She said love don't come easy, It's a game of give and take. ~ Phil Collins
She pretends to read while idly fondling her nethers. Her spread legs offer him an unobstructed view. At first this visual aide had encouraged a more enthusiastic engagement with the DIY, but efforts have slowed again. He sounds almost…dispirited.
Or maybe he needs more oil.
She peers over the top of her book. He's not even looking at her anymore, but has fallen back onto the bed, feet planted on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. One hand lies limp at his side, while the fingers of his other hand are loosely clasped around the base of an erection that won't go away.
Christine has seen human males with priapism, usually the result of an injury (or some dumb-ass alien boner drug they bought off a sketchy guy in a bar), but she gets the sense that this is not that.
What if there's an actual biological inhibitor at work here, ensuring ejaculation occurs only in circumstances where propagation of the species might result? Masturbation couldn't help him in that case. But as he was obliged to do what she told him to do, he kept doing it.
Oh god. He even said banana! Worst dominatrix ever.
On the other hand, he'd also told her he was well past the worst of it and in no danger of dying.
"Spock?"
"Christine."
"If I hadn't been here, on the ship, available, could you have taken care of this yourself?"
For a moment she thinks he won't answer but then his gruff voice ripples through her, "Perhaps. But once I had seen you, spoken with you, there was … only you. No other option would suffice. My body wouldn't – won't –"
She's under no delusion that being the object of obsession is flattering. Yet, how terrifying it must be to have personhood subsumed by a biological imperative.
"I am sorry, Christine, truly. I will contact Dr. McCoy – 'suck it up' as you say. Doubtless his prescription of a cold pack and a mild sedative will hasten the process of recovery." He doesn't move to do it though.
Call it empathy. Or clinical detachment. Scientific curiosity or pathos. All or nothing, Christine.
She puts the book aside, stretches extravagantly, and rises from the chair. "I should probably warn you…"
He lifts his head at the tone in her voice, watches as she comes over to him, the parts exposed to him moments ago, hidden again. When she sits beside him, his head drops back to the bed, but he turns his gaze to her, wary.
"Dr. McCoy's going to take one look at this..." She wraps her hand around his cock above his own, slants over him so she can say into his ear, "and fetch a really big needle."
His entire body clenches, guarding his penis in protective reflex.
She slips off the end of the bed, parts his knees and gets between them. "You don't want a needle, do you?"
"I do not."
"Then be good." She gently peels his fingers away so she can swipe her tongue from base to tip. "Orgasm for me."
It doesn't take long for him to come once she's got her mouth around him, but it's not a dramatic release. A quiet shudder, almost no sound. He pushes her away just before he ejaculates, then tries to catch the fluid with his hands. She quietly retreats to the bathroom and returns with a damp washcloth and a towel, starts to clean him up – automatic nurse mode – but he snatches the cloth away and does it himself.
She stands a little away from him, thinking her own thoughts about how weird this whole sex business is, and how he's going to be more Vulcan than ever when this is over, and does she care and if she does, why?
Suddenly, acutely aware he's looking at her, her eyes shift to assess a threat.
She doesn't know what she's seeing, how to evaluate his intense regard, open and yearning and, at the same time, resentful. Though when she focuses more closely his expression is almost a blank, like whatever she thought she saw was merely a projection of her own emotional state.
She wants nothing more than to move this along, get to the other side of this knee-jerk tenderness of hers. She needs to be fully armored when this is over and he returns to indifference.
But his penis looks more rigid than before the blowjob. Noting her expression, he spreads his hands in resignation.
With a mental shrug she accepts fate, her own desire, her empathy, and love for him, and also that she's still pissed off about a lot of things re: him and her.
An impatient gesture urges him to scootch back on the bed and lie prone. She watches him watch her as she crawls over to straddle him. Offers him a breast like he's a baby. His eyes narrow, but he opens his mouth, sucks hard the way she likes. Does not use teeth.
"You need to get me wetter," she tells him after a bit. He tilts his chin up, eyes rolled toward the head board. She gets the point, maneuvers her way up to his face. Her thighs cuddle up against his ears, vulva perched over his mouth and chin. With his hands on her hips, he lowers her to his tongue, and brings her off in a matter of moments. She makes little humming sounds of satisfaction, then slides down his body, leaving a trail of her satisfaction all the way to his pelvis. The stiffness of his cock is something wonderful to her now. She takes hold of it and directs it where she wants it to go, wriggling into position, makes a little joke, "I think it's about time to dock this shuttle, don't you?" and sinks down onto him with a sigh.
"Banana."
It takes a moment for her brain to catch up.
"What?"
"Banana."
She plants her palms on his chest and glares down at him. "Spock, I swear to god, if you're safe-wording me over a metaphor—"
"A painful metaphor," he corrects. "Excruciating." His expression is bland, but there's tension around his eyes.
If he's trying to get a rise out of her, job fucking done. Her knees press hard into his ribs. She clamps her knuckles around his nipples, twisting and squeezing hard as she can. Says between gritted teeth, "How's this for excruciating? Huh? You like this?"
He does. Jerks up into her, knocks the breath from her, his grip tightening on her hips, pulls back and surges up into her again. His cock taps a magic spot, and abracadabra, she shudders all over so hard she bites the inside of her cheek. Her skin buzzes, her body lit up with righteous, furious arousal. She grinds down on him, clenching the muscles of her vagina to match the vice-grip she's got on his nipples.
Of course, he likes that too. They pull apart and slam back into each other a few times, then meet with such a wallop that she almost bounces off him and the bed. He throws his arm out to catch her and then tries to use that arm to roll her over so he can be on top.
"No."
He stops, lies still beneath her, eyes half-lidded, panting a little. Awaiting instruction.
Ah. Now she gets it.
Leaning into his torso, her breasts agitate the hair on his chest. He shivers. His eyes widen. "I'm going to fuck you till I'm spent. I'm going ride you so hard, Spock, and then when I tell you to come, you're going to come. Say, yes ma'am."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sweat cooling on their skin, they stroke each other languidly, limbs loosely draped over each other. She traces over the lines on his body left by her fingernails. Baby kisses the stippled bruises around his nipples.
Finally she ventures, "Are you feeling more composed now?"
"I am. Thank you."
Their voices sound hoarse, as if they've been yelling for hours.
"I really should get up to pee. It's best practice in post-coital situations."
But she knows as soon as she does, this shiny rainbow post-coital bubble will pop.
He gives her a gentle push. "Go." And then, as if he's heard her thoughts, "I cannot move my legs to flee."
In the bathroom, when she's washing up, she thinks, I don't care if he flees. But when she comes out, she's achingly relieved to see that he hasn't, followed by anger at herself for being relieved. She climbs back into her own damn bed, punches a pillow against the headboard and sits with her arms crossed over her chest.
"Shall I leave now?"
"Do what you want."
"I—"
"What? Do you need me to formally release you? Eenie meenie jelly beanie, you are free."
"Christine…"
She sucks in a breath, eases it out to the count of ten. "Look, I'm concerned about how you and I are going to be going forward. I'd finally let go of any expectation that we could be more than merely civil in each other's presence and now we've mingled goddamn body fluids." He flinches like a princess. Probably remembering ejaculating all over himself. "I think I warrant some level of respect despite what transpired tonight."
"Despite…?" He sits up, leans against the headboard next to her. "Are you implying my regard for your character has somehow been impugned by your generosity?"
Well, when he puts it like that…
"You know what I mean."
"I do not."
She isn't sure what she means either, but she's not about to admit it. They stew in their own juices for a few minutes.
"What is that you really fear, Christine?"
She huffs out a laugh, because her reason sounds so ridiculous in her head. "I fear that this is part of an elaborate plan to destroy me because I once broke your heart."
He doesn't bother with pedantic denial that a heart can be broken. So… progress? "I believe we established some time ago that neither of us are vengeful people."
"But you can be petty."
"Is that how you perceive my behavior towards you?" She doesn't answer. He's thoughtful for a moment. "Examining our interactions over the years I can understand how you might see them as dismissive or perhaps scornful. But shortly before you returned to the Enterprise, I had renewed my commitment to T'Pring and she had very specific… stipulations. However, while I remained faithful, she did not." He closes his eyes and there's trace of a rueful smile. "Hers was the elaborate plan to avenge a broken heart, yet I could not argue the elegance of her logic."
"You could have argued ethics."
"The captain was dead. Vulcan sovereignty meant I would never serve time in prison for his murder. By Vulcan law there was no murder. I had already planned my suicide when I saw that Jim was alive."
Oh, Spock. "So, I guess that was when biology reasserted itself?"
"I am sorry to have burdened you. You've been… kind."
She taps a finger on his left nipple, elicits a perfunctory wince. "Have I?"
"You've been what I needed." He slid down the bed, pressed his mouth to the indent where her hip met her thigh. "I call that magnanimous."
She hums. It tickles a little.
"Unselfish."
His hand moves over her thigh.
"Noble."
Fingers worm their way between. Brush the velvet of labia, roll over pearls of moisture and glide up to clitoris.
Tomorrow, they'll figure it all out. Tomorrow.