WARNING: Sex, OOC-ness, general weird-ness
Sex is the elephant in the room that neither of them will admit is an elephant because like any other well-adjusted twenty-third century couple, they can talk about these things. They talk about birth control and they talk about diseases and they talk about positions. But what they don't talk about could fill a room between them.
It's the trace of guilt that she sees etched on his face when he spreads her legs, sometimes. And the the expression of disappointment she often sees afterwards.
"Does that feel good?" he's asked a few times, and she's always nodded vigorously because the alternative is saying "no that sucks" which would kind of kill the mood. But he knows anyway. She can tell by the way he looks afterward, the way he almost says something, but then stops himself.
"You don't like it," he whispered once, after maybe the seventh or eighth time they did it. He looked gravely concerned.
"No, I like it," she denied in a voice that was perhaps too high-pitched, "I like being close, I like the pleasure and I like pleasing you."
It wasn't a lie. She enjoyed it, although it was more often the hot bath type of pleasure instead of the sexual type of pleasure.
Perhaps the problem was her expectations.
"I want to make you feel better than you have ever felt before," Spock had whispered to her through clenched teeth one night, before they started sleeping together. Back when she still had fantasies about what it would be like. He would be the last in a long line of people to tell her how great it would be if she would just try it.
"Maybe it will get better over time," Spock had suggested, that same night he had accused her of not liking it, that only night that they had really discussed it. At the time, he had been earnest. At the time he had truly believed it.
At first, she had believed it too. And she had been romantic and idealistic and thought it was enough to feel his skin against hers, to hear his breath quicken, to watch his muscles convulse.
But it got old quickly.
It was one thing to enjoy his pleasure, but it was a whole other to watch as it got better and better. To see him last longer, look more transfixed, be more exhausted afterwards. To see him improve without taking her along for the ride.
Once, she could tell it had been better for him than ever before. He'd made small noises as he moved, and more than once let out a ghost of a whimper.
"Was that good for you?" he'd asked hopefully at the end. He was still in the naive, it-will-fix itself stage of things.
And for once, she couldn't lie. She couldn't bring herself to say "I'm glad for you." She shook her head.
"Oh, Nyota," he whispered sadly and held her for a minute, and when he turned the lights out she sheds tears that she didn't let him see.
But she wasn't just upset. She was angry. On a rational level, she knew it wasn't his fault, but deep down she blamed him.
She thought that he should try harder. That he should forgo something. What business did he have getting so much pleasure, when she was below, watching him in wild, unshared abandon?
Not that she had any suggestions of what he should try at this point. But she wasn't the one who had made the promises.
And she has to blame him, because the alternative is admitting that she's broken. Defective. And she's nowhere near ready to admit that that might be the case. That she might always just be along for the ride. That things might always be like this.
She's so sick of hearing how great it's supposed to be and not being able to participate. She's sick of not knowing what it's like to want it.
And she's sick of not being able to tell people, always telling them that she likes it, repeating jokes that she heard somewhere but has no personal experience to know whether they're true.
She's sick of feeling less human than the half-Vulcan on top of her.
And for all she goes through, he can't even bring himself to talk about it?
Sure, he's tried. Once, he told her of the existence of artificial lubricants in great detail, as if it was something he thought she'd never heard of.
She would have asked him what planet he was from, had she not been worried it would launch him into an existential crisis.
Did he not realize that this was something that bothered her? That she'd thought about? Did he not realize that she had read every resource she could find on the subject, and unsurprisingly, some of them had mentioned lubricants?
There are so many things they don't do. They don't experiment. They aren't spontaneous. They don't talk dirty.
What's she going to say? Please fuck me unless hard there's something better to do. I kinda-sorta-maybe like your cock?
Sex is the elephant in the room that neither of them want to mention first.
Wow, that turned out kind of angsty for the kink meme. Here's the prompt:
I am a twenty year old anorgasmic woman. As I currently lack a significant other, my entire sex life consists of fanfic. You may be able to see where this is going.
Uhura is anorgasmic. She still likes sex, the intimacy, the closeness, the sharing of pleasure, and she truly enjoys bringing her partner to completion. She and Spock discussed this before they initiated the intimate part of their relationship.
I want a fic where Uhura achieves her first ever orgasm with Spock. BUT NOT THE FIRST TIME THEY HAVE SEX. As awesome as Spock is, I really doubt he has a magical cock of infinite pleasures.
I imagine it happening during drawn-out, unhurried, lazy-afternoon sex, but really, it's up to anon. Bonus points up for grabs if Uhura kind of overwhelmed. 'Cause, you know, I hear ogasms are awesome like that. *totally not bitter*
That was no fun. Next time I'm writing about a magical cock of infinite pleasure. Oh, and part II is coming :)