After that first night, twin fears emerged in Spock's mind.
The first was that she would hate him for it.
After meditating, he had gone to fold up the blanket they had used, trying to expunge what had happened from his mind, trying to restore order to his life. On the sofa, he had seen something that disturbed him.
Blood.
He had quickly turned the cushion over and shoved it back. He had felt the sudden urge to vomit. Then he was afraid. That he had defiled her. That he had taken advantage of her. That somewhere, she was crying, degraded, covered in filth.
Then, he was afraid that she wasn't. What if she had liked it? What if she hadn't resisted because she'd wanted? Spock pictured her painted, gaudy, laughing and egging him on. What if he had created a monster? His second fear was that she would love him for it.
But when he saw her, his fears were assuaged.
She said nothing.
No questions, no accusations, no taunts.
No attempts to go outside of their previously established boundaries.
And for awhile, Spock struggled. He felt a tug of guilt every time he saw her. He wondered if she was questioning his motives every time he kissed her. But as time went on, the incident faded into the back of his mind and he stopped thinking these things. The thought was a vacuum, containing nothing, never mentioned.
*****
Spock was exhausted. He had worked a double shift emptying a damaged cargo bay. When he got back to his quarters, he did something he rarely did. He lay down on his sofa and rested.
Nyota was surprised to see him there when she walked in.
"Eighteen hours of straight lifting," he defended himself.
She smiled. Pausing for a minute, she lay down on top of him. This was against the rules, but Spock didn't feel inclined to stand up. He held her. It was so soothing to have her hands running down his sore muscles. He pulled her in to kiss her harder.
She became more aggressive and began to touch him all over. He felt a warm glow fill his body. He had to look at her. He pulled her head back and stared into her eyes for a minute before kissing her back ravenously.
She pulled away and moved down his body. This didn't bother him. He could still feel her hands caressing him. Of course she needed to devote her full attention to his body. Of course she needed—
Spock felt a wide streak of pleasure flash through his body and opened his eyes. He stood up in shock. She had opened his pants and was ...
"I do not engage in pleasures of the flesh," he yelled at Nyota who was still stunned and still sitting on the couch. She looked unhappy.
"Spock ..." she whispered.
"Nyota," he said back severely.
She started crying, not loudly, but a few tears ran down her cheeks.
"I just want us to be normal," she whispered.
Normal for who, he wondered. Humand or Vulcans?
"It is out of the question," he snapped back.
"But we did it once ..." she articulated shakily, "I thought that ..."
Suddenly, she seemed to gain some nerve.
"Why is it okay when you want to, but not when I want to?" she demanded.
"That was a mistake," Spock spat.
She looked at him in disbelief.
"I let you use me," she insisted, "I let you do whatever you wanted without question."
She was really crying now. Tears were streaming down her face.
"Don't you want me?" she screamed, "Aren't I more important to you than some stupid Vulcan ..."
"I want you," he replied hoarsely, "I want you." The second time he said this, he gained strength.
Suddenly, he felt enraged. He shook slightly, trying to avoid lashing out at the air.
"Do you think I am like this because I enjoy it," he whispered, "Do you think I enjoy denying myself everything I ever ..."
"I think," she screamed, "You enjoy it a little bit."
Spock lowered himself to the ground, leaning his back against the wall.
"I am ashamed of so much," he murmured, "I do not believe I could live with the shame."
"And yet you're still alive!" her voice rang out, enunciating every word clearly.
She sat down across from him and looked at him.
How had she known how close he was to the edge?
He thought she was going to talk to him, but instead, she started touching him.
Unrelentingly.
He pictured himself pushing her away, standing up and storming away in anger. But he sat there. Was it too late? There was so much pleasure and desire and want.
He opened his eyes. Oh damn, how could he be doing this, he could see her stroking his ...
"Lights," he stammered, shaking, and they were covered in darkness.
"Please," he whispered, " I find this very embarrassing."