I do not own anything Star Trek.
I just like Spock smut.
Enjoy!
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He sits in the captain's chair, hands dangling. His fingers are long and soft, the perfect hard nails shining and pale with an inner green light. As I approach him with a clipboard his hands move up to take it. I watch his right-hand fingers close around the pen, his left hand cradling the metal box. I will touch the box in that same spot when he returns it to me.
I have never appreciated and catalogued a person's hands like I do his.
They are linear, expanding only slightly from his gentle wrists and soon branching into fingers for the ages, straight and rawboned. His hands show the lines of battle and work. They are tough, resilient, sinewy. They are uncommonly strong. The embodiment of fights he has fought hard, weapons he has held and trained, metal he has torn apart, escapes past and possibility of salvation to come.
They are uncommonly sensitive. A window into his mind, a contact point for joining.
His hands waste no energy. When not in use, they are at languid rest. As he plays chess, one hand moves the pieces while the other hangs nonchalantly off the table's edge. He often crosses his arms, a form of smirking, or repose. When he does this, his hands grip his opposite arms, revealing understated muscles, making small creases in his sleeves. Sitting at his station, when little is happening and the crew is idle, his hands rest quietly on his sumptuous thighs. Sometimes one falls innocently to hang between his legs, pearl-white against the black of his firm limbs in those mouthwatering pants.
There, just centimeters from me, is the hand he must use to touch himself. In my mind he is gloriously hard, and I picture that hand wrapped around his thickness. He uses his right hand to gently squeeze himself and begin to pump, some of his fingers splayed, his left hand cupping underneath.
His fingers are impossibly lengthy. They could go deep.
I imagine his lanky hands holding my long hair, grabbing it in bunches. His hands are warm as they brush along my throat. I can virtually feel them stroking the length of my body, stopping to squeeze my nipples, gripping my waist. I imagine one or more of those slender, strong fingers entering me, pushing up to his last, indecently rock-hard knuckle. I can feel clearly in my mind what it would be like to ride those fingers.
With these thoughts corrupting my mind, I sway on my feet waiting for him. His fingers are graceful around the pen. His left hand holds the clipboard without gripping, applying no unnecessary strength. When he's done signing, he hands it back to me. I rub it gently with my thumbs as I walk away.
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