Sometimes I work too hard. I stay up late pouring over my notes. I’m so close to a breakthrough that I’m sure I’m missing something in plain sight. The smallest algorithmic error. An obvious biochemical oversight even an undergrad would catch. But no matter how hard I work, my Clara, my sweet, ever-patient Clara, reminds me who I do these things for. She brings me a tomato sandwich when I forget to eat, a glass of brandy when I’m high-strung. On some occasions, when my tunnel vision becomes especially narrow, Clara will walk into my lab wearing nothing more than a short black robe. Then she’ll take my hand, nod, and pull me gingerly toward our bedroom.
“You’ll have it soon,” she said in bed one night, half asleep with one leg draped across mine.
My darling Clara, her voice so understanding, her lips parted every so slightly at rest. I brushed my hand across her dark hair and made a promise I perhaps shouldn’t have.
“One week,” I said.
She lifted her head from my chest, suddenly awake.
“That soon?” she smiled.
“Well, I believe so,” I said, immediately eager to walk back my estimate. “It would mean an intense week. Sleepless nights. And even then there’s a possibility the neural interface won’t connect, or the hibernation bath will freeze. Or overheat. And there’s myself to consider. I’ll need to drink enough coffee, but also not forget water, and—”
It was too late. Already counting down the days, Clara pulled me on top of her for the second time that night.
All week I checked and rechecked metrics. The oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon levels were all steady. Same with calcium and phosphorus. I brought in two crates of bananas since potassium was a little low, but correcting this issue didn’t solve the broader problem.
I thought maybe it was a power shortage, that the initial spark just needed more juice. One early morning I drove around town stealing batteries from parked cars. I collected a baker’s dozen in this way, and when I got home I took the battery from my own car and lugged it inside without even closing the hood. The extra power seemed to help. I thought I even heard the faintest thump of a heartbeat. But time and again my computer monitors would flash red, an emergency shutdown would cause a neighborhood blackout, and I’d be left in the dark with only the sounds of dogs barking in the distance.
All week I slept in my lab and woke to find a tray of fresh coffee and muffins left on my desk.
A week came and went and I had no more to show for my work. At midnight of that final night I was asleep, my head resting on an open anatomy book. Clara shook me gently. “Let’s go to bed,” she said, and I nodded.
She led me into the bedroom wearing that same robe. Black silk with a white floral print, barely long enough to reach her thighs. With only the moonlight through the curtains, she began to unbutton my shirt.
“Another week,” I mumbled, half-asleep. “Maybe two.”
“My brilliant, Harry,” she whispered sympathetically. She undid my pants, let them fall to the floor, but instead of guiding me to the bed, she lowered me into our wingback chair. Where she typically sat to slip on her shoes. She held my hands against the chair arms and leaned down to kiss me softly. Her hair shone in the moonlight and smelled of hibiscus. My patient, darling wife. And from there, the night becomes more Clara’s story than mine.
She told me later that she felt my hands begin to slide up her thighs as she leaned over more to kiss my chest. That my hands rose higher and higher until they met the hem of her robe. That I lifted the robe in my fingertips and rested it carefully against her lower back. Except, she realized then, both of my hands were still pinned to the chair. She stopped kissing as she approached my navel, as she felt a hard shaft against her ass, sliding slowly up and down between her cheeks. “Harry,” she whispered. The shaft began to slide inside of her. I felt her squeeze my wrists. “Harry,” she moaned quietly. She leaned over further. “Harry,” she moaned again, slightly louder.
In my drowsy state, I began to hear a rhythmic pounding. It grew faster and louder. Her third moan, deep and urgent, brought me fully awake. I opened my eyes to see a reflection of myself. My chest, my shoulder, unmistakably my face, panting behind Clara.
“Harry, you’ve done it!” she moaned. She took my cock in her hand and pulled me into her mouth. Read more »