Warnings:

Rated 18

Spock/Chapel

Contains graphic non-consensual m/m and m/f sex

I.

'How can you let this go on?'

Parmen's words echoed through Dr McCoy's mind. They circled in it like hungry dogs, they snapped at him and worried him and dragged at the tatters of his attention. And he welcomed them, embraced them even, because they stopped him seeing what he did not want to see, and hear what he did not want to hear. Spock, weeping artificial tears at the side of the room. Kirk, prancing as if he was playing a childhood game of horse and rider – except for the fact that the child on his back was an adult man, and he was indulging in no game.

Finally Parmen dropped Kirk, exhausted, at the side of the room, and the captain slumped like a rag doll. Alexander moved stiffly away, looking mortified, a child who had suddenly witnessed his parents in their worst excesses. Kirk straightened himself up, moving stiffly, going to where Spock sat on the steps to the pool. He met Spock's eyes with a dignity that Spock could only admire.

'Mr Spock,' he said softly. 'Are you all right?'

Spock nodded, unable to speak as he wrestled to control the raging emotions that Parmen had kindled in him. Parmen had shown himself to be quite adept at not only controlling movements, but also feelings and reactions, and the grief that he had experienced still felt very real.

Free of Parmen's control, at least for now, he rose to his feet and stood beside his captain, holding his own dignity around himself like a cloak with a broken hasp

'Are you – quite finished?' Kirk asked directly of Parmen.

Parmen glanced sideways at McCoy.

'Will you order the good doctor to stay?'

'I will order the good doctor to leave,' Kirk said in a level tone, his fury evident in the very steadiness of his voice. 'I will order the good doctor to take all of our lives before he stoops to serve you. Bones,' he said softly.

McCoy looked at Parmen and Philana with ill-disguised hatred, then got to his feet and went to stand alongside Spock and the captain, resolute in his loyalty.

Parmen smiled.

'I am two and a half thousand years old, Captain. I have all the time in the world. And I won't permit you to commit suicide. But don't worry,' he said quickly. 'I think we'll be able to change your minds before your natural life span runs its course.'

'What more can you do, Parmen?' Spock asked, glad that his voice was now steady after the emotional trauma that Parmen had forced upon him.

'There are a couple more – avenues – at my disposal,' Parmen said sleekly.

Normally Spock's eyebrow would have rose, but after all that had occurred his countenance was set in stone.

'I would be interested to know their nature,' he said.

McCoy shot him a censorious look. Parmen merely smiled again.

'I can look into your minds. I can read your hopes and fears like a book. I know that the good Dr McCoy here is a compassionate soul, and is most easily persuaded by witnessing suffering. Your Captain Kirk is proud, and what he hates most is to be humbled by those to whom he feels superior. You, my dear Spock, are private and intellectual. You shun the base, the physical – you are afraid of revealing your animal self.'

'You are speaking of psychology, Parmen,' Spock said steadily. 'Not telepathy.'

'Let us see the animal Spock,' Parmen continued. Spock's response was as unimportant to him as Spock himself was, except as a part in his play. 'Let us see the creature that lies beneath his trappings.'

Philana tittered, her hand over her mouth in an affectation of self-consciousness.

'Oh, dear Parmen,' she drawled. 'How could you tell I so wanted to see what the sprite-Vulcan was really like?'

Parmen glanced at her with a look of poorly repressed jealousy. Spock stood still, allowing himself to cling to a sense of superiority over this spoilt, uncontrolled, wilful pair. In many ways, they reminded him of children.

'Ah, there we are,' Parmen said, levelling his gaze at Spock.

Spock felt his blue uniform top begin to twitch, the hem of the garment beginning to snake up towards his ribs. He instinctively moved his hands to grab at the fabric – but Parmen grabbed at him instead with his mind, raising his arms relentlessly up above his head, peeling the shirt and the black undershirt off together in one fluid motion.

'Should we fold them, Parmen?' Philana asked in her lazy voice. 'Do you think a lack of neatness will distress him?'

With a flick of his hand, Parmen dropped the clothes unceremoniously on the floor. Spock stood frozen with his arms above his head, naked from the waist up, as Philana walked casually over to him. She sucked one of her fingers into her own mouth, wetting it in a way that she must have believed was seductive, before circling the digit about his nipple, watching the hair there cling to her finger.

Then McCoy growled, 'Leave him alone, goddammit.'

Spock closed his eyes briefly. While he hadn't forgotten of the presence of McCoy and the captain, or of Alexander either, he had been drawn forward to the raised plinth, and they were all behind him. At least when they were silent he could focus only on controlling his own internal reaction to what was occurring.

'He is pleasant, isn't he?' Philana said.

She moved her hand down to the fastening of his trousers, not bothering to touch it, but making the button and zipper slide down at her languid movements, and then mentally drawing down his trousers and underpants until he stood there, his trousers bunched around his knees, exposed to the view of all in the room.

'He's quite attractive, isn't he, darling?' Philana continued to needle her husband, causing Spock's boots and socks to slip away from him, and tossing the remainder of his clothing onto the crumpled pile at the side of the room.

Spock closed his eyes again. *Control.* He had to control. Ignore the voices of his friends behind him. Ignore Parmen and Philana's teasing, malicious words. *Control.*

He was powerless. All he had available to him was the capability of controlling his own thoughts. He could feel Philana's hands on him, touching him, trailing down his flanks, caressing his most intimate areas with precise cruelty. Her mind was inside him, permeating him like a virus, sparking reaction in him even as her physical fingers explored him.

*Control.*

He stood rigid, trying to drag his mind away from the physical response that the teasing fingers of Philana's mind were forcing from his body. His blood-starved hands, still above his head, were beginning to tingle. He focussed on that tingling, felt every prick and stab – but another touch between his legs made him gasp involuntarily as Philana stroked her fingertips lightly over his scrotum.

Philana knelt before him, and he felt her breath hot over his stomach as she leant forward. Her finger trailing up the hardness of his erection, her mouth coming closer…

And then a rush of jealous anger broke his concentration and Philana's control simultaneously. Suddenly deprived of support he dropped to his knees, the hard stone floor jarring his kneecaps in a painful reality.

It was like suddenly being plunged into cold water. Free of all control, the colours in the room suddenly seemed garishly bright, the sound of his own panting loud and rasping in his ears. Had he really been fighting that hard? He was exhausted, and sharp pain pulsed in his knees.

He would have bruises there. That was good. Focus on pain, on the idea of kneecaps shattered on a cold stone floor. Anything but the insidious sensations in his groin and belly. Anything but the rearing erection that Philana had forced from him.

He looked up, and saw Parmen's eyes lit with a cold fury. Philana had desired him, and Parmen hated him for it.

And then Parmen's control clenched over him, ruthlessly locking every muscle. He was flung backwards until he was arched over, his knees still on the floor, his head almost touching the tiles behind him. For a moment, surreal and upsidedown, he saw Kirk, McCoy and Alexander, frozen in a bizarre diorama of emotion. Kirk's and McCoy's faces were contorted with anger, Alexander's crumpled in misery and pity. And then he was being flipped over again, so he was kneeling on all fours on the floor, his buttocks raised up and his head being drawn down to the ground.

*No! No, no, no!*

It did not take a superior intellect or a fine grasp of logic to understand what Parmen intended. He would punish Spock, and he would punish Philana, simultaneously.

Parmen's hands were on his sides, his fingers clenching hard into his skin and hipbones. There was no parody of seduction from him. He was not doing this out of any desire but the desire to hurt the Vulcan and incense his wife. There was no erotic preamble.

Parmen entered him with the swift, efficient thrust of a sword entering a combatant's ribcage. Pain skewered through his pelvis, and he cried out despite himself, his inarticulate scream sudden and horrifying in the silent room. He could not clench his hands or shut his eyes or bite his lip. Parmen's control was absolute.

He let the pain take over. Focus on that. Focus on pain. The spasming pain of cramping muscles. A strange, nerve tingling pain that manifested itself everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. The pain in his throat from the screams that were forced from him each time Parmen entered. Just pain, hot and absorbing and comforting.

And in-built, automatic reactions came into force, taking the pain and separating the spreading, secondary wash of it from the precise, focussed centre of it, and suddenly he could *feel* Parmen again, thrusting into him, and inextricably link each glide and withdrawal with each spasm of his muscles, and he almost sobbed.

*Damn* Vulcan control. Damn Vulcan awareness. He did not *need* to be precisely aware of what was hurting him. He could do nothing about it. He wanted to feel the pain full through his body, and instincts learnt through decades of study and practice would not let him…

He could feel Parmen's pleasure now – his cold, malicious pleasure at defying Philana, and at bringing pain to Spock. He was very focussed. He was not lost in lust. He was controlling Spock precisely, and watching Philana all the while. Then Parmen's control gripped further around his body. Words were ground out of him.

'Oh, yes, Parmen. *Yes*, Parmen. Please. Harder. *Harder*,' and he was ramming himself back onto him, feeling the thick length of his shaft plunging deeper into him.

And then Parmen stilled, and in orgasm his rigid telekinetic control slipped, and Spock felt his back drop by inches like a collapsing bridge, and he could feel the jerking inside of him as Parmen jetted thick fluid into him.

He knelt there, immobile, feeling that thickness inside him, feeling the spasms of his own body as it attempted to reject the intrusion. And then Parmen gripped him again with his mind, withdrawing from him smoothly and rearranging his clothing. Spock knelt with his face on the floor, his breath coming in sharp gasps, feeling a trickle beginning down the back of his thigh, and he wanted to sob.

'You see, Philana,' Parmen said in a malicious tone, recovering his breath with effort. 'He never would have done for you, my dear.'

Philana's face was white and rigid with rage – but she controlled herself, pulling her sardonic smile back onto her face as she looked at Parmen.

'Oh, I don't see why we shouldn't share, dear husband,' she countered. 'After all, he might crave a more satisfying experience. I certainly know that I do.'

Fury tightened Parmen's features, and Spock suddenly found himself flung across the room like a discarded toy. He lay frozen, face down, so close on the edge of the pool that one hand was dangling in the water. He realised as he lay there that the only thing keeping him immobile now was his own horror.

Parmen strutted furiously out of the chamber, and Philana followed him, both of them arguing like children over who had broken their newest plaything. Silence dropped over the room.