my reserved professional facade conceals capabilities that exceed her expectations. Competitive pride mixed with possessive satisfaction in uniquely potent combination.
“Sustained coordination,” she echoes, reaching up to trace the patterns across my chest with fingers that make my control waver. “How sustained?”
“The cultural briefing suggests ceremonies can last several hours,” I inform her while positioning myself for penetration, my body already responding to her touch with embarrassing enthusiasm. “With multiple synchronization points required for successful completion.”
“Several hours,” she repeats with obvious anticipation that makes my patterns pulse brighter. “Of sustained... coordination.”
