It had begun in the few days prior, those festering impulses, burning within him like the flames of times forgotten. Meditation had not yielded sufficient reprieve, nor had the distraction of daily tasks and their performance thereof. What had merely started as mildly heightened territorial instincts and drive, and had only become inflamed with time's passing, is to be swept aside no more. All of this, in a conclusion he now makes with apprehension.
It has arrived – that natural occurrence which is endured by the inhabitants of his home world each seventh year of their maturity. The Time of Mating; specifically, his Time.
Yes, there is someone onto which his body and his love are bestowed; she whom he had chosen of his own volition. She with whom he had shared his bed in numerous nights of passion. She currently engaged in a more domestic task, of her own insistence, that which he had so often carried out himself: the doting preparation of an evening meal. She, now adorned in panties of pearl tone and a shirt of his own wardrobe, a loose veil for a nude bosom.
Ah, what a veil it is, draped oh how liberally over a frame so slender, a figure of amber skin, silky and so...alluring. Such thoughts in his current state are near unbearable, and are added fog to his abstracted mind. Oh, how in vain does he try in retaining control over his inhibitions, to save himself for a riper moment. Those last remnants, it seems, now begin to wane in his visage of her. Here he is placed, his unclad towering form poised upright, adorned by those liquid beads which had trickled and cascaded during his ablutions. Now he remains unmoved, sans of course those twinges from below. Touch himself he dare not, however, for he is proximate to someone with which he can share such intimate deeds. And yet, in his diminishing restraint, could harm be brought down upon her. In her own right, yes, his courter is a woman of good strength; yet, his is far superior to that of humankind, and with a frame lithe as her, conjoint with impaired control...the notion is indeed unnerving.
Oh, but of course, to not act will bring a result identically unpleasant: his own demise, by way of insanity and death. Logic, that thread to which he now clings, will certainly dictate that action must be taken, in this stage of his burning particularly, in evading further regress. The shower head above soon deactivates by a trembling hand, and the crystalline deluge ceases its cleansing of him. With a clenching of eyelids, that same quivering hand now falteringly brushes against his ivory-hued abdomen, and a downward journey is soon begun. A deep and awkward inhale he now makes with eyelids jerking open, and the travel of that hand is reversed, millimetres before its destination is reached.
With his body wedged against the shower stall's inner wall, and its icy surface a mild balm for his heated flesh, his chenesi now are swollen and pulsating as his member. His mind now emptied of all but one lone impulse, and faltered steps are soon made.
At last, following a seemingly endless time, he passes the stall's entrance, quivering fingers grasp at those crisp undershorts he had placed at a rail prior to his ablutions. Hastily, he conceals himself with the garment, his hands fumbling as they perform the simple task. So heedless is he that a nearby towel is neglected in its own task, and those small droplets mark his pale body still.
And, onwards he paces, with small pools spattering the flooring in his wake. His steps are hesitant, as if plotted carefully to avoid haste or undue alarm, and his constraint decays further. Now the small washroom is at last behind, and his journey continued. And still he burns, oh how he burns, this enclosed space seemingly far too heated now.
With bleary eyes, he sights her; oh so near yet still so distant. How he yearns for her, whose back is within his view, apparently unheeding of his vicinity to her, so absorbed is she in her task. In spectral silence he moves, drawing ever closer to that which his body had desperately sought. Despite his muted approach, that acute hearing she so eminently possesses detects his presence, and words soon leave her lips within the unstirred air.
"You'll soon have a shirt permanently missing from your wardrobe; I've completely commandeered this one. Too bad if it's your favourite." A jovial phrase, yes, brought into existence with a sly smirk upon her lips.
To her bewilderment, there is nary a response from he to whom she had spoken. A string of words would he normally make, akin to 'I do not hold such regard for a simple item of clothing', a rather appropriate retort from him, and one that she would naturally expect. And yet, there begets in the air a silence, so eerie in its demeanour and odd for such company as he. There is a sense, with this continued silence, that something may be amiss, not only within her conscience but emanating through her entire being. Unnerving to her is this perception, and her small form soon swivels in its position at the kitchen bench.
With a start, she beholds him, this long form brooding over her, his hooded eyes not meeting hers, his unclad skin dappled by water globules in a shimmering film. And oh how he hovers, so close is he, with hands gripping the bench at her sides, an influx of heat emanating from him. So enclosed is her small figure, the counter's surface compresses her hips, yet elicits to her no pain. His face now infinitely proximate, and his nose barely skims hers, yet there dare not be contact made.
Perplexed by her courter's outward display and disquieting silence, those marks of concern now form on her face, and her speech emerges from her a near whisper.
"Spock...what's wrong?", a hand she now places upon his moistened cheek, as if seeking a solution to such a puzzle. "You're burning up...are you okay?"
Still, he utters naught, in deathly stillness, and those mahogany irises fixate onto her form. And oh how he lingers, his nose brushing at her aura, those acute nostrils relishing in her aroma. This scent she carries, of pristine flesh and lathered fragrance; oh, how titillating it is, a near plunge over his precipice. The precipice of his self restraint.
How tempting it is to merely take her here in this very moment, to claim her at the countertop...how enticing is the notion, brimmed with such lewd desire. Ah, but nay, this is no mere want - it is a need - borne from ancient fires of an ancestral past. The primal deeds of all those who came before him, broiling that same blood he now carries. To act with such haste, however, will bring injury onto she whom he loves, and so he dithers. And thus, he lingers still.
Like a tiny spark aglow within a blackened expanse, there arises in her mind a notion, a grasp of that which now afflicts him. That ordeal, natural as it is and unspoken of among his people, which for seven years past had not tested him. And now, she speaks to him once more, her tone altered to understanding, her small palm embracing still his face.
"I know what's happening to you. There's a reason you can't talk...the same reason why you feel so feverish.", her irises study him, glistening as they go. "You need me...but you're afraid of hurting me."
Still, he hovers above her, his head floating about hers as if guided by an outer influence, any remaining water from his bathing now trickling onto her. All in silence he lingers, not a sound or word uttered, every last sliver of control utilised in the abstaining of touch; how dire is his need to take her, yet so unwilling is he to cause harm. Into his nostrils, that sweet aroma continues to float, such added fuel it is to this blaze internal. Tentative are his partly veiled eyes in their exploration of her, with spatters of liquid now adorning her skin and those garments which shield her bosom. There is presently a movement, not of his hands but of hers. Removed now is that palm from his cheek, and in unison with her other do they take his hand. An initial grasp her fingers make, so gentle and deliberate, and the large hand is soon lifted, as his dazed eyes follow.
Now there begins a touch, of petite fingertips pressed onto his, in the forging of the ozh'esta, that subtle yet oh so sacred embrace of his touch-telepathic people. Then, a movement of those umber-toned fingers, a soft glide downwards along his lengthy digits; a twist now, and an altering of route, as the small fingers slide up the rear side. And, as those slim fingers come to a rest once again at their initial position, there is a nod from her, borne with a serenity and a grasp of custom and ritual. His fingers soon begin their mirror of that very action hers had performed, a spare hand gripping her wrist in balance.
Another movement she now makes, once his is completed, with one slender hand bringing his upwards in an act so slow and smooth to abate any alarm. Three ivory fingertips are now upon her face, in contact made new and a union of minds. Deep within his clouded consciousness, there wafts words in and around, of her soft tone. Words in his planet's tongue, sacred and seemingly ancient.
Nash-veh nem-tor , ashayam, du-tor throks nash-veh ak'shem t'nash-veh. Nash-veh afsakau heh k'ulidau katelaya ulidar t'du. Kobat-nirsh nam-tor nash-veh; dungi-ri du klau nash-veh.
(Take me, beloved, I bestow my body onto you. Claim me and brand my flesh with your mating mark. I am no feeble woman; you will not harm me.)
The bisque hand is removed from her face, and his mind emptied of her voice, now to return once again to its prior fog. And now her outward voice breaks the barren air around them, carried by its stillness as the words emanate from her lips.
"It's okay...", slender fingers unfasten that shirt which conceals her flesh, "...I know what you need to do, and I'm here."
A furrow his brow now makes, as more of her is unveiled to his eyes, and a quivering hand is extended to her. Closer and closer to her does his towering figure move, the pulsations of his member now detected by her nethermost area, that part of her for which his body yearns. In humid and deepened inhales, his lips brush hers and their noses meet in a caress most tender. Tender, all in spite of that merciless frenzied burning engulfing him.
Now, at last their lips meet, with all his primal fervour, all in a tangling of tongues and a clash of teeth. That lone hand that had reached to her grasps at the garment she had loosened. A single swift motion and the cloth is near ripped from her, quivering her bosom in its wake. Those very fingers once again move, in a split moment, to liberate himself from the shorts which had enclosed him; the same moment his face shifts to her nape. Her own breath now hastens, in a mirror of his, as her skin is burrowed by lips and teeth. Oh, how he nips and bites and gnaws at her flesh, this flesh so silky and so inviting to inhuman ivories.
In such brief moments, as he samples her flesh, that wonderfully titillating scent she carries continues its wafting into his nostrils, in further escalation of his need for her. And, how desperate is he that his pale fingers claw at those pearl panties concealing his prize, and onto the bench the slender form is promptly hoisted. All of this does he perform, in a single deft action, whilst the pristine underwear is left to wilt upon plush flooring.
With her consent to him gifted, and access to her secured, there is a sense of urgency in the manner of which he joins her, the way she is entered. No time is squandered in his lok's initial plunge and the thrusting thereafter; of course, whilst beastly teeth leave their marks upon her flesh. Not his usual nibbles are these, nay, but a proper gnaw of untainted skin; in such frenzy, she is claimed with his branding...his 'mating mark'. And so, her petite form's undulations guide her through the sting of every nip, every bite, every claim of her those ivories do make.
In heightened fervour, he thrusts, his pelvis moving with more haste than his norm, such is the urgency within. What an urgency it is - denied himself this entire duration, he had, of that relief for which his body yearns, the easement of his burning. Now, at last, as their united forms oscillate with each pound his hips produce, within his sights is that elusive release.
There is in his eye something she had not before witnessed, something untamed and primal - an animalistic gleam of those sienna irises. And, alongside the nips and thrusts is a low rumble of a throat, a near growl he makes, deep and guttural. All of this, in a conglomerate of a seemingly new part of him, a side concealed by logic and propriety. A side that, until the present, had not yet been met by her.
As his thrusts progress with increased fervour and urgency, so in turn do his nips, the velvety flesh now marked with purple-tinted welts and his ivory's imprints. With such force are his lunges, that his chosen mate is almost nudged further along the bench atop of which her form sits. All that inhibits her near inevitable collision with an above cupboard, or the wall looming behind her, is the lengthy arm which enwraps her shoulders, maintaining her ballast. Long fingers of his free hand grasp at her rocking hip, so taut are those digits that they gauge into the plump skin. No great discomfort to her do those fingers make, only but a twinge they gift, a mild sting not unlike that made by his teeth upon her neck. Slender are the hands of hers which now glide along his moistened back, their destined target being of his protruding and pulsating chenesi.
Yes, how those deft little fingers stimulate this part of him, kneading and rubbing and working the fleshy mounds. All of these added sensations excite him further, hastening his pacing yet again and adding a new resonant height to his vocalisations. And what vocalisms they are, shaped by primal fever, that biologically animalistic need to mate...to breed. Such a contrast this is from the regular stoic exterior, this facade he so adeptly maintains; and all of that shielding comes apart, unveiling this seemingly primitive character. One might initially become somewhat aghast upon witnessing this primal side of him; not she, as it had already been observed by her in the years prior.
And yes, at long last, after all his agonised thrusting and the chenesi's massaging by slim hands, he receives that which his body had so desperately sought. At this release, he makes a final groan of relief whist lengthy arms encircle tightly her slender shoulders. His entire form shudders above her, quivering with his burning's easement. After several moments, his near cloudless eyes sight the marks which now bespeckle her neck and shoulder, the very imprints made by his teeth. He soon makes a vain attempt at speech, yet all that is mustered is a mumble of his mate's first name's initiating letter. Her own arms now enwrap his torso on consolation, and words emerge from her lips in a wavering hush.
"I'm alright...you didn't hurt me, Spock. You didn't hurt me."
As his body finally settles, so in turn do the guttural intonations of his throat, those primal growls he had produced during their mating. She knows of the considerable relief this act had brought him, much more so than all their prior intimate deeds. This was far more than mere arousal, and indeed she is aware of such a fact. Yet, there is in her mind an inkling that this may not have completely fulfilled his natural primal burning, that there may be more to come. So, she gifts his still moistened skin a gentle peck, a soft kiss of reassurance.
The fog of his mind now dissipated, he at last wrangles the act of speech. Only two words, however, yet enough to voice that which he is currently feeling: his appreciation for all that she had done for him. And, those words, apparently simple as they are, escape his mouth a mere whimper.
"...th-thank...you..."
END