NEW2ASCEM: Surrender 3/7 TOS [NC-17] (K/S, d/s)

[ASCEM]

Subject:
NEW2ASCEM: Surrender 3/7 TOS [NC-17] (K/S, d/s)
Date:
Tue, 9 Dec 1997 16:00:03 EST
From:
Killashdra <Killa...@aol.com>
Organization:
AOL (http://www.aol.com)
To:
as...@earthlink.net

Spock sat at his captain's desk, listening to the sound
of water running. He was having some difficulty
breathing properly; there did not seem to be enough oxygen in
the room. He could still feel the smooth, fluid shifting of
muscle through warm fabric, the memory tingling against
his palms.
As yet, he had done nothing, said nothing irretrievable.
But oh, what he was thinking...
Kirk had let him see for one fraction of an instant how
very deep the need went in him, how desperate he was for
Spock, for anyone, to show him a way out of whatever
personal hell he had been dwelling in these last weeks.
Spock's own need to find an answer for that ran as deep as
his soul. Impossible to see that darkness in his captain and
do nothing. Impossible to hear that plea and not reach out to
help, no matter the cost.
But, "I can't," Kirk had said, despairing.
I'm sorry. I just don't know any way.
The Vulcan found himself listening again to the steady
sound of the shower, knowing it was unwise to do so and
unable to stop. His hands curled involuntarily around the
memory of how he had felt. How he would feel, if...
This new awareness of the man he had called friend for
three years stunned him, utterly.
He had seen it coming, had been unable to escape the
logical conclusion. From the first moment of
understanding--as soon as he had recognized the truth of
what had happened to him on the red sands of his ancestors-
-he had known it was inevitable.
What he had not been prepared for was the force of his
wanting.
A month ago, he would have come into this room, would
have spoken to Kirk out of friendship and never noticed the
way the thin fabric of the black t-shirt stretched and clung,
never noticed how expressive Kirk's mouth was, how fine
his skin, never breathed in the natural scent of human male
only to find his own body had betrayed him. A month ago,
Spock would not have even thought of touching him like
that--
The Vulcan bowed his head, and closed his eyes. It was
true, but signified nothing. If he had not done those things
before it was only because he had refused to let himself to
see the possibility. The awareness of the link between
them, faint and new and fragile, had only opened his eyes to
what was already there. To pretend otherwise was futile.
He wanted his captain, with a desperation that he feared
had already driven him past some point of reason.
On the other side of door, the water had stopped.
He stared at his hands, as if they did not belong to him.
The hands that had touched James Kirk, held him, would do
so again if given any opportunity. Any way I can, Spock had
said. His words. I wish to help you any way I can.
But what he had meant was, any way you will let me.
Do you trust me?
Instinct had asked that question; instinct heard again the
naked truth of Kirk's answer. His heart beat unsteadily, too
fast, echoing Kirk's certainty.
The bathroom door slid open, and he looked up. Kirk
smiled tiredly, came in scrubbing at his wet hair with a
towel. "You still here?"
Spock realized that he had risen to his feet and not
known it. "Still." It sounded rather breathless, even to his
own ears. "You shall not be rid of me so easily."
Kirk stopped near the far wall, drying his hair a moment
more before dropping the towel down the laundry chute. The
robe he wore was not provocative. It was not made of satin
or silk, nor was it particularly revealing, and it was not the
first time Spock had seen him in it.
Nevertheless, seeing him in it now, the white cotton
steaming faintly with the damp heat of his body, his wet
hair curling slightly against the collar--Spock felt his
heart threaten to burn itself out.
Towel disposed of, Kirk came toward him, his eyes
lowered shyly, faint color suffusing his cheeks. "Shall I
take that to mean you haven't changed your mind?"
Spock struggled to keep his breathing from becoming
audible. "I have not." Merely gone out of it, he thought. Kirk
drew near, that presence pulling him down into a well of
irresistible gravity. This night had been set motion weeks
ago--perhaps years ago. He could not fight it.
Kirk's eyes were on him, teasing and trusting. "Where do
you want me?"
The Vulcan managed to restrain the impulse to look
toward the sleeping alcove, the neatly made bed. Instead he
lowered his eyes, gestured toward the chair he had just
vacated. "If you will be seated."
Kirk obeyed. He turned to sit down, the motion bringing
him within a half-meter of the Vulcan, and a wave of his
scent rose up, overpowering. Spock inhaled too deeply--had
to close his eyes.
Faint evergreen struck him first, the pleasant odor of
Kirk's shampoo. But underneath that scent was the headier,
more wonderful clean smell of his skin, warm and
intoxicating. Light-headed, Spock breathed it in again,
unable to stop himself. Made himself open his eyes.
Kirk leaned forward a little, turning his head. "Is this
all right?"
"Yes," the Vulcan said hoarsely, looking down.
Guilty reluctance was written in the human's stiff
posture, in the lines of tension evident in the muscles of his
neck. "Spock, you don't have to do this."
But he did. The need to touch him was overwhelming.
"Do not argue with me, Jim."
Kirk was shaking his head. "It really isn't necessary--"
"Enough."
And Spock touched him again, and again there was that
jolt, as of a completed circuit.
For a long moment he only stood like that, his hands
resting on Kirk's shoulders, feeling the moisture steaming
up through white cloth. He could feel the weeks of tension
drawn painfully taut there, the muscles hard and unyielding.
Then it came without warning, an image of what it would be
like to lean forward, to press his mouth to Kirk's, to cradle
the damp hair against his palm and taste the inside of his
mouth...
He began to work at the tight muscles, so that Kirk
would not feel his hands shaking.
At the first firm, probing touch, Kirk made a sound deep
in his throat, half pain, half pleasure. Spock could feel him
shudder, as if being forced to let go of that tension was
exquisitely painful, not just physically. He kept the
pressure even, steady, working at the muscles until they at
last began to relax, to give. Kirk groaned again.
"Oh, god, Spock. That feels so good."
Pleasure at the words, the sound of that voice saying
them, lit the Vulcan like a candle.
He hit a particularly painful spot, and Kirk gasped, then
sighed as Spock's fingers worked their magic. "You are a
magician, Mr. Spock." The Vulcan stroked the back of his
neck, urging him to tilt his head forward. He complied. "I
must have been out of my mind to discourage you."
"Perhaps you will be quicker to obey me in the future,"
Spock murmured.
Something ran through the human's body at that, a jolt, a
tiny shudder, and it set off an answering spark in the
Vulcan's insides. Spock himself was held captive by the
spell he was weaving, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of his
hands. He had long ago ceased to form rational thought. His
only focus was the need to bring pleasure to this man--and
he pursued it with singular concentration. The muscles
were pliant now, responsive, and he began to knead them in
earnest, thumbs pressing in circles along the straight spine.
Helplessly, Kirk made a sound of pure relief, and relaxed
into the touch--and his legs, stretched out in front of him,
relaxed too, parting slightly.
For a long moment, Spock forgot to breathe. The white
robe had separated slightly along the front seam. The fabric
fell back a little, revealing one strong thigh, bronze skin
dusted with copper strands, and a tiny, tantalizing gleam of
paler skin below, almost hidden from view.
He could not take his eyes from it. And he knew, then,
that he must see the rest of him--must have him, or go mad.
"Jim," he said, in a voice that surely betrayed him, "Lean
forward."
Kirk did not turn, did not question. He simply obeyed.
Was the human's breathing slightly more shallow than
before? Spock did not know, could not think, could not see
his face. Mesmerized by his own daring, he slid his
fingertips beneath the collar of the white robe and eased it
down over the broad shoulders.
Kirk tensed, drew in a sharp breath. "Spock--"
"I cannot properly manipulate the muscle groups without
direct tactile contact," Spock said, hardly more than a
whisper. Surely now Kirk would turn around, pull away, look
at him as if he had lost his faculties.
But he did not. He only nodded, after a moment, and
relaxed.
Spock was a touch telepath. If he had sensed any
resistance on Kirk's part, he would have stopped and never
mind the cost. But there was no resistance, only this
vibrant, incandescent, answering need--and every so often,
a faint sound of relief Kirk could not quite suppress.
His captain half-naked under his hands, Spock went on
touching him as if they were both entirely sane. His own
body was taut as a harpstring. He wasn't kneading any
more... wasn't really massaging at all. His fingertips were
stroking the nape of his captain's neck, slowly, utterly
captivated by the texture and the fragrance of the skin
there. He knew he must stop this. Knew it. Could not.
And then Kirk groaned softly, an entirely different sound
from any he had made before, and his head fell back against
Spock's hands. "What are you doing to me?" he whispered.
"What are you... ah, God, Spock... stop. I can't." But his
breath caught, and his thighs fell open, and suddenly the
Vulcan could smell his arousal, could see the heavy weight
of it through the white fabric.
"Jim," he choked, and gave in to the need he had been
suppressing for what felt like forever.
The shock of Spock's mouth on the back of his neck made
Kirk moan aloud, made him shudder away from that jolt of
heat. It went straight to his insides anyway. He squirmed
in the chair and tried to pull away, but his brain would not
communicate well with his limbs. Then he felt the touch of
Spock's hot tongue along the hollow of his nape, the faint
graze of those white, even teeth, and all thought fled. He
cried out.
Spock was kneeling behind the chair now, holding him
from behind. One warm hand was beneath the collar of his
robe, which had slipped down his upper arms; the other hand
had snaked around his waist, was tugging at the hem of the
robe, baring his thighs. The things Spock was doing to the
back of his neck were making him crazy. He heard himself
making sounds he did not recognize--and then Spock brushed
fingertips against his nipple and the next sound turned to a
sob.
Somewhere, he was afraid. This was wrong; this was
insane. Spock could not want him. Not like this. He could
not want Spock. A hot palm cupped the same place the
fingertips had touched, and his nipples drew so tight they
ached. The tongue again, hot and rough against his throat,
his ear--a surge of shattering pleasure washed over him,
and he nearly came.
"Spock!" he cried brokenly. "For god's sake...!" He was
panting now, and desperate, he started to twist out of the
Vulcan's arms, tried to struggle to his feet. The fear
became terror. No. He couldn't let go. Too close. Too deep
--it would shatter him. His cock throbbed and begged. He
told it fiercely, no, and began to shut down.
But Spock was in front of him, kneeling before him,
strong hands on his thighs, holding him. Kirk looked down at
him and saw that his robe had fallen open, that he was
exposed before Spock, his desperate arousal more than
obvious. He wanted to cry. Wanted to hit Spock for doing
this to him, making him feel this. But the Vulcan's hands
would not let him up. "Jim," he was saying, his voice as
ragged as Kirk felt. "Jim, it's all right. It will be all right.
Let me touch you. Let me help."
Kirk closed his eyes and made a sound of pure agony. "I
can't. We can't. No." Shut down, now. Too close. Turn off,
run, go deep within to the place where feeling can't come.
"No," he said again, desperate. *Not for me. Never for me. I
can't. I don't deserve. Not with him. Most especially not
with him...*
He was shaking now, but it was working. He was
winning.
"Jim, look at me." A whisper.
He obeyed, unable to help himself.
Spock's eyes engulfed him, hot and dark and
beautiful. "T'hy'la," the deep voice murmured, taut and
anguished. "Why do you believe yourself unworthy?"
Kirk struck at him, unable to stop himself. "Goddamn
you! Stop it! Stop reading my mind!" He lashed out again,
but he was out of control, the blow unfocused. His intense
arousal had abated, driven back by fear of his own need, and
dull pain knotted in the pit of his stomach. He surged up
with a fierce, determined effort to get free.
Which failed. Suddenly, Spock's hands were locked on his
wrists, forged durasteel. "Jim, look at me."
Kirk struggled, but he might as well have been sitting
docile. That Vulcan strength, which he never fully reckoned
with, was mobilized against him now. He could feel the
bones grinding together in his wrists.
He started to lash out with his feet, mad with
desperation. But Spock twisted one hand and he cried out,
had to stop.
"Look at me."
Kirk glared at him, unleashing rage and betrayal with his
eyes. He had the satisfaction of seeing the answering pain
in the other's face, but still Spock did not release him.
When the Vulcan was satisfied that Kirk was looking at him,
he spoke with fierce intensity. "You are more than worthy,
my t'hy'la. Do you understand me?"
Kirk made himself as cold as he knew how and said,
calmly, "Fuck you."
The pain in Spock's face throbbed in his own heart.
And then Spock moved.
Kirk gasped as the Vulcan twisted his hands around
behind his back. Suddenly Spock was on top of him,
straddling him, the steel strength of his thighs hard against
Kirk's hips. Then Spock shifted, and all at once Kirk could
feel the incredible heat between them, the hot hard
pressure of Spock's erection angry against his vulnerable
belly. Fear of a different kind surged through him, and he
started to struggle again, though he knew it was futile.
But "Shh," Spock whispered against his ear. "I am not
going to hurt you, Jim. I will not hurt you. You must trust
me."
Spock was doing something, something Kirk couldn't see.
"What--?"
The feel of Spock pressed hard against him, on top of
him, was almost unbearably overwhelming. Kirk sucked air
in through his nostrils and got a lungful of a tantalizing
scent like dry leaves, sweet with spice.
"What are you...?"
Spock was holding him now as easily with one hand as he
had with two. What was his other hand doing?
"Shh. I am in control now, James. There is nothing you
can do. Do not fight me."
The use of his given name sent a thrill of unspeakable
heat through Kirk's belly, and he did struggle, but this time
it lacked conviction.
He felt something encircle his wrists and draw tight--
and he understood then what Spock was doing, felt
something that was not fear surge through him.
"Let me go, Spock," he whispered, and was mortified to
hear how unconvincing it sounded.
The Vulcan drew back then, looked hard into his eyes, as
if asking a question Kirk did not want to hear. He was
afraid to know what answer his own eyes were giving.
And then Spock leaned forward and kissed him, dragging
his full lips slowly across Kirk's open mouth, and the shock
of pleasure was so great that for a moment Kirk blacked
out.
"Oh no, my beautiful one," Spock murmured against his
throat. "No, I think not." The Vulcan looked down at him
then, eyes hooded, that look all at once possessive and
terrifying and utterly enflaming. "No, James, what I am
going to do instead is make you beg. And there is nothing
you can do to stop me."

<end part 3>

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