I Want To Watch You Darling – Part 1
It had been one of those days. Ones neither frequent nor infrequent; yet a too common scenario – the Captain gravely injured, the First Officer nearly lost during the successful rescue, the Chief Medical Officer waiting in the wings for word two of his best friends still live, his task then putting the pieces back together. Not all the miracles workers on Enterprise are posted in Engineering.
Today ended well. Next time it might not.
In the privacy of a turbolift, finished with calmly and expertly directing medical staff through a crisis shredding his heart, McCoy sags against the wall. This is why back home medics don't treat friends and family. The dispassionate distance required, the toll it takes … it's too hard. Much too hard.
And Len is many things but never dispassionate.
His mood is restless and edgy. They'd brought Spock back from cardiac arrest induced by massive electric shock and reconnected the ventral and dorsal grey matter horns of Kirk's spinal cord. The latter's injury required sixteen-hours of surgery.
On autopilot McCoy reaches quarters then stops in front of closed doors, standing in the corridor as if confused and lost.
Damn it, I don't want to be alone.
When the doors to my quarters open, Len is braced against the adjoining wall, head buried on his arm. I reach for his hand and guide him inside and onto the sofa. I hand over a tumbler of whiskey and pour one for myself. "Okay?"
"They'll make it, but it was touch and go too many times." His reply is muted. His body language telegraphs exhaustion and worry.
"Thank God and well done you."
"Divine intervention and my staff get the credit rather than my paltry skills." Len shakes his head. "How many times do they think I can put Humpty Dumpty back to together? There are limits to what Human and even Vulcan physiology can tolerate." He downs the drink all at once and holds out his glass for more.
"What do you need?" I ask.
His hand clasps mine and tugs me onto the sofa. "I'm looking at it."
My fingers comb through his hair. I cup his cheek. I kiss his temple. After picking up our drinks Len leads me to the bedroom, settling me onto the bed upright against the pillows he's just plumped. I sip from my glass. He removes my pants and then with fingers hooked on either side of the waistband, slips my barely-there panties to my ankles.
I start to kick them off, he shakes his head. Next, he pulls off my uniform tunic and its undershirt; my bra is unhooked. The straps slide down my arms stopping halfway to elbows, the front cups sag open and down a few centimeters. I start to remove it, Len places his hand over mine in a gesture indicating leave the bra as it is.
"Computer," he orders. "Dim light to lowest setting. And I want two dozen glowing candles." The room is bathed in soft light yet is still bright enough to easily see. "Play soft jazz."
Len's gaze roams up and down my body, he holds his breath between inhales and exhales. Again he downs the contents of his glass in a single swallow. He sits beside me. Then speaks softly, pitch low, tone throaty. "I want to watch you darling."
I swig the rest of my whiskey in two large drinks. The resulting intense burn in my throat results in an impromptu cough. Len is a sensualist and likes experimenting. Though he's never suggested anything with this level of deep intimacy, with this much vulnerability.
Hand resting on my inner thigh, his thumb stroking near my vagina, he whispers in my ear, "Show me. Show me what you do in private when you think of me."
"Please," he finishes.
My breath catches. He kisses me. It's a harsh kiss, a demanding kiss, not a warm-up touching but an alpha kiss, one asserting dominance and craving my surrender; his tongue poking into my mouth insisting on entry; sweeping back and forth, thrusting in and out repeatedly.
He knows I am at once both hesitant and curious. But mostly unsure. An encouraging smile is offered as he fondles my breasts through and inside the bra. "When I think of you thinking of me in that way, I imagine you here in your bed, slight reclined, ensconced amongst fluffy pillows. Breasts covered and uncovered, one still in your bra …" he coaxes the right one free and lightly suckles the nipple, "one free of it. And your panties tangled around your feet."
A lengthy pause. His low, throaty tone returns. "Because when you think of me your desire, your need, it demands relief and there's no time for shedding all your clothes." His forehead leans against mine. His voice is now a barely heard whisper. "Because in that moment all you can think about is stroking yourself to release."
I gulp.
"Please," Len repeats. The need in his voice is a tangible thing and I'm certain if I reach for him, I'll brush it with my fingertips.
I nod.
He pours another drink and retreats to a chair at the foot of the bed.
I close my eyes, not yet ready for watching Len see my secrets. I lick the fingers of one hand and trace down my chest with them, then back and forth over my decolletage. A finger dips between my breasts. The bra falls lower, revealing just above its upper lace the left breast's nipple. My finger rings it in a slow circle, up and around, then disappearing under the lace before coming again into view. I repeat this several times. I hear Len shifting in his seat. I imagine him sipping the whiskey while his eyes follow me touching me. In my mind's eye the tip of his tongue moistens his lips in a mirror circle.
My voice starts tiny then gains strength as my narration continues, "At this point I squeeze." I demonstrate with forefinger and thumb pinching the right nipple. "And remember how exquisite the pressure feels when you suck me."
His breath hitches.
I add, "Sometimes I cum immediately when thinking of that."
He moans.
I venture a quick glance with one eye; Len's hand is pressing against his groin, lightly stroking himself through uniform pants.
"Oh god, please touch your clit." The statement starts as a request and ends as a demanding plea.
My mouth ticks up in a seductive smile. "You are impatient," I scold.
Eyes close again because that is how I do this when alone. My hand moves to my waist and sketches a line between it and my belly button. "I love the feel of your hand on my hip. It's a possessive touch filled with tenderness, and it drives me wild." I demonstrate before tracing the back of my hand down the middle of my thigh.
I draw my legs up and separate them. My fingers slip between the folds of my vagina. Forefinger and thumb part the hood, three circle and stoke the clit.
"One finger at a time please," Len directs.
My mind's eye guesses he is half-erect at this point and wanting to slow this down. I comply and leisurely stroke myself with my middle finger and twine it in tiny semi-circles. Typically at this point I'd lay on my side, my knees would bend towards my chest, my body curling into a ball. Instead I stretch my legs wider offering Len a better view.
As my finger circles the engorging organ, as it strokes up and down, my hips sway back and forth. My bum grinds into the mattress. "More?" I ask growing breathless.
"More," he agrees.
Now I want to, I need to watch Len watching me. Casting final shyness aside, I open my eyes and favor him with a fond, tender smile. I add fingers to my pleasuring and increase the speed of their ministrations.
He gasps and hastily frees his erection.
My fingers push down adding pressure to the circles and strokes. I hear his rapid breathing, his pupils are dilated with arousal, his hand rapidly moves up and down his shaft. While my fingers edge me closer to climax, I massage a breast, yelping when I tweak the nipple harder than intended.
My cry captures his attention. Typically it would trigger the physician in him but Len's too close to climax and my vocalized pleasure mixed with a bit of pain pushes him over the edge.
Focused on him, I stop pushing myself forward. The ecstasy in his expression, his satisfied smile, his relaxed deep exhale, his fists flexing and unflexing as he comes down, his shoulders slumping freed from the day's tension, those sights pink my cheeks and treble my affection for this man.
Noticing his prompting head tilt and urging palms-up hand gesture, I return to massaging my clit and close my eyes when the postponed sweet pleasure vibrates through my body. Then, as usual when I'm alone, my hands meander up and caress. I sigh, content and sated.
"Postcoital you gently fondle your breasts," he notes. "I'll remember that."
I sit up and offer Len my brightest, happiest smile. He returns it. With someone innately trusted, exhibitionism is a heady rush and I want more of it.
