Cherry on Top by snarkypants
"How can I help you, Mr. Spock?" she asked.
He seemed even more reticent than usual and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "It is a personal matter," he said. "Where might we speak privately?"
She tried to rein in her sudden burst of excitement. Spock had a way of appearing to be interested in her just before he pulled the rug out, and she had been burnt several times. "There's no one in the intensive care room," she said.
He turned and went into that room, leaving her to follow him. Nurse Lawton gave her a quizzical look, and Christine just shrugged.
Once the door had closed behind them, she turned to Spock. "What is it, Commander?"
"It is difficult to say," Spock began. His color was high.
"Your scans appear perfectly normal," she said, holding up the scanner for him to see.
He waved away the scanner. "It is not a medical matter; it is, however, biological."
"Biological..." Christine squinted at him. "How can it be biological if it's not medical?"
He made an impatient sort of noise. "I am… I have not…"
She had the feeling that he wanted her to figure it out so he wouldn't have to say it; this might have worked if she had the faintest idea what he was talking about.
"I have never engaged in sexual intercourse."
She nodded, giving herself something to do. "I see. And you're telling me this because…"
"I would appreciate your assistance in remedying this lack of experience."
Flames. Her face was consumed in flames. "Er… why? Why now? Why me?"
He cleared his throat. "I wish to understand my colleagues' preoccupation with sex; it is a powerful motivator." He himself seemed preoccupied with a stray thread at the hem of his sleeve.
"Uh-huh. And me?"
"You do not wish to? You have said that you love me; I thought—"
"You thought that I'd leap at the opportunity," she said in a neutral tone. "Spock, I was celibate for six years. Then I fell in love with a member of a species believed to have sex once every seven years. Has it not occurred to you that I might not be terribly interested in intercourse?"
Clearly that had not occurred to him. "You do not like it?"
"I didn't say that. Are you interested in having sex with me?"
"You are the most promising candidate."
"Not what I asked. Do you want to have sex with me?"
He looked at the floor and stammered a bit.
"Spock, if you can't bring yourself to say it, why on Earth should I do it?" She moved to the door and pressed the button to open it.
Just as she was about to step out of the room, he seized her upper arm and pulled her back; she squeaked in surprise. He pressed the button to close the door again.
Once she had regained her balance, she looked up at him. She was nearly his height so she could meet his gaze with little difficulty.
"I want to have sex… with you," he said.
It was something. It wasn't a declaration of love or friendship, or even of interest. And while she had sensed some sort of attraction from him ever since their first meeting, this wasn't exactly what she had wanted. She felt a little like Scarlett O'Hara discovering that Ashley wasn't in love with her after all; that he just wanted her the way Rhett wanted that Watling woman.
"Well. That's… okay." She congratulated herself on keeping her voice steady. "When do you mean for this to take place?"
He gave her a blank look, and she shrugged. "It's your party, Mr. Spock. Or did you assume I'd just jump on you and take care of your little problem here and now?"
"You are angry," he said.
"If you want me to do this favor for you—and it is a favor, Spock—you're going to have to make some effort."
"I cannot make any claim to experience here, Miss Chapel."
"You can start with calling me by my given name. Also, for future reference, it's considered a little insulting to imply that the female has more experience than you do."
"If you have any experience at all, you have—"
"I know, it isn't logical, but that's how it is."
He thought about that for a moment. "It is not my intent to insult you, Mi—Christine. I have a high regard for you."
"But will you respect me in the morning?" she asked in an arch tone.
His brow knit. "I fail to see how intercourse will affect that."
She laughed, but it was a sad sound. She moved in close, holding her hand in front of his face, telegraphing her movements so he wouldn't flinch when she touched his cheek. He was immaculately shaved, as always. "Here is how to arrange it: make plans more than twenty-four hours in advance. Secure a location where there will be no disturbances, and try to make it comfortable and pleasing for your partner."
"What would you consider comfortable and pleasing?"
"See, it's more important that you interpret what you think your partner would find comfortable and pleasing, instead of following a list."
He nodded, his agile mind already working on this new information. "These preparations would indicate regard for one's partner and interest in satisfying that partner."
"Yes, they would," she said. "So, I will leave this in your capable hands, Commander."
He placed those capable hands under her jaw, tilting her face up, and gave her a meltingly soft, slow kiss, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. They had kissed before, under duress, and it hadn't been like this at all. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his skin, of the taste of his mouth, of the scent of his breath, and she sighed.
"Did you find that pleasing?" he asked, and she nodded dumbly. "Fascinating," he said, and inclined his head in farewell.
The door closed behind him, leaving her alone in intensive care.
----------
He sent her a message a few hours later:
Christine: would you be willing to join me in my quarters tomorrow at 1900? Spock
She responded in the affirmative, sending the message before she could change her mind.
----------
Christine had plenty of time to prepare after she left duty on Friday at 1700. She exfoliated and depilated herself thoroughly, leaving her skin soft and pink, and she applied a rich, fragrant lotion. She styled her hair simply, with a few crucial pins that, once removed, would let her hair tumble over her shoulders in a soft mass.
She knew she was setting herself up for future heartache. "Whatever happens, Chris, you're choosing this," she said to her reflection. "Remember that." She applied a light dusting of cosmetics, just enough to accentuate her features, a sweep of mascara along curled eyelashes, and an emollient lip balm with a hint of color, so she wouldn't leave makeup in her wake. Blusher wasn't necessary; she'd been pink-faced for two days now.
She dressed in a soft, silky v-neck tunic and trousers in a rich, dark violet, with velvety black ballet slippers. She looked as though she was going to spend a pleasant evening on the rec deck, perhaps listening to some music. "Not too late to back out, kid," she muttered to the mirror.
"What do you have planned for tonight?" McCoy had asked her as their shift finished.
"Why, you asking me out?" she'd deadpanned, and he'd laughed as she knew he would.
"You know where all the bodies are buried, Chris; what'd be the point?"
She wondered now what he would have said if she had replied, "Nothing much, just deflowering a Vulcan, how 'bout you?"
Deflowering. Now there was a ridiculously archaic concept; she wondered what Spock would think of it.
----------
She went with as much nonchalance as she could muster to Spock's cabin; her chronometer read 1900, and she pressed the door chime.
He met her at the door. "Nurse Chapel. Please come in." There was a pucker between his eyebrows that she hadn't seen before. He was moving quickly, and for a Vulcan that was saying something. She entered, and the door closed behind her; he locked it.
She could feel the humidity in the room from his recent shower, could smell herbal-scented soap. His cabin was darkened; the hangings that softened the corners and edges of the space were lit by a myriad of candles, and incense burned slowly, perfuming the room. He had set the temperature so it was comfortably warm by human standards.
There were several large pillows in sumptuous fabrics spread on the floor for seating, and after stepping out of her slippers she sank (mostly) gracefully onto one of them.
Spock was wearing a dark robe, and he was also barefoot. She'd never seen his bare feet before, and it suddenly felt more intimate than any of their previous interactions.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked, kneeling on the pillow beside her.
"I am, thank you."
"And are you pleased?"
"So far yes, but that remains to be seen."
He nodded. "I thought a light meal would be appropriate, if you have not yet dined."
"I haven't," she said. Goodness, but this was stilted.
He indicated a tray of fruit on a low table nearby. There were slices of a strange melon-type fruit of a deep, persimmon orange, Terran strawberries, grown hydroponically huge on board the ship, wedges of citrus fruit. "You might enjoy the melon," he said, lifting a slice, intending apparently to hand it to her, but she took it in her mouth, nipping lightly at his fingers. He blinked at the familiarity.
She chewed, enjoying the juicy, rich taste and slick texture of the fruit. "That's nice," she said. "I haven't had that before. Does it come from Vulcan?"
"No. We acquired them at Starbase 27 during our last re-supply."
"You chose well," she said, reaching for a strawberry and taking a bite. "Oh, this is delicious. You have to taste it." Christine held the strawberry to his lips, and he took a bite. A dribble of juice ran down his chin, and she leaned forward, kissing the juice from his skin. He pulled her close and kissed her.
"You're too good at that to be a virgin," Christine said a little breathlessly when he released her. She finished the strawberry, placing the stem on the tray.
"I never said I had not kissed anyone before."
"That's true," she said. "You've even kissed me before. But not like that."
He gave her a shuttered look. "I was not properly motivated before."
"Well, I'm glad that you feel motivated," she said, suddenly desperate to put some space between them, to remind herself that this was little more than a business arrangement. "You would probably like to know that my contraception is up to date, and neither of us has any communicable diseases. So, what next?"
He hesitated.
"Spock, as long as it's not painful, illegal or against my ethics I'm prepared to do it, but you're going to have to say it."
He made an impatient sort of noise in his throat. "Disrobe."
She swallowed and pulled her tunic over her head. One of the pins flew from her hair and bounced, with a small pinging sound, against the side table. She looked at him, but his expression hadn't changed; he was looking at her with his eyebrows raised, looking as imperious as only a Vulcan could.
Christine stood and pulled down her pants, leaving her in nothing but her black lacy bra and panties, her tousled hairstyle falling about her shoulders. She reached up and removed the last two pins, tossing them on top of her discarded clothes.
"Turn around," he said in a low voice, and she shivered. "Are you cold?"
"No." She turned, looking back at him over her shoulder.
"Eyes front, Lieutenant." She complied.
He moved so silently that she didn't know he was standing behind her until she felt the brush of his robes against the back of her calves. He traced the wing of her shoulder blade with a tentative finger, skimming down her spine to the dimples above her ass.
"You are beautiful, Christine," he said, his lips just grazing the shell of her ear. He tugged at the band of her bra, opening the eyelets, and the cups at the front of the garment went slack; he pulled the straps from her arms and tossed the bra to the side. His large, warm hands cupped her breasts.
She leaned against him, sighing, as he buried his face in her hair. His erection pressed against her ass, and she wriggled, increasing the contact.
One of his hands slid down across her belly, fingers curling to cover her sex. His touch over her panties made her jump and press back against him.
"As a result of my studies I am aware that a human female responds to arousal with increased vaginal secretions," he said; his breath tickled her ear a little. "When I remove your underwear, will you be wet?"
"Y-yes," she said, choking a little.
"I will test that for myself." He pulled down her panties and she stepped out of them, kicking the scrap of lace to the side of the room. His fingers returned to her labia, pressing against her humid flesh. His breath came hot and fast against her neck and he leaned against her briefly, as though his legs had given out on him for a moment. "Lie down."
"The bed, or—"
"The floor."
She reclined on one of the silky pillows as he untied his robe, revealing his body, and, not constrained by the need to maintain a professional distance, she watched him eagerly. His body was long and lean, peppered with dark hair on his forearms and legs, with a thicker, darker covering of hair on his chest. His erect sex stood out from his body, bobbing heavily, weighty and green with blood.
He knelt beside her on the floor, and she opened her thighs to him, welcoming him as he covered her. He braced himself with his forearms on either side of her head, and pushed his hips forward.
She winced as his penis dragged and pulled through her pubic hair, skidding into the joint of her thigh; he thrust again, too lost in sensation to stop.
"Here, let me," she said, taking him in hand and guiding him inside.
He inhaled convulsively, sucking in air like a winded thoroughbred. He shifted forward on his arms, inadvertently anchoring her hair to the pillow.
"Ow, Spock, you're on my hair." He didn't seem to hear her. "You're on my hair, youreonmyhair, youreonmyhair," she said through gritted teeth.
He started and moved his forearm. "My apologies," he said, and thrust once, twice, three times. She wasn't terribly surprised when she felt his penis pulse inside her; a gush of hot fluid followed. He gasped, threw his head back, and then he collapsed with his head in the crook of her shoulder, his hips still moving convulsively.
Christine stroked his back as his breathing slowed. A fully-human man would have a sheen of sweat on his skin, but Spock's back was completely dry.
"That was…" Spock began, and swallowed. "That was extraordinary." He made a string of kisses from her ear to her throat. "Thank you."
He raised his hips, pulling his now-flaccid member free. Christine clamped her hands on his hips. "You're not going anywhere, mister."
"But—" he began.
"We've got the first time over with. Now we work on technique. You may have noticed that since it was over so quickly I didn't climax."
His expression was blank.
She shrugged. "Well, longevity and awareness will come with experience. But it's considered very rude to assume that the sex is over after you've had your orgasm. You should make at least a token effort to help your partner achieve orgasm also."
"I see," he said. "How do I—"
"Touch me," she said. "Start with my breasts."
He shifted his weight to his side and reached out a tentative hand to her breast, covering her with his warm palm. And didn't move.
Right.
"Spock… do you masturbate?"
"That is a very personal question, Christine," he said in a choked voice.
"Given that we're about as 'personal' as two people can be right now, I think I have that right. So, do you?"
He flushed. "On occasion."
"And where do you touch yourself?"
He gave her a put upon look. "Is that not axiomatic?"
"So you touch your penis. Do you touch your nipples?"
He shook his head tightly.
"Let me show you what you're missing," she said, and bent her head to his chest. She took one of his flat, brown nipples between her teeth and licked the tip.
Spock nearly leapt out of his skin, and she chuckled.
"That is not logical…" he said, gasping.
"Like hell it's not," Christine said. "You've got nerve endings there, and so have I. They're there for a function, and it's not mammary." Pursing her lips she blew cold air over his nipple, and he squirmed. "It's fun." She widened her mouth and blew hot breath over him. "Come on, Spock. Get that brilliant mind of yours working on this. It's pleasure, pure and simple."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "It is neither pure nor simple, Christine." He paused. "My roommate at the Academy was very sexually active. From what I could tell, all he had to do to arouse his partner was penetrate her; she would begin moaning, and within a short time they had both achieved orgasm, and loudly."
"'A short time'?"
He gave her a wry look. "It was not short enough for my comfort, but I believe their coupling took on average about ninety seconds."
She sat up. "Well… it's possible that a female could achieve orgasm with so little stimulation, but have you considered the possibility that she could have faked it?"
"Why would she do that?"
"Perhaps she was putting on a show for him, to flatter him. Perhaps she was bored and wanted it to be over. Perhaps she was putting on a show for you, or they both were."
"A show for me?"
Christine bit her lips together. "Some people find it… arousing to have sex in front of others."
"So it was intentional?"
"I don't know your roommate, but it's possible." She smoothed his hair a little. "Sounds like he was a jerk. Did you have any sort of a system, so you would know to stay away from the room while he had a, uh, guest?"
"I rarely left my room after class," Spock said. "I had… difficulty with the social aspects of living among humans at that time."
Her heart squeezed with tenderness, and she put her hand on his cheek, leaning in to give him a soft, sweet kiss.
He cleared his throat, and set his jaw. "Thank you, Christine." He took her by the shoulders and gently but inexorably pushed her down to the pillows. "I believe I understand what you have been trying to communicate to me."
Spock touched the tip of his tongue to her nipple and she sighed. Emboldened, he suckled, and she clutched his head to her breast. "Oh, just like that," she murmured. He covered her other breast with his hand, teasing that nipple to full attention, while he worked on the first with his lips and tongue and teeth.
Her hips worked against him, blindly seeking pressure, friction. "What," he began, lifting his head, "what should I do next?" His mouth was soft and swollen.
She took his hand and pressed it against her sex. "Touch me."
"Touch you where, exactly?" he asked.
"Not directly on the clitoris," she said. "It's too much stimulation, at least at first."
His touch was tentative, and she moved her hips to get him in the right place. After a few moments, he stopped, and she whimpered. "Christine… may I look at you?"
She opened her eyes. "Look at me?"
"I have seen medical illustrations, but I do not… I am not familiar with your anatomy, and I am afraid I might injure you." He pressed his lips together tightly.
"Oh. Of course you may." She scooted up to a seated position, reclining into one of the pillows propped against the wall. She brought her knees up and spread them, giving him an unobstructed view. "What are you going to do with that candle?" she asked in sudden alarm.
"Illumination… unless you object?"
She relaxed. "Oh, good; I don't think either of us is quite ready for wax play."
"Wax play?" His eyebrows nearly met his hairline.
"We'll put that under the heading of advanced techniques, Spock."
He made a sound that, in any other man, she would have interpreted as a grumble, before returning his attention to her. "Show me how to pleasure you."
She spread her labia with two fingers, and with her other hand began to caress the folds immediately to the side of her clitoris. She dipped her fingers into the moisture at her vaginal opening and spread it upwards. He watched with rapt attention as she bucked her hips against her hand. "May I do that?" he asked, and she was only to happy to let him.
Like the brilliant student he was, he learned her rhythm and the pressure she needed. Between two sets of hands and Vulcan persistence, within a few minutes Christine was sweating and panting, thrashing on the pillows, and crying out as she reached completion.
He watched her, fascinated, as she came. As the spasms subsided he stroked her hair, soothing her.
"You're a quick study, Spock," she said in a husky voice.
"My instructors have told me this," he said. He leaned forward, kissing her.
"You're also ready for another go," she said, palming his erection.
"Only if…" he began, and stopped, hissing as she stroked him.
"Too much?" she asked, giving him big, innocent doe eyes.
"Not at all," he said.
"Oh, good," she said. "Lie down." She moved out of the way, and he assumed the supine position on the pillows with a swiftness she could only attribute to eagerness. She straddled him, mounted him and began moving. "If you feel as though you're going too quickly, just—ah!—slow down and try to meditate."
He growled at her and worked his hand between them, stroking her clitoris. She stopped directing him at that point, and just rode until she came again, aided by the flickering movements of his thumb; he followed shortly thereafter.
They collapsed together in a satiated heap.
----------
Afterward, curled together in his altogether-too-small bed they dozed off and on in between infrequent bursts of conversation.
"I think you get the 'Most Improved' award this term," she said, yawning.
"Do you ever pretend to achieve orgasm?" he asked at one point.
"No; I don't think it's fair. A man can't exactly fake it." She nudged him with her hip. "Besides, you'd know, wouldn't you? Aren't you a touch telepath?"
His eyebrows went up as if he had forgotten that. "I have been overwhelmed by the sensations," he said. "Perhaps I will be able to tell the next time."
She cracked an eye open. "Next time?"
She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Go to sleep, Christine."