In Nana's Dream:
She was in a field of GIANT MACARONS. Pink ones, blue ones, purple ones—but the BIGGEST one was BLUE and it was ROLLING AWAY FROM HER.
"COME BACK!" she yelled, chasing it.
The blue macaron rolled faster, bouncing like a ball.
"I JUST WANT TO EAT YOU!"
Finally, it stopped. She dove for it, wrapping her arms around the giant blue macaron, and brought it to her mouth—
In Reality:
Zayne woke to the sensation of his wife LICKING his lower lip.
...
*Why is she— what is she— is she TASTING me?*
"Mmm... macaron..." Nana mumbled against his mouth, still asleep, SUCKING on his lower lip like it was candy.
* She's dreaming about macarons. And apparently I taste like one. This is simultaneously adorable and deeply concerning for my lip's structural integrity.*
He sighed (#859), but let her continue. She looked so peaceful, even while essentially making out with him in her sleep.
*Might as well enjoy this.*
Then her tongue slipped INTO his mouth.
His eyes widened.
*Okay. OKAY. Sleep-kissing has evolved into sleep-tongue-invasion. This is. This is actually. Very.*
He kissed her back, carefully, not wanting to wake her but also unable to resist. Her tongue explored his mouth with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a new flavor.
She started SUCKING on his tongue, making soft whimpering sounds.
"Why... why is macaron so WET..." she mumbled around his tongue. "And slippery... and WARM..."
*She thinks my tongue is a wet macaron. My wife is making out with me while thinking I'm pastry. This is my life.*
He couldn't help it—he wanted to LAUGH. But laughing while someone's tongue is in your mouth is difficult, so he settled for a chest-shaking silent laugh.
His hand slid down her body, curiosity getting the better of him. What kind of dream was causing THIS reaction?
When his fingers slipped between her legs, he found her SOAKED.
* She's extremely aroused. From a macaron dream. The psychological implications are fascinating. Also: opportunity.*
He worked her carefully, fingers circling her clit while she continued her unconscious makeout session with his mouth. She whimpered against him, hips rolling toward his touch.
* She's responding beautifully. Heart rate elevated. Breathing irregular. Arousal evident. And still asleep. This is either a medical marvel or I've discovered my wife's secret superpower: sleep-horniness.*
He was just about to slide his fingers inside her when she ROLLED.
Not just rolled—BARREL ROLLED across the bed like a log, taking the entire blanket with her.
Once. Twice. Three times.
She ended up on the OTHER SIDE of the bed, cocooned in blankets, still asleep.
*She just. Rolled away from me. Mid-foreplay. While unconscious. The audacity.*
But he was already moving, climbing over to her side, working the blanket cocoon open.
*If she wants to roll, fine. I'll adapt.*
He maneuvered her onto her side, facing away from him, and carefully removed her sleep shorts and underwear. She mumbled something about "blue macarons running away" but didn't wake.
*Spooning position. Not my first choice but given the circumstances—her rolling tendency and my dignity—this is optimal.*
He positioned himself behind her, one arm under her head, the other around her waist. His cock pressed against her entrance from behind.
"Nana," he murmured against her ear.
"Mmm... macarons..."
"Wake up, hamster."
He pushed inside slowly—just the tip—and her eyes FLEW OPEN.
"Z-ZAYNE?!"
"Good morning." He was fully sheathed inside her now, not moving, just holding her against him. "Sunflower is entering to prevent you from rolling away again."
*This is a legitimate medical intervention. Rolling during intercourse could cause injury. I'm being RESPONSIBLE.*
"I was SLEEPING—" she gasped, body adjusting to the intrusion.
"You were making out with me. Aggressively."
"I was DREAMING about MACARONS—"
"I'm aware. You told my tongue it was wet and slippery."
She WHIMPERED, trying to move, but his arm around her waist held her still.
"Don't move," he commanded softly. "You'll hurt yourself."
"But it's so FULL—" Her voice was breathy, desperate. "Please MOVE—"
*She's begging. My sleep-kissing, macaron-dreaming wife is begging me to move. Self-control: failing.*
He pulled out slowly—so slowly—then pushed back in just as carefully.
She MOANED, hands gripping the pillow.
"Like this?" His voice was clinical, controlled, even as his body screamed at him to go FASTER. "Slow and steady penetration to accommodate your body's adjustment period?"
"Don't TALK like a DOCTOR right now—"
"I'm always a doctor." He thrust again, deeper this time, watching her face. "Especially when I'm inside you."
*Clinical terminology during sex. This is either my greatest strength or my most bizarre coping mechanism. Possibly both.*
Her lips parted on a gasp, and he was MESMERIZED. The way her mouth formed that perfect 'O'. The way her small hands clutched the pillow like a lifeline. The sounds—breathy whimpers and soft moans—that drove him absolutely INSANE.
"Beautiful," he murmured, unable to stop himself. "You're so beautiful like this."
"Zayne—" she gasped his name like a prayer.
He increased his pace slightly, still careful, still controlled, but giving her what she needed. His hand slid from her waist to between her legs, finding her clit.
"OH—"
"Shh," he soothed, even as he worked her with precise circular motions. "Let me take care of you."
* She's close. I can feel it. The way she's tightening around me. The way her breathing has changed. The way she's saying my name over and over like it's the only word she knows.*
"I'm— I'm going to—"
"Let go," he commanded, voice rough now. "Come for me, hamster."
She SHATTERED, crying out his name, body clenching around him in waves. The sensation dragged him over the edge. He thrust deep one final time and came with a groan, spilling inside her.
They stayed locked together, panting, as reality slowly returned.
"That," she breathed, "was better than macarons."
* High praise from a macaron addict.*
He laughed—actually LAUGHED—pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "I should hope so."
"But also—" she wiggled slightly, "—my legs feel like JELLY now."
*Ah. The consequences of morning exercise. Clinical assessment: mild muscle fatigue due to sustained physical activity and multiple orgasms. Treatment: rest, hydration, and carrying her everywhere today apparently.*
"That's normal," he assured her, pulling out carefully. "You'll recover."
"Will I?" She tried to sit up and her legs immediately GAVE OUT. "ZAYNE I CAN'T WALK."
* Sigh #860. My wife's legs have temporarily forgotten their function due to my very thorough attention. This is either flattering or concerning. Probably both.*
Zayne stood at the stove, cooking breakfast.
This would be normal except for one detail:
His wife was ATTACHED to him. Koala-style. Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.
*I'm cooking eggs with a 45-kilogram human backpack. This is fine. This is normal. This is my life now.*
"Hamster, you could sit at the table—"
"NO." Her voice was muffled. "Legs don't work. Need husband tree."
* Husband tree. I've been demoted from cardiac surgeon to arboreal support structure.*
He flipped the eggs one-handed (the other arm supporting her) with the ease of someone who'd accepted his fate.
"Your legs work fine. You're being dramatic."
"They're JELLY! You made them JELLY with your exercise last night!"
* Exercise. She's calling sex exercise. Technically accurate but deeply clinical. I'm rubbing off on her. Pun intended.*
"It was this morning, actually. Approximately forty-seven minutes ago."
"EVEN WORSE! Recent jelly-fication!"
* Jelly-fication. New medical terminology unlocked.*
He plated the eggs, made toast, poured tea for her and coffee for himself, all while carrying his koala wife.
*Core strength training: achieved. Also: need to update my fitness regime to include 'cooking while supporting spouse' category.*
He sat at the table, adjusting her in his lap so she could eat. She immediately picked up toast and began munching, perfectly content to be lap-baby.
"You're going to have to let go eventually," he pointed out. "I have to review patient files."
"Take me WITH you!"
"I'm not carrying you to my office—"
"PLEASE?" She deployed the BIG EYES technique.
* The eyes. She knows the eyes work. This is emotional manipulation. I'm being manipulated. It's working.*
"...Fine."
She BEAMED, kissing his cheek. "Best husband!"
Weakest husband. Zero backbone when wife deploys optical warfare.*
Zayne sat at his desk, reading patient charts on his tablet.
Nana was STILL attached to him, now playing with his hair while he worked.
*Professional medical review being conducted while wife braids my hair. If my colleagues could see me now, my reputation would never recover.*
"Zayne?"
"Mm?"
"This patient has... cardiomyopathy?"
*She's reading my charts. My medical charts. And pronouncing cardiomyopathy correctly. Character growth.*
"Yes."
"That's heart muscle disease, right? You taught me!"
* She remembered. She actually remembered medical terminology I mentioned once three weeks ago. My wife's brain is like a chaos library—random facts stored everywhere, organizational system incomprehensible, but somehow functional.*
"Correct."
She kissed his temple. "You're so smart."
* She's praising me for knowing my own specialty. This is. This is actually very sweet. Dammit.*
He turned his head to kiss her properly. "You're not so bad yourself."
"I can't cook and I break things!"
"But you remember medical terms and make me laugh and—" he paused, "—you're mine."
She MELTED. "Say it again!"
"We've been through this—"
"SAY IT!"
* She's addicted to possessive declarations. This is somehow my fault.*
"You're mine," he repeated quietly. "And I'm yours. Even when you're being a koala."
She giggled, nuzzling into his neck.
* Smile #25. She's keeping count. I've smiled more in three months of marriage than in the previous fifteen years combined. This is statistically significant.*
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"Nana, I need to shower."
"Okay!" Still clinging.
"...Alone."
"WHY?!"
*Because if you come in, we'll end up having sex again, and your legs are already compromised. This is medical responsibility.*
"Because you need to rest."
"I can rest IN the shower! With you! I also need shower!"
*She showered last night. She doesn't need another shower. She wants to see sunflower. I know this game.*
He sighed (#861). "Fine. But NO touching."
"I'll just LOOK!"
* Looking is touching with eyes. This will not end well.*
They stood under the hot water. Zayne was washing his hair, trying to ignore his wife's BLATANT STARING.
*She's been staring at my penis for four minutes straight. Not blinking. Just. Staring. Like it's a museum exhibit.*
"Nana—"
She POKED it.
*She poked it. She. Poked. It.*
"You said no touching!"
"That was POKING! Different from touching!"
*Poking IS touching. This is basic physics. Which she 'doesn't understand' according to her own testimony.*
She poked it again.
"How does it feel?" she asked seriously, like conducting scientific research.
* She's asking about tactile sensation on my genitals. This is. This is actually a reasonable anatomical question. If it weren't my WIFE asking about MY penis while POKING it.*
"It feels like being poked," he said flatly.
"But does it HURT?"
"No."
"What about THIS?" She wrapped her hand around it.
It twitched in her palm, already responding.
* Traitor. Treasonous anatomy. Zero self-control.*
"That feels—" he closed his eyes, "—good."
"Good?" She stroked experimentally. "Like this?"
*She's learning. Too well. Too fast. Mina's influence remains catastrophic to my self-control.*
"Yes," he gritted out.
She was FASCINATED, watching it harden in her hand. "It's getting bigger!"
"That's typically what happens when you—" He sucked in a breath as she squeezed gently. "—stimulate it."
"Can we do it again?" she asked hopefully.
* She wants sex. Again. After THIS MORNING. Her recovery time is medically impressive and personally devastating to my productivity.*
"Your legs—"
"I don't need legs if you CARRY me!"
*She's solved the mobility problem. She's. She's actually solved it. My wife is a genius. A chaotic, macaron-obsessed genius.*
He looked at her—flushed, eager, his—and something in him gave up the fight.
"Fine. But I'm in control. Completely."
"YES! Full control! Doctor's orders!"
* I've been defeated by my own wife's enthusiasm. This is. I'm fine with this.*
He lifted her against the shower wall, her legs wrapping around his waist automatically (learned behavior, repeated exposure).
*Wall sex. In the shower. At 11:07 AM on a Wednesday. While I should be reviewing patient files. My life is a romance novel. An explicit romance novel.*
He entered her slowly, carefully, watching for any sign of discomfort.
"OKAY?!" she gasped.
"Very okay!" She clenched around him deliberately. "MORE than okay!"
*She's adapting quickly. Too quickly. Where is my innocent wife who asked if sunflowers grew on the moon? Oh right. I corrupted her. Systematically. Thoroughly.*
He moved carefully, controlled, letting the water cascade over them both. She held onto him tightly, making those sounds that drove him INSANE.
"You're perfect," he murmured against her neck. "So perfect for me."
"Zayne—" she whimpered. "Clinical terminology! Talk doctor!"
* She wants. She wants dirty talk. Clinical dirty talk. I've created a MONSTER.*
"Your vaginal walls are contracting rhythmically," he obliged, voice rough. "Approximately every 2.3 seconds. Indicating imminent orgasm."
"OH GOD—"
"Elevated vocalizations suggest pleasure response—"
"ZAYNE!"
"Heart rate approximately 160 BPM—"
She CAME with a shriek, and he followed seconds later, unable to maintain his clinical composure.
*Came from my own dirty talk. This is either peak performance or rock bottom. Unclear.*
They stayed locked together under the water, breathing hard.
"Best shower EVER," she declared.
* Agreed. But I'm never admitting it.*
"We're never leaving this bathroom," she added.
"I have work—"
"Work can WAIT! Sunflower is more important!"
*My penis is more important than cardiovascular surgery according to my wife. The medical board would be horrified. I'm. I'm actually flattered.*
"Sigh #862."
But he was smiling.
(#26.)
Meanwhile - Mr. Fluffytail's Tree
Mr. Fluffytail sat on his branch, having heard EVERYTHING through the bathroom window.
He turned to Mrs. Fluffytail.
"They're at it again."
"Young love."
"In the SHOWER this time."
"Innovative."
Mr. Fluffytail shook his head.
"I need therapy. Do squirrels have therapists?"
"Just eat more nuts, dear."
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To be continued