Page 65 of Return to Sender
“Of sustained, intensive, comprehensive coordination,” I confirm, entering her slowly while monitoring her responsesfor any sign of discomfort. Her body welcomes me with perfect accommodation, warm and slick and ideally suited for extended activities.
The sensation of being fully seated within her never loses its impact on my cognitive processes. Perfect fit, optimal pressure, ideal temperature—mathematical perfection translated into physical reality that makes clinical analysis impossible.
I begin to move with systematic precision, each thrust calculated to provide maximum stimulation while building toward the kind of synchronized response the mission will require. But clinical intent dissolves rapidly under the influence of her responses—the way she matches my rhythm automatically, the soft sounds of pleasure that encourage increasing intensity, the way her body seems designed specifically for mine.
“Show me,” she demands breathlessly, meeting each movement with her own while her hands map the shifting patterns across my skin. “Show me what strategic disorder looks like when you’re really trying.”
The challenge triggers something primitive and possessive that overrides my usual careful control. Strategic disorder. Very well.
I withdraw completely, ignoring her sound of protest, then lift her smoothly to position her on hands and knees while I kneel behind her. The new angle provides deeper penetration and allows access for additional stimulation techniques that should prove... educational.
“Strategic disorder,” I agree, one hand settling on her hip while the other traces down her spine with deliberate possession. “Involving creative application of available advantages.”
The first thrust from this angle makes her cry out with surprise and pleasure, the deeper penetration clearly hitting sensitiveareas that our previous position hadn’t accessed as effectively. But I’m not finished with my demonstration.
My prehensile lower appendage, previously reserved for stabilization, wraps around her to provide strategic stimulation to her most sensitive point while I maintain the deeper rhythm she’s responding to so gratifyingly. The dual stimulation makes her gasp my name with the kind of desperation that feeds directly into primitive masculine satisfaction.
“Oh,” she manages, voice breaking as I coordinate the dual stimulation with increasingly confident precision. “Oh, that’s—Wi’kar, I can’t—”
“You can,” I assure her with complete confidence, increasing both tempo and pressure while monitoring her responses for signs of approaching climax. “Comprehensive stimulation designed for optimal outcomes.”
The clinical terminology provides useful emotional distance from the reality that I am systematically driving my wife toward explosive satisfaction using every advantage my anatomy provides. Professional research with deeply unprofessional motivations.
Her third orgasm builds quickly under the sustained dual stimulation, her body trembling with the effort of remaining upright while I methodically dismantle her composure. When she finally reaches the peak, crying out with incoherent satisfaction, her internal contractions nearly trigger my own release.
Nearly. But the mission requires coordination, not sequential satisfaction.
I withdraw carefully, ignoring her protesting whimper, and guide her to lie back while I position myself above her for the final phase of our research. This time, when I enter her oversensitive body, I maintain eye contact while coordinatingmy movements with the subtle rhythm of her still-fluttering internal muscles.
“Now,” I instruct with barely controlled intensity, “we practice synchronization.”
What follows represents the complete application of everything I’ve learned about timing, about reading her responses, about the precise moment when her body begins the cascade toward climax. I coordinate my own responses to match hers, building toward simultaneous release with the same precision I apply to tactical analysis.
When she reaches the fourth peak, I time my own release to coincide perfectly with hers, the sensation of synchronized orgasm creating neurochemical feedback loops that amplify pleasure beyond normal parameters. Our bond flares so brightly during peak sensation that for several seconds I lose the ability to distinguish between my responses and hers.
The experience suggests that Joid’orian crystal technology might actually detect something measurable during such moments of complete synchronization.
“Well,” Dominique manages when coherent speech returns, wonderfully disheveled and glowing with post-climax satisfaction, “I think we can confidently say our synchronization protocols are functioning optimally.”
“Functioning optimally,” I agree with deep satisfaction, noting the way my patterns pulse in perfect rhythm with her heartbeat. “Though I believe additional practice sessions would be advisable before the actual ceremony.”
The suggestion is both logical and personally motivated. The Joid’orian ceremony will likely require sustained synchronization over extended periods, possibly with multiple coordination challenges. Adequate preparation could make the difference between diplomatic success and embarrassing failure.
“Additional practice,” she laughs, settling against my side with boneless contentment. “You realize we’re going to practice our way through half the galaxy?”
“Thorough preparation is essential for mission success,” I reply with perfect seriousness, though I acknowledge the humor in our situation. “And this particular mission requires unprecedented levels of... coordination.”
Three hours and extensive “baseline measurements” later, AXIS interrupts our continued research with a communication from Mother Morrison.
“Agent Wi’kar, Partner Dominique,” Mother’s gruff voice fills our quarters with characteristic efficiency, “I trust you’ve reviewed the Joid'oria Prime assignment briefing?”
“We are conducting comprehensive preparation protocols,” I respond with admirable composure, considering we are both still thoroughly disheveled and Dominique’s hair contains what appears to be evidence of my complete loss of control approximately forty-seven minutes ago.
“Preparation protocols,” Mother repeats with obvious amusement that suggests she understands exactly what our “preparation” involves. “Right. Well, try not to break anything during your... research. The Joid’orians are very particular about their ceremonies.”
“We will exercise appropriate caution,” I assure her with formal precision.
“And comprehensive technique,” Dominique adds helpfully, earning a look of fond exasperation that I hope Mother cannot detect through audio-only communication.
