Page 28 of Alien Attachment (You’ve Got Alien Mail #2)
The poetic comparison sends warmth through circuits I did not know existed, emotional processing centers that respond to beauty, to art, to being seen as something more than functional design.
No one has ever described my physiological responses as beautiful before.
The technicians who created me catalogued them clinically—bioluminescent displays indicating emotional arousal, bioelectric generation for various practical applications, tactile sensitivity optimized for bonding compatibility.
But Kaylee sees art where they saw mere function, wonder where they saw specifications.
“You are my constellation,” I tell her, meaning every word while simultaneously discovering that the sensitive spot just below her ear responds remarkably well to gentle bioelectric stimulation. “My guide star in the darkness. My North Star.”
She kisses me again, softer this time but with an intensity that speaks of deeper currents, and through our bond flows something more profound than desire—affection, gratitude, the beginning of what humans call love.
The emotion is so powerful it makes my secondary heart stutter in its rhythm, and my bioluminescence flares bright enough to make her blink in surprise.
“We should discuss our next destination,” I say without much conviction, even as my tendrils continue their increasingly creative exploration of her rapidly warming skin.
One appendage has discovered the remarkable sensitivity of her inner wrist, another is investigating the acoustics involved in finding the precise pressure to make her breath catch, and a third has somehow located the spot where her neck meets her shoulder that seems directly connected to every other sensitive area of her body.
“Absolutely,” she agrees, making no effort to disengage from our current activities while her own hands conduct what could generously be termed reconnaissance of my chest and shoulders.
“Very important. Strategic planning is... is essential for...” Her voice trails off as I demonstrate a particularly effective application of bioelectric pulse patterns.
“Resource allocation,” I add helpfully, finding the sensitive spot at the base of her throat that makes her gasp and arch against me with gratifying enthusiasm.
“Supply assessment,” she manages, though her voice is becoming increasingly breathless and her strategic planning seems to involve removing my shirt entirely, which I assist with by carefully coordinating my tendrils to facilitate the process.
“Threat analysis,” I continue, while simultaneously conducting a very different kind of analysis involving the fascinating way her pulse quickens when I apply gentle bioelectric stimulation to specific nerve clusters, the optimal pressure required to make her say my name in that particular breathless tone, and the precise combination of touches that makes her body curve against mine like she was designed specifically for this purpose.
“You’re very thorough,” she observes, though her tone suggests she finds my thoroughness entirely appropriate and possibly insufficient to her current requirements.
“I was designed for precision,” I inform her seriously, demonstrating said precision by finding three additional sensitive areas in rapid succession—behind her ear, along her collarbone, and the particularly responsive spot where her ribs meet her sternum that makes her make that soft sound of surprise and pleasure that’s rapidly becoming my favorite noise in the known galaxy.
What follows is less conversation than a series of increasingly creative justifications for continued close contact while we theoretically plan our escape route.
Kaylee proves remarkably inventive in finding strategic reasons for removing various articles of clothing—apparently her jacket is interfering with optimal temperature regulation, her shirt represents a potential hazard in the confined space, and her undergarments are clearly incompatible with emergency evacuation protocols.
Meanwhile, I discover new applications for my bioelectric capabilities that were definitely not covered in my original programming but seem to produce extremely positive results based on Kaylee’s increasingly enthusiastic responses.
The ability to generate precisely calibrated electrical pulses, it turns out, has applications far beyond ship system integration.
Who knew that neural pathway stimulation could be recreational rather than merely functional?
“This is still inadvisable,” I point out sometime later, though my observation lacks conviction given that I’m currently demonstrating the remarkable versatility of tentacle coordination while Kaylee explores the fascinating relationship between bioelectric sensitivity and various forms of manual stimulation.
“Completely irresponsible,” she agrees breathlessly, though her actions suggest she finds irresponsibility highly appealing under current circumstances, particularly when combined with what she terms my “unfair advantages” in the area of multitasking.
“We have limited resources,” I observe with academic interest, while privately noting that what we are currently doing requires no external resources beyond enthusiasm, creativity, and the increasingly impressive flexibility she’s demonstrating in working around the pod’s spatial constraints.
“Very limited,” she confirms, proving that human adaptability is truly remarkable when properly motivated, especially when combined with alien biology specifically designed for intimate compatibility.
The escape pod’s environmental systems hum around us, maintaining optimal life support while we conduct what could generously be termed advanced interpersonal relationship development.
But what begins as playful exploration quickly becomes something far more intense when I realize the full extent of what our bond allows me to feel—not just her responses, but how to orchestrate them with precision that borders on the supernatural.
“Let me show you what I can really do,” I murmur against her throat, and feel her pulse spike with anticipation.
My tendrils map her body with methodical thoroughness, finding every sensitive spot while my bioelectric capabilities allow me to stimulate nerve clusters she didn’t even know existed.
When I trace the line from her hip to her inner thigh with gentle electrical pulses, she gasps and arches against me.
When I find the sweet spot where her neck meets her shoulder and apply the perfect combination of pressure and bioelectric stimulation, she makes a sound that goes straight to my core.
“Jhorn,” she breathes, but I’m just getting started.
Through our bond, I can feel exactly what each touch does to her—the spike of pleasure when I find a particularly sensitive area, the building tension as I deliberately avoid the places she most wants me to touch, the delicious frustration that makes her try to guide my hands where she needs them.
“Patience,” I tell her, my voice rougher now as her mounting arousal feeds back through our connection. “I want to memorize every response, catalog every sound you make.”
I use three tendrils to hold her exactly where I want her while my hands explore with deliberate slowness.
When I finally slide my fingers between her thighs, she’s already slick with need, and the feedback through our bond nearly overwhelms my processing centers.
Her pleasure becomes mine, but magnified, shared, amplified back to her in an endless loop.
“More,” she demands, trying to move against my hand, but I control the pace completely.
“When I decide you’re ready,” I reply, adding a gentle bioelectric pulse that makes her cry out. “I can feel everything you feel, Kaylee. I know exactly how close you are, exactly what you need. And right now, what you need is to let me take you apart slowly.”
I build her pleasure methodically, using every advantage my alien physiology provides.
Tendrils that can stimulate multiple points simultaneously.
Bioelectric capabilities that let me send waves of sensation directly through her nervous system.
And most importantly, our bond that tells me precisely when to increase pressure, when to back off, when to find a new spot that makes her whole body tremble.
When I finally let her peak—holding her against me with careful strength while bioelectric pulses synchronized with her climax send her into territory she’s never experienced—the feedback through our bond is so intense it threatens to overload my sensory processing entirely.
Her pleasure becomes mine, amplified and returned, creating cascading loops of sensation that transform our cramped escape pod into something approaching paradise.
But I’m not done with her yet.
“Again,” I command softly, already building toward her next release before the first has fully subsided. Through our bond, I can feel that she’s hypersensitive now, every touch magnified. Perfect.
When she’s finally trembling and oversensitive from multiple climaxes, I shift our positions carefully in the confined space. “My turn,” I growl against her ear, and her immediate response—the way her hands reach for me with desperate eagerness—sends satisfaction through my bond-lines.
She takes me with an enthusiasm that borders on worship, her mouth and hands working in coordination that suggests she’s been thinking about this as much as I have.
When I finally claim her completely, sliding into her slick heat while my tendrils maintain contact with every sensitive spot I’ve mapped, the combination of physical sensation and emotional feedback through our bond threatens to shatter my consciousness entirely.