1.
Spock drifted into consciousness slowly at first – but as soon as he could feel he was shocked into wakefulness. He was *cold*. It was a cold like the piercing cold of the Enterprise's uninsulated storage rooms at the edge of the hull, a cold that made his lungs hurt when he breathed in. He was also naked, and lying on an intensely uncomfortable surface. By the way it cut into his back and legs at intervals, he surmised it was a metal grid rather than something solid.
More disturbing still was the fact that he was bound, and obviously being held in a very small space. His mouth was held shut with some kind of immovable tape, but he could feel a short tube passing into his mouth between his lips and teeth, pressing his tongue onto the base of his mouth. His wrists and ankles were locked solid to either side of the container he was in by metal cuffs. He could feel the sides of the container, tight along his arms and against his head and his feet. Despite the fact that he was in utter darkness he could tell that the top of the container was very close to his face. He could feel his breath spreading back down over his cheeks as he exhaled, as the sole bit of warmth in this place. He could only be thankful that he was not naturally claustrophobic, although his coffin-like confinement was unpleasant to say the least.
He turned his head from side to side, noting how sluggish his reactions were. Despite the urgings of his brain to be alert he felt sleepy and strengthless, as if he had been sedated. He tried to wrench his wrists and ankles from their bonds, but they wouldn't break, and he didn't know whether that was because they were too strong or because he was too weak. He didn't know how long he had been in here, but his mouth was dry and his stomach was clenching on emptiness, and each breath he took in was tainted with the strong scent of stale urine and faeces. He must have been asleep long enough for his body's autonomic functions to take over from his control. The grid he was lying on was presumably there to stop him lying entirely in his own filth.
What had happened…?
He remembered – taking his leave of Jim and McCoy. They had spent the afternoon wandering about the starbase, browsing the small shops. Jim and McCoy were going on to a bar, but he declined their invitation to join them. He – had been making his way back towards the culture centre. He was moving through a busy thoroughfare, people jostling on either side of him. He had not been alone even for a second. Someone had bumped against him, and…
Spock frowned. He remembered feeling something sharp against his arm. He had thought nothing of it in that instant – but then he had felt a weakness spreading through him, and someone had said something about it being disgusting, Starfleet officers being drunk, and he had nodded in agreement, then realised that the man was referring to him, and felt a moment of annoyance as he wondered what Kirk or McCoy had slipped into his drink earlier. And then – he was being helped to walk, and then – nothing, until he had woken in this freezing, dark confinement.
He struggled to stay awake, to assess his situation – but even in this cramped, cold darkness he found himself drifting uncontrollably in and out of sleep. Despite the discomfort of his position it was impossible to fight the drug in his system. He had little idea of how much time was passing, but he could feel and hear the vibration of an engine through the metal box he was in, and occasionally he was thrown against the sides of the box as if he was in a craft that was banking sharply, so he presumed that he was in a ship, being transported somewhere. He imagined himself to be in a small craft – perhaps a small fighter or space-yacht – but there had been so many of that description milling about the starbase that it was impossible to know what or who had abducted him.
Then during one of his half-awake phases there was a sudden noise, and the box he was in was pulled out as if it was a drawer, and he was suddenly blinking against what seemed like brilliantly bright light. Before his eyes could adjust fully a cloth had been dropped over them, and he could see nothing but the small amount of light that filtered through the weave. He shook his head to try to dislodge it, but it was just replaced more firmly and tucked under his head at either side.
'This one going to market?' a man asked, squeezing at Spock's bicep, then poking at his stomach muscles. He tensed, fully aware of his naked helplessness. 'He looks fit enough to make you some good money.'
'No, he's a commission,' a second man said. He felt something touch the tube in his mouth as the man spoke. 'Eight thousand I'm getting for him.'
The first man whistled in admiration. 'Not bad!'
Water began to trickle into Spock's mouth, and he gulped at it despite himself. There were times for trying to preserve dignity, and this was not one of them. There was a bitter taste to the liquid – probably more of the drug they were using to keep him passive – but his options were drink it or choke, and he had no wish to choke while tied down and helpless.
'Oh, believe me, this one's worth it,' the second man continued. The water stopped, to be replaced with some kind of bland, liquidised food which, like the water, Spock was forced to swallow to prevent choking. 'Danger money. He'll have people looking for him – people you don't want to mess with.' The liquid food stopped, and the tube in his mouth moved again as the attachment was removed. 'And Vulcans are sharp ones. Look at him – he's trying to work out ways now of getting out of here. Strong and clever – that's why they're useful, but they're not easy to tame. It's best we just take him and – '
As he spoke he pushed the drawer closed, and Spock was left in darkness again, mulling on that ominous conversation. He heard the metallic noise of another drawer being opened, and then, after a few minutes, another. He didn't know how many people there were here being held like him, but it was obvious that he was not unique. By the time the third drawer was opened he was slipping back into sleep against all his efforts to stay awake.
******
Time passed. He thought perhaps he had been in the container for a week, but he had only been fed twice in all that time, and he had spent most of the time slipping in and out of drugged sleep. And then he woke to find himself kneeling on the floor, muscles spasming with cramp all over his body, struggling against the drug's insistence that he sleep again. His hands were roped behind his back and there was a blindfold over his eyes. His mouth was no longer taped up, but his throat was so dry that he could not speak. There were noises of boots on metal decking, and people talking, but his internal translator had been deactivated and he understood nothing. He tried to move, and realised that his feet were tied together by another short length of rope.
An icy blast of water hit him like something solid, and he gasped, unable to stop himself as he toppled over onto his front on the floor. The pummelling, disinfected-scented spray moved up and down his body, concentrating on his buttocks and groin to wash away a week's worth of waste. A foot kicked at his side, rolling him over so that his front could be washed too. Then the water stopped, and he lay on the floor, panting and shivering with cold.
'I demand – to speak – ' he began, trying to get himself at least back onto his knees if not to his feet.
Someone snapped something unintelligible, and simultaneously cuffed him about the head, and then he was being manhandled into what seemed to be a cage, and lifted up and onto another surface. It must have been another vehicle, because the hum of an engine began, and suddenly he was moving again. This journey, at least, was a short one, and after little more than an hour he was being dragged out of the cage, and led across rough ground into a building. Someone cut the ropes on his wrists and ankles and pulled the blindfold from his eyes, and he found himself standing in a moderately large room with five men standing around him as if to stop him running away.
Spock stayed motionless. The phaser pointed at his chest by one of the men was incentive enough to stay passive. He was naked, and weak and exhausted from his transportation to this place, and he had too much sense to attempt a fight.
'Please,' he began. 'Can someone explain to me – '
The man with the phaser cut across him sharply in an incomprehensible language, stepping a little closer in a menacing way.
Spock fell silent. It was obvious that this wasn't simply a misunderstanding that would be cleared up with a call to the nearest Federation consul. He would have to ask questions later, when he wasn't being threatened with a weapon.
He looked about himself cautiously. The room he was in was largely unfurnished, with open doorways leading off it. The walls were a dull ochre colour, with no pictures or decorations, and just a few side-tables and cabinets along them. The men around him were talking to each other, but he couldn't recognise their language. One of them, a slim, tall man with intelligent grey eyes, seemed to be in charge, but he was ignoring Spock, and talking to an unshaven, scruffy man who he imagined to be his abductor. Money changed hands, and then the scruffy man left.
The slim man moved to stand in front of him, looking him up and down with satisfaction. Then he touched a small metal cylinder to Spock's arm. The device clicked, and there was a sensation of electricity shooting through every nerve of his body and then holding it rigid. In an instant his entire body was paralysed, as if his mind had fallen out of contact with his body. He told himself to breathe in, but even his lungs were set in stone. He stared ahead of himself, unable to turn his eyes to see what was happening. He could still feel – he could feel the odd, cold pressure of the device on his arm, and the chill of the air on his body – but he could do nothing. He felt as if the slightest touch would send him crashing to the floor like a log.
Orders were barked, and a man dressed in a neat, dark uniform stepped forward, and sealed a flat metal band about his left wrist, Then he touched a sleek, finely pointed device to his throat. There was a split second sensation of immense heat about the centre of his throat, and then the feeling stopped. The man scanned him with a hand-held unit, glanced at the screen, and nodded. Spock gave a moment's curiosity to what had been done, but his need to breathe was gradually overtaking all other concerns. He could feel a weakness slipping over his body that the paralysis device wouldn't let him succumb to.
The man spoke to the ringleader, then raised the pointed instrument towards Spock's face. Spock recoiled – or at least, his brain told him to recoil, but his body didn't listen. His perception of time suddenly sharpened threefold, the movement of the device towards his right eye seeming to take minutes when he knew it was a matter of a second. He told himself to close his eyes hard, but his eyelids stayed rigidly open. The tip of the device touched his pupil, and discomfort radiated through his eye, making tears run down his cheek. And then there was that excruciating burning sensation again, and abruptly all vision died from that eye. Spock stared out of his remaining sighted eye, desperately taking in all he could see in the certainty of what was to happen next. He ruthlessly quelled a sense of panic as the device was moved towards his left eye, watching the tip come closer until it touched, and the burning pain killed all light in that one too.
Almost instantly the paralysis device was moved from his arm, and Spock gasped in breath, his hands shooting uselessly to his face, touching his eyelids, wiping away the tears and trying fruitlessly to rub some kind of sight back into his eyes. It made no difference whether his eyes were closed or open. It was not truly dark – it was as if the nerves themselves had forgotten how to see, and he had no residual awareness either of sight or darkness.
He opened his mouth to speak – and then came the second horror. No sound but a breathy wheeze would come from his mouth, as if his vocal cords had simply been removed. He pressed his lips together, dropping his hands to his side and trying to recover some decorum. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't even ask his captors *why*, or if the damage was permanent. He could hear them moving around him, and he fought to keep his hands still, rather than holding them out uselessly in defence at what he could not see.
'There. Into that room,' one of them said – the same one, Spock thought, that had been talking to the scruffy man. They must have finally re-activated his internal translator. A hand gripped at his arm, pushing him, and he stumbled forwards, unable to restrain himself now he was moving from reaching out ahead of himself with his hands. He was being moved towards a doorway – he knew that much – but he had no idea what lay on the other side of it.
'You'll find clothes on your sleeping mat,' the man said. 'Dress yourself.'
He stepped forward cautiously, away from the man's touch, but then he stopped, paralysed by his ignorance of what was around him. He did not even know if the floor was level.
'Oh, just take him to it,' one of the others said impatiently. 'We'll be here forever.'
'No. He needs to learn to manage if he's to be useful. This is the only way. You go – all of you. I won't need you now he's pacified.' He waited a moment as multiple footsteps left the outer room, then kicked at Spock's calf lightly, muttering, 'Go on. Get your clothes.'
Spock moved forward uncertainly again, then the man said, 'The sleeping mat's on the floor. Get down on your knees and feel for it. It's the only one that hasn't been slept on. You'll be able to tell by the smell.'
Spock pressed his lips together, dropping to his knees and wishing earnestly that he could be left alone to this demeaning task. Crawling on the floor was bad enough, but being seen crawling blind and naked like this revolted him, despite all his disciplines. He paused a moment, trying to work out how to gain more information about the space he was in. He still, mercifully, had excellent hearing. That was to his advantage.
He brushed his palm over the floor. It seemed to be made of wooden boards, hard but at least warm. He rapped his knuckles sharply on the surface, and listened. It didn't sound like a very big room. It was hard to make an accurate estimate, but he forced himself to be satisfied with approximations. Perhaps twenty or twenty-five square metres. Logically bedrolls would be along the walls, out of the way, and he had just come in through the door – so he felt to his left and after only a few moments felt a thick wad of fabric on the floor. He could smell the scent of stale sweat, though, so presumably the mat was not his. He moved on, and sensed a feeling of satisfaction from the man in the doorway. Three more mats had the same thick scent of sweat and grease – but then he touched one that felt clean and smelt only of some kind of detergent. The fifth bed along, and in the corner. He would have to remember that.
He ran his hands over the mat, feeling folded bulks of cloth on it. One object felt like a blanket, so he put that aside and turned his attention to two other, smaller items. It was ridiculously difficult to identify what they were, if they were inside out or the right way round, but eventually he decided that one must be some type of loose tunic, and the v-shaped area of the neck was probably the front – and that the other piece of clothing was some kind of slim kilt that would fasten about his waist.
He dressed himself carefully, sensing the watching eyes of his captor. He wanted to ask the man his name, but he would have to wait until he decided to tell him – if he decided to tell him. He turned his attention back to the kilt, fumbling with the unfamiliar fastening. It seemed near impossible to work it out by touch alone, but finally it clicked together.
'Now, present yourself,' the man said as Spock straightened up.
Spock got to his feet, turning toward him. There was nothing else he could do.
'No, over here. And don't walk like a cripple,' he said impatiently as Spock began cautiously towards him. 'Keep your head upright, lift your feet properly when you walk. Oh, for the Lord's sake,' he sighed as the kilt slipped its fastening and dropped to the floor. 'And your tunic's inside out. Fix it.'
Spock bent hurriedly to recover the kilt and cover his nakedness again. He didn't expect help, and in a way he was glad the man did not offer it, because this time his fingers felt more certain of what they were doing, and the clasp seemed to close more securely. He adjusted his top, then straightened up again, turning to the man and raising his head as if he was looking at his face.
'That'll do,' he said. 'But if you present yourself shoddily you'll incur punishment – remember that. Now. I'm Master Robbesh – I oversee this seven of slaves.'
Spock's head jerked at that word. He had suspected what his fate was, but now he knew for certain. He wasn't just a captive – he was a slave...
'You're to obey every order I give you,' Master Robbesh continued. 'If you don't, you'll be punished. I imagine humiliation will trouble you more than pain, so if you need chastisement I'll see you get a healthy dose of both. Now, you are the master's new chamber slave. In addition to regular labour you will attend to him in his chamber – that's why you may see nothing and speak nothing. He won't put up with slowness and clumsiness, so you'll need to learn to be swift and capable. Now. Come with me. You won't start proper duties until tomorrow, but you may as well be useful now.'
Spock blinked. He was starving and exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to sit down with something to eat and then be allowed to sleep. But it was obvious that was not an option. He opened his mouth slightly, reaching out with a hand to ask for guidance, but the man simply stepped away from him.
'No, none of that. You'll follow me at my pace without touching me, with your hands at your sides. You're an intelligent man. Work it out.'
Spock dropped his hand as the man began to walk away, quickly focussing his attention on the noise of his footsteps and following him, trying to crush the uncertainty of walking without sight. It was illogical to believe that the man would lead him into any obstacles, so he had to trust to that fact. Perhaps he should have been refusing to cooperate, but he had the sense to see that he had very little power in his situation, and that resistance would only result in unnecessary pain. It was better to bide his time and understand his situation better before he tried to remedy it.
He was fine until they had crossed the room and passed through a long space that he assumed was a corridor. Then his foot slammed into the hard bulk of a stone step, and he found himself crashing forward onto the stairs, his chin and chest and knees slamming hard into the edges of the steps as he fell.
'Get up,' Master Robbesh said indifferently, obviously further up the steps. 'Remember where those stairs are and don't fall again.'
Spock clambered to his feet, touching a hand to his chin. A cut stung under his fingers. He could smell the sharp copper tang of blood, and feel the wetness on his fingertips.
'Now, come on, and remember the steps will end at some point. No, you don't hold onto the side rail,' he said as Spock reached out to his right. 'You don't fumble or shuffle with your feet or grope ahead of you. You walk upstairs with dignity, with your hands at your sides and your head erect.'
Spock pressed his lips together, pondering on the amount of dignity he could muster as a newly blinded, mute and captured slave with blood trickling down his chin. But there was nothing he could do about it. He simply had to remember Surak's disciplines, and stoically accept what he could not change, until such a point as he *could* change it. He focussed his hearing again, listening intently to Master Robbesh's footsteps so that he knew when he had reached the final stair, and followed him into the space ahead.
He was taken into a warm room where the air tasted of hot steam and the scent of detergent swam around him. He could hear the clattering and splashing of hard things in water. It was obviously a kitchen of types – or at least a washing room, because he could smell no food.
'Over here,' his guide said. 'In front of you is a sink. To the right, dirty dishes, to the left a drying space. Wash what you find, and see that it is perfectly clean, and stack it on the drying space. When you've done that Menash will familiarise you with the laundry process, and you can clean the bed laundry.'
******
He had finished at the sink and was laboriously rubbing soapy water through a heavy sheet when someone new came into the room. Spock didn't turn, intent on trying to wash the material thoroughly enough that he could be sure it was clean without seeing it. It was back-breaking work, and he wanted to be sure that he did not have to repeat it unnecessarily. Menash, the servant who had been set to watch over him, seemed to have the same attitude towards imperfection as Master Robbesh had shown, but with a greater tendency to correct him with blows rather than words. The best way to appease the man seemed to be to stay concentrated on nothing but his task until he was instructed otherwise.
'Hey, respect for the Master,' Menash said sharply, cuffing him about the shoulder.
Spock dropped the sheet back into the water and turned slowly. He was sure that this was not Master Robbesh who had entered the room. The footfall had been much heavier, the breathing a little more laboured. Perhaps this was his new owner. He hated to use the term, but maybe he would have to get used to it.
'Ah, this is the new boy,' a man said casually. 'Robbesh said he'd netted me the chamber slave I wanted. How's he shaping up?'
'He's got a lot of learning to do, sir,' Menash said.
'I'm sure,' the man said, coming across the room to stand in front of Spock.
He seemed like a big man, taking up a large amount of space with his body. Spock wasn't sure if he was overweight or just large, but there was something about his voice that indicated the former. He sounded relatively young, and smelt of aftershave and a faint scent of sweat. He had a vague feeling that he may have seen a man like that, with a voice like that, in the crowd on the starbase, but he couldn't be sure.
'Learn fast,' the man said in a hard voice. 'You're no use to me until then.'
Spock stood silently, and without warning a hand slapped at the side of his head.
'You can't speak, boy, but you can at least nod. Show respect, or you'll suffer for it.'
Spock nodded slowly, dropping his head slightly. There was no point in doing anything else. He felt indefinably threatened by this man. He didn't know why, but he knew that he didn't like the smoothness of his voice, or the way his breath smelt of a mixture of strongly flavoured food and some variety of breath freshener, or how he positioned himself just enough inside Spock's personal space to make him feel uncomfortable.
'Send him to my chambers in ten minutes,' the man said. 'I'd like to see how he fits in there.'
'Of course, sir,' Menash said. He waited for the man to leave, then said sharply, 'No one said you could stop working, boy. I'll tell you when it's time to stop.'
******
Spock gained a small and illogical degree of pleasure when Menash took him from his work and walked with him to his master's rooms two minutes short of the stipulated ten minutes, telling him to wait silently outside until he was called. He could not see, but he could at least count time with more accuracy than this man. Obviously punctuality was not something practised by their master either, because it was another eight minutes before the door opened.
'Come and stand over here in the light,' the man said without preamble, turning back into the room.
Spock followed him cautiously, trying to avoid any kind of collision. The wood of the floor outside had changed to thick-piled carpet as soon as he had entered the room, and the place smelt of aftershave and other artificial scents.
'Stop there,' his master said, and Spock stopped immediately where he was on the carpet. He had no visual sense of the light the man had spoken of, but the air was a little warmer where he stood, as if under a direct beam.
'Go on, strip off,' the man said. 'I want to see what I've bought.'
Spock hesitated, and the man continued languidly, 'Either you do it voluntarily, or I call six men in here who will hold you while I do it for you – and then I have you beaten for disobeying an order. Do you understand?'
Spock nodded slowly, reaching his hands to his top and removing it, before folding it and putting it on the floor beside him. Then he undid the kilt and folded it in the same way, trying to ignore the fact that he was totally naked in front of a man he could not see. The man came forward, making a sound of approval. Then he placed his flat palm on Spock's belly, feeling the musculature there.
'I wasn't sure that Vulcans were anatomically compatible with our type,' he said, stroking across Spock's skin with his fingers. 'I see that they are.'
Spock tensed, trying to resist the urge to take his hand and push it away. It was just a little too close to the place below his navel where dark curls of hair began.
'Oh, calm down,' the man said disdainfully. 'I'm not going to bend you over a chair right now and take you – I've got women enough for that at the moment. I only use my slaves when I have no guests in the house for my pleasure. But I acquired you, and I want to see what I own. Turn around. Let me see all of you.'
Spock rotated slowly, resisting any reaction to the man's hands all over him, probing at his thighs and back and chest. He would have to bear this intrusion. There was nothing else he could do. At least the man was restraining himself from touching anything more private.
'Well, you look useful enough,' the man said finally. 'And I wouldn't kick you out of bed. I do hate to have unattractive chamber slaves – they put me off. Put your clothes back on and get me a drink.'
Spock bent quickly to pick up his clothes, trying to keep his feelings of deep discomfort from reaching his face.
'So, did they bother to get your name before they muted you?' his master asked carelessly as he dressed.
Spock shook his head, fumbling with the catch on his kilt.
'I'm guessing it starts with 's' and ends in 'k', since you're Vulcan?'
Spock nodded.
'Well then, I'll call you Sarkesh,' he said. 'That'll do.'
Spock nodded again. The name had no meaning as a Vulcan one, except perhaps as being similar to a word for a particularly hard-rinded vegetable, but he had little choice. He carefully oriented his top and pulled it on, feeling some small measure of relief at being dressed again.
'Go on – get me that drink. I'll have a glass of the *liarf*. Oh, I do *hate* breaking in new chamber slaves,' he said petulantly as Spock hesitated. 'The cabinet's on the other side of the room. Turn ninety degrees to your right and it's straight ahead. Glasses are on the shelf in the cupboard beneath. The *liarf* is in the tall decanter with the tear-drop stopper.'
Spock turned to his right, trying to walk across the room with a swift, sure pace until he felt the tell-tale air currents of something solid in front of him. His short time in the washing room had at least taught him to sense the way the air changed about obstacles like tables or cabinets or lines of drying washing. He had the developing bruises to remind him of what happened when he dropped his awareness.
He reached out a hand to feel a cabinet made of silky smooth wood, and crouched to open the doors. It took a moment to work out that they slid open, then he reached inside carefully and found a glass. Next he reached out to the bottles on top of the cabinet, feeling carefully until he found the one that the man had described. He poured the drink with great care, hooking the tip of his finger over the edge to feel when it was full. Then he turned and took it over to his master.
The man took it briefly, then pushed it back into his hand. 'This isn't the *liarf*. Smell it. It's the *liarn*. The *liarf* is in a taller decanter. And the glass is not correct for *liarf*. It should be in a short square one. And next time don't get your filthy fingers in it. I'm not going to drink something that you've been washing in. Put it on the tray at the side of the cabinet, and get me what I wanted. I'll notch the waste of liquor down on your punishment sheet.'
Spock returned silently to the cabinet, taking extra care to find the correct glass and the correct decanter. He turned slightly towards his master, waiting for a sign of approval, but he received none, so he turned his attention back to the glass, pouring the liquid in slowly and trying to estimate when it was nearing the top. Then he took it back to the man and offered it to him silently.
'Better,' his master said grudgingly, taking the glass from him. 'You haven't filled it full enough, but no doubt if I send you back to do that you'll spill it everywhere. You're hardly any use to me yet. I'll see your seven-master gives you more training. I'll be out tomorrow, so someone can show you about this room and brief you in your duties. Now, go and stand in readiness by the door.'
Spock nodded in acknowledgement and moved over to the door, taking up a relaxed but alert stance with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He did not find his position as a slave pleasant, but this, at least, was far from arduous. Perhaps if he was ignored long enough he could take the opportunity to meditate, to calm his feelings of frustration and fear at his situation and his sudden disability.
He had stood motionless in silence for over an hour before his master spoke to him again. He had been moving about the room on and off, but Spock had little idea of what he had been doing. Presumably it was simply his habit to go about his daily tasks as if there was no one else in the room. Finally, though, the man came over to him and stood in front of him. Spock could feel his scrutiny on his face despite not being able to see. It surprised him just how much he could pick up without the use of his eyes, especially when a complete lack of assistance forced him to work out ways of helping himself.
He stood waiting for the man to speak.
'You've got a good bearing there,' the man said finally. 'What's your history? Military?'
Spock shook his head. Technically, the Enterprise was not a military vessel.
'No, your lot are peace lovers, aren't they?' he said, coming across the room to him. He took Spock's chin in his hand, turning his head to the left and right. Spock stayed motionless, keeping his head relaxed and unresistant to the man's touch. It did not seem sensible to provoke his anger in his position. 'Where have you been taught to stand like that, then? I suppose it's just your way. I always wanted a Vulcan for my chamber slave. Efficient, capable – you'll be very useful.'
Spock nodded minutely. He did not want to be useful. If he thought he would gain anything he would be as useless as possible, but he suspected that he would earn nothing but pain, and despite his disciplines he was not a masochist.
'Go on. Go back to your seven,' the man said finally, pushing his head aside as he let go. 'I'll have a guest in my rooms late tomorrow evening. I'll expect you to be completely cognisant with your duties by then. Any accidents, any clumsiness or mistakes, and you be severely punished. Do you understand me?'
Spock nodded.
'If the lady leaves before I get what I need you'll have to provide her service to me. A man can be just as satisfying as a woman – or perhaps more so,' he said ominously, touching his hand to Spock's buttock with a menacing air of possession.
Spock dropped his head slightly. He did not want to think of the implications of that statement.
'Go on, get out,' the man said.
Spock didn't wait to be told again. He slipped out through the door, then stood for a moment in the corridor trying to remember his route back to the room where his bed lay.