*****
I have appeared a lovesick fool to the world. The past months have been an extreme, biologically-based and emotionally saturated time. A situation in which I was unable to bring my control to bear. But until last night, I had not thought about the lasting gestures, the ones that give me away even when I am not desperate and pining for a female. The way I "smile." The way I hold my body, my arms, my facial features. It was disturbing to learn, from her, how thoroughly my body betrays me.
I have helped her learn the most basic concepts and forms of a number of common languages. Most intimately, I have shared my own with her. My body language. She has accepted, drank in, my body and its expressions as no one has ever wished to before. And I have shared Vulcan, whispered its harsh tones, and found them soft and dulcet in her ears.
Right now she is taking her test.
And I am miserable, alone, churning thoughts over and over while she conjugates nervously. I forcefully turned away from my world, my family, the most sacred teachings of my people. I stood before the leaders of my culture's most revered institution and told them, as a Human might say, "Up yours." This phrase seems at once too colorful and nowhere near fundamental and enormous enough for what I have done, what I meant to do. I risked my life, family, already tenuous acceptance as a Vulcan, to be here, at this academy, on this path.
I find myself masturbating in a dorm shower.
I soap myself and dream of her breasts, pliant under my fingers, her skin resilient as I press into it with my palms. Press harder. I would push her down into my bed, pin her arms, tell her to open for me. I would demand things of her. Stay. Suck. Obey. I position her in arousing poses, and she complies and stays still for me. Even as I stroke myself, hot water soaking me, running down my back and arms, I consider how my fantasies have taken a dark turn. I try to redirect, dreaming of her sweetness, deep kisses, the sudden, charming tilt of her head when something I do pleases her body. I dream of grabbing her delicious hair, pulling on it to make her move as I wish, biting kisses into her neck. I eat hungrily of her neck. I picture her on her knees, looking up at me, waiting for instruction. Submitting to me physically and emotionally. She is my female. I groan loudly. In completion, but mostly in anger at myself.
My troubling fantasy flows , logically, down the drain.
I can hardly admit this even in my deepest mind, but I love her. I have never loved another being this way, and it is curious and consuming and completely uncontrollable. As such, I cannot live with it. I cannot control my feelings, and I will no longer be able to study at this academy, nor function in any capacity. I will have offended and severed myself from a family, a world, for the simple attainment of love and without achieving, nor even really pursuing, the brilliant, lifelong career I came here for. The situation, at best, requires a choice between equally undesirable outcomes. But the truth is, I am unequal to the task. There is no way in the universe that I can choose to leave her.
As I dry my body, dress myself, stand straight in front of my mirror, I arrange my body and features so I can walk among my peers, deliver a paper to an instructor, attend a lecture, drink hot tea. The heat passes over my lips, where she kisses me, and my mouth lights up with desire for her. Fascinating--I can literally feel echoes of her mouth on mine. As beads of hot tea evaporate off my lips, the tingling is like her tongue flicking. I imagine the sweet scent of her breath, the touch of it on my face, gentle mist on my nose as she leans in for a kiss. Her lips. At this moment, they become the tiny, brilliant dot at the center of the universe. I wander in consideration of her mouth. Her lips, so fresh and cool and kissed with moisture, will soon join mine. I burn my tongue on my tea and nearly swear. I manage to keep hold of the cup.
When I return to my room, I prepare a list of verbs for her. Imperatives.
*****
I nearly run to his room.
I already knew, and he has pointed out both in public and in private, at those moments the words breathed into my mouth on the way to a kiss, that math and other languages have so much in common, symbols, rules, special meanings for ordinary words. To me, they are not the same. So it's a special miracle I passed my test. The desk calculated my score immediately, and in fact it was quite good for me. He would commit suicide for receiving such a score, but I'm ecstatic.
First thing I want to do is tell him how he's taught me, what it meant. Tell him how we can return to our beautifully ordinary dates where we stroll through the world together, not talking about imperatives, but talking about sweet, intellectual and inane things.
When I arrive at his room, virtually breathless, he's there but the words get stuck in my throat. He sits very still in his desk chair. He's more quiet and thoughtful than I've ever seen him. I've seen him a lot. This is very quiet, nearly grave.
I blurt out, "I passed!"
His face doesn't change. His voice is dry. "Score."
"Oh," I say, so articulate in the face of his blunt demand. The score I thought was so great a minute ago suddenly seems unutterably low. "...86."
He looks me straight in the eye and says "You will make up those 14 points." I must look completely bewildered, am completely bewildered. I can't think of any reason why my loving, attentive man who is interested in everything I do, no matter how dumb, who taught me the rules of language, whispered to me in his own cherished tongue, would be treating me this way.
"Translate. Kroykah."
He's quizzing me in Vulcan? Now? "Stop?"
"Close." The room is small—two chairs, two desks, two beds, a typical dorm room which suddenly seems tight and disconcerting. He stands rather sinisterly, but his eyes glint with something, some enjoyment of how he's talking to me. It makes my stomach ache. "Stop immediately, a far stronger expression." He takes one step to reach me, places his graceful finger on my lips, then sits back down in the desk chair his long legs bent at the knees. He looks vulgar and delicious that way. I always love when he sits like that. One of the times he doesn't realize how hot he is. I nearly forget how harsh and commanding he's being. I'm reminded abruptly. "That is your word. Anything I do to you, or ask you to do, you can stop with that word."
I tilt my head at him, give him my wondering eyes.
"Now kneel between my legs."
Oh. Oh. With a mental leap, I see where he's going. I will earn my 14 points.
I drop to the floor, and walk on my knees the short distance it takes to get to him. I look up into his eyes. He places his thumbs on my temples and rubs gently, runs his thumbs down onto my cheeks, rubs again and it makes my lips purse. He lets my face go and undoes his pants, just enough to take out his growing erection. He holds himself lightly, his hand moving lazily over his hardening penis. Nonchalantly, as if we are not in this room, in this indecent position. His voice is rough. "Translate. Tu-ash'uh."
I look up and ask, hesitantly, "Open?"
"Good." He's pleased. "Now do it."
I freeze for a moment and he says, more forcefully, "Tu-ash'uh." I open my mouth. I move to take him in, but he says "Wait." I am paused with my mouth open, looking up at him, waiting for instructions. He has me place my palms on his thighs and tells me not to move my hands. Then places one of his own large hands on the back of my head and pulls gently down and onto him. I take him all the way in. Soon I'm lapping at him like a puppy, my front paws on his thighs.
With his hand cradling my head, he has just enough self-control to rasp out. "Vitem'uh." The two syllables of the imperative come together with his last two thrusts into my mouth. I do the best I can, but find that when he ejaculates I get come on my face and chin. I tell him the translation anyway. "Swallow."
He collects himself quickly, stands and zips himself up. "You have failed to follow my directive completely." I begin to speak, but he places a finger hard on my lips and continues the test. I translate every word he gives me.
"She'uh."
"Stand."
"Correct." He is not giving me his seductive Vulcan smile. He is serious, and I stand. "Remove your clothing." Starting with my boots, I do it and the situation makes me, stupidly, self-conscious, like the first time I let him see my body. I drop everything to the floor, down to my bra and panties. I look at him shyly and he simply waits while I remove those last two items. He doesn't quite push me, but takes me firmly by the arm and moves me to stand in front of his desk, places me facing it.
"Vulaya'uh."
"Bend." A thrill runs through me, and I bend over the desk.
"Sak'uh."
I blush and can hardly say the word. Somehow after all the times I've been in intimate positions with him, saying it out loud makes me nervous and it comes out a tiny whisper. "Spread." And I spread my legs so my stomach and breasts press hard against the desk.
He moves behind me, places two hands on my buttocks and rubs, and I feel an embarrassing rush of arousal. Part of me feels shame at liking the way he's doing this, but the sensation is so good I let the thoughts, the shame, go by. His hands make me warm, make me tingle, and then suddenly they are gone for a brief second, and then one connects with me, hard, in a loud smack. I'm startled, and it hurts. I instinctively try to stand.
He growls out, "hafa'uh." I'm silent, frozen for a moment, and he says "Translate."
"Remain." I stutter, "Remain...in the same state or condition."
He nods. "Stay," he says, shooting a glance at the desk. He waits for me to bend myself back over it and repeats what he did, smacking me. It feels hard, hurts, but not completely savagely. I know he's carefully adjusting his strength, know he won't damage me. The stinging grows, and every time he brings his hand down on my buttocks my head and body lurch forward against the desk. It makes my body sing with desire. I travel in memories, back to the first time we made love. How he was so shy, so desperate, so dependent on me. I am amazed at where we are now. I throb and want.
He runs two fingers down my hot cheeks and lower until he reaches my lips, pulls them apart gently, and the stinging and relief and pleasure together make me cry. Tears spring to the corners of my eyes, and they're hot and I can nearly feel the salt in them.
He grabs my hair and pulls me to stand and the sudden attack makes me let out a strangled cry. He smiles, nearly, his way, and regards me with serious and smoldering eyes. Pulling me by my hair, just enough to hurt a little, he moves me to the bed. Pushes me down on it, on my stomach. "Turn over." I do. He stands, looming over me, not scaring me but electrifying me. He tells me to place my hands over my head, clasp them together.
"Do not move them, no matter what I do."
I do what I'm told, a tendril of fear beginning to snake around inside me, joining with the arousal there. It feels wicked.
"Spread again." I open my legs, hestitantly. "Eikan'uh." I don't know this one, and I panic and he sees it and adds, "Widen." I open them wider and feel cold air on my most intimate skin. He leans over me, leans on one hand on the bed. One finger makes a hot trail from between my breasts to between my legs, continues, continues, pushing into me until his knuckles are against my pubic bones.
"Wuf-ka'uh."
I'm losing focus, his finger resting inside me, not moving, torturing me. I find the word. "Tighten." I tighten my sex around his finger and he begins to pump it into me. I groan and writhe to meet his finger and he smiles again. Then stops.
He stands, and slowly removes his clothes. I've seen his body so many times, always adoring his raw strength and beauty, but I've never been dying for it in precisely this way. Dying for it. He kneels between my legs and says "Stay. Arms do not move." He has no idea what these words mean to me, to my body at this moment. "Now I will enter you."
He does, enter me, slowly pushing forward until he's all the way inside me. I bring my legs up behind him, to pull him into me, and I forget not to hold my arms above my head. I bring my arms around to hold him.
He growls and shakes his head, grinds out "No!" and quickly removes himself from my body. My ache is even worse than before. The throbbing is now painful, with no hope of ending. I place my hands above my head once more. But he doesn't enter me again. He says, "Hands and knees." I follow his command, and he rubs my cheeks again, smacks me, three, four, five times, every time stoking my fire, he grinds out more words. "Nekha'uh." I say nothing, don't know this word, and he adds in Standard, "Sub...mit" making these two syllables a pair of hard smacks. I'm moaning and saying please and please and please. He growls "Turn over," and I do. I place my hands above my head and he kneels between my knees and says we can try this again. Impossibly slower than last time, he pushes himself all the way into me.
Then unexpectedly, utterly at odds, he leans on his forearms, dips his head so he can gaze into my eyes, with love, clearly, openly love. A look giving me every emotion he's never been able to name. And he kisses me deeply, his tongue softly filling my mouth. He begins to move inside me, and a rush of relief and sweet pleasure fills me everywhere at once and I moan into his mouth. His familiar warmth is in me, in my mouth, in my sex, lying heavy on me. He pulls back and whispers,"Zahv'uh."
I whisper back,"Taste."
He says, "Take into the mouth."
And I do, and do, and do.
*****
