MB Saucy Side: Scientific Method (Featuring Ferro) (Patreon)

“I want to explore you,” Glitch suddenly announces over dinner.

You chuckle. “What am I, an undiscovered island? We’ve been dating for two years.”

“Yet I’ve still so much to learn,” Glitch insists. “So, can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Experiment.” His brown eyes go soft with yearning, a look that he knows you’re incapable of refusing. Damn puppy eyes are an unfair advantage, but Glitch has never played fair.

“Fine,” you agree, “so long as you don’t take out the notepad again.”

“But then how can I remember what best makes you—”

“No notepad,” you repeat firmly. “I still haven’t lived down Sally finding your last one.”

Glitch nods with understanding. “Mental notes only,” he says. “I promise.”

* * * *

Glitch’s hands are quick and dexterous from hours spent working at Aeon’s R&D Lab. His touch dismantles your self-control like so many gadgets and gizmos he’s worked on, bit by agonizingly pleasurable bit. His tongue licks a hot path across your chest, then he blows upon the wet skin until you shiver from the chill; he pinches your almost hard enough to bruise then soothes the soreness with a tender kiss.

His every action is calculated to be unpredictable and to provide you with as much ecstasy as possible. Your skin throbs beneath Glitch’s ruthlessness handling and prickles in the wake of his gentle caress; a hoarse, keening cry tumbles from your lips between whimpers and gasps and your whispered, broken pleas for ‘more’.

Glitch obliges. Coherent thought falls apart beneath his clever hands, reducing you to a scrapheap of sweaty limbs and hollow longing.

His laugh comes out dark and throaty instead of light and teasing. Gone is the puckish prankster with whom you first felt enamored, replaced by a devious tactician and cunning inventor. You’re no longer Glitch’s lover, accustomed to impassioned embraces and heartfelt declarations; tonight, he handles you as if you were an experiment which he’s intent on perfecting. With every investigative caress and deliberate stroke, he learns what you desire, what you dislike, and what makes your body arch off the bed as if struck by sudden lightning.

“You like that?” Glitch asks. “How much?” He then refuses to proceed until you moan out a few words of constructive feedback.

Ferro ruins you, in the best possible way.

Like any professional tinkerer, he reassembles what’s been broken. His mouth, usually preoccupied with quips and quotes, becomes a quiet tool that he uses to end your ache. Ferro forgoes experimenting the juxtaposition of pain and pleasure, and abandons analyzing the volume of your gasps—instead focusing on your completion. His lips curve in a smug, satisfied smirk as your involuntary begging transforms into panting praise.

* * * *

As you slowly regain your ability to breathe and think, Glitch lies back on the pillows beside you. He wraps his arms around your waist in a tight hug.

“I’m going to spend the next hour reprocessing that in my head,” he says in a serious tone, although his expression is teasing. “Gotta commit my findings to memory since you won’t let me record like a good scientist.”

You contemplate swatting at him, but your body is too contentedly lethargic to move. “We can always duplicate the experiment,” you say with a yawn. “Should you forget any of the data.”

Glitch gently kisses you. “My memory is terrible,” he lies. “I’ll need frequent reminders.”