“You’re insatiable,” I murmur, flattening my tongue against her sternum, tasting the sweat and sweetness of her.
“Me?” she pants. “You’re the one treating my whole nervous system like a laboratory. Like you’re…like you’re mapping it with your dick…”
“That’s because I am,” I admit. “And every result encourages further study.”
She laughs before grinding down just enough to make my hips twitch. I flex my fingers against her spine, then sweep them up into her curls, tugging on her hair as my other hand drifts lower to squeeze her ass.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Better.” She rolls her hips, bracing her hands against my chest. “Although…that may be because you’ve been inside me for—what, hours at this point?”
I glance at the clock. “When did you get here?”
“Around ten.”
It’s the middle of the night.
“Yes…hours,” I breathe.
She smiles at that, her lips curving against my skin. “Is this billable time? Should I put it in the expense report?”
I huff a laugh against her collarbone, shifting my hips. Her breath catches in response, the smallest flutter of her inner muscles around me pulling a soft groan from my throat.
“Donotlog this in your expense report,” I mumble, trailing my fingers up and down her spine again. “Though we may want to take some readings in the morning…make sure we’re monitoring your vitals when we do this again. Map where your nervous system lights up, what parts of the brain are sending signals…”
Her cunt clenches around me. “Jesus, talk dirty to me some more.”
I chuckle low against her throat, the sound vibrating through both our chests. "Oh, is that what does it for you? Cortical mapping and synaptic firing patterns?"
She moans softly. "Fuck yes. Especially when you say it like that. Sayneurotransmitter cascadenext."
I shift slightly inside her—enough to make her whimper again, but not enough to push her over. We’re riding the edge together, steeped in the afterglow but nowhere near done.
“Neurotransmitter cascade,” I whisper against her jaw, dragging my tongue along the delicate angle of it. “Triggered by sustained external stimulation and modulated through dopaminergic feedback. You’re soaked in it right now. I can smell it in your sweat.”
She trembles, nipples peaking against my chest. Her hips give a weak roll and I steady her with my hands again, stroking over her ribs, her waist, her hips—never letting the sensation settle in one place for too long.
“What do you think…” She pauses, feeling me, feelingus. “What do you think this means for the pain relief function of the translator?”
“It may need…” I thrust into her, and she gasps. “Various transmitter points. Language is not…gods…embodied like…like pain. Like pleasure. It’s symbolic—processed primarily in the left hemisphere. But this—what you’re feeling?—”
I slide one hand up to her nape, fingertips grazing the base of her skull.
“This is somatosensory. Limbic. Motor cortex. We’re not just rewriting input—we’re rerouting the entire signal chain.”
Her breath catches. She blinks, dazed, then whispers, “So it’s not a translator.”
I press a kiss to her temple. “Not in the linguistic sense, no. It’s a converter. Aneural transducer.Pain to pleasure. Or—at the very least—pain to…non-pain.”
“Because the body doesn’t distinguish them the way we think,” she murmurs, brows furrowing. “Same pathways. Shared receptors. That’s why the analgesia works. Why some peoplecome during labor. Why it’s always—fuck, Kaelion—always been a spectrum…”
She rocks against me, and I groan softly, tightening my arms around her as the pressure starts to build again.
“That’s why it’s too intense in one spot,” she gasps. “Because the pain memory is still there. The nociceptors are trained to expect hurt.”
“But when we stimulate a wider area,” I say, “we drown out the specificity. Engage the parasympathetic response. Trigger oxytocin, dopamine, even endogenous opioids…”
“God, you’re sexy when you talk about brain chemicals.”
