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Title from "The Connoisseuse of Slugs," by Sharon Olds. Also posted at my LJ at http://azephirin.livejournal.com/127158.html.

“Seriously?” Kirk says. “Never?”

“No, Jim,” she replies, eyes steady and voice even. “Never.”

“But…why?”

The hand that smoothes the folds of her long skirt is the only sign of discomfort. Otherwise, she sits across the room from him, on the edge of her bed, with crossed legs and perfect posture, poised and unruffled. “It was not logical.”

She’s beautiful, she’s brilliant, and she’s the strangest person he’s ever met. “You're gonna have to explain that one to me.”

“Until recently, I had encountered no one with whom I wished to experience intimate contact. Thus, it would have been illogical to do so.”

“Until recently?”

She doesn’t smile, but Kirk can read the amused affection anyway when she clarifies, “Until very recently.”

“I’m flattered.”

“And well you might be.”

He’s still stuck on the earlier point, though. “You never wanted to try it just because it’d be fun?”

“There are a variety of recreational activities in which I participate. It would be neither necessary nor logical to attempt another simply for the sake of augmentation.”

“How about for the sake of the fact that it feels good?”

“I am quite capable of achieving that on my own.”

Well, there’s an image he’ll be jerking off to for the rest of his life. Her skin bare and luminous; dark hair loose on her pillow; elegant fingers moving slowly between her legs; maybe even, in a moment of weakness, biting her lip and moaning, neck arching.

“Jim?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. I just…that was quite a picture.” At her raised eyebrow, Kirk adds, “You’re just going to have to trust me on that one.”

“As you wish.” There’s a pause, and then she says, “Then I am not incorrect in concluding that you are not averse to performing this act with me?”

“Wow, Spock, that was like four double negatives in a row.”

She is sitting perfectly still, hands neatly folded in her lap. “Two, I believe.”

A Vulcan girl’s way of asking, Are you really sure you want to do this with me?

He gets up, crosses her quarters in two long strides, and kneels in front of her. He covers her hands with his and laces their fingers together, then raises one palm and kisses it. “Not a single thing in the world I’d rather be doing.”

She doesn’t shift position, but her legs uncross, and she lets him lean closer. He settles his arms around her hips, and she reaches, cautiously, to run her fingers through his hair and down the nape of his neck. It’s not precisely that they haven’t done this before: They’ve kissed, and touched in places that clothes don’t cover. But they’ve never done this behind a locked door in the intimacy of her cabin, with the knowledge that the rest of the crew is on shore leave for the next three days and with the understanding that, sometime soon, whether minutes or hours, they will both be naked and tangled together.

He stays still while she traces the rim of his ear, the line of his jaw, the arch of each eyebrow, the curve of his mouth. He meets her eyes, and her fingertips come to a stop on his lower lip. They’re both frozen for a moment—he’s suddenly breathless in a way he hasn’t been since before he left Iowa.

She breaks the silence with, “It would please me if—” For the first time since he’s known her, she falters. “It would please me if you would join me. Here.”

“It would please me, too,” he says, and he’s completely serious.

She lies down, looking at him with unreadable dark eyes. He’s about to lie next to her when he notices something that makes him smile despite himself. “This whole effort will probably be a lot more comfortable if you take your boots off.”

Her eyes flicker down to his feet, then back again. “I might note the same of you.”

“Then boots off all around,” he says.

She starts to sit up, but he puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. She pauses, and he says, “Let me.”

Warily compliant, she lies back down, watching him. He draws up her skirt only enough to grant him access to the knee-high black boots she prefers: sleeker than the Starfleet standard-issue, and with an old-fashioned wooden heel, but still no-nonsense, even with civvies. He draws the zipper down and removes first the right, then the left, then sets both carefully beside the bed. She’s wearing grey tights, thick enough that a human woman would probably wear them only in the dead of winter—certainly no skin is visible through the knit. He wants to run a hand up her calf, just enough to outline the lean muscle and let her feel the weight of his fingers, but something tells him that, even over the impenetrable wool, it would be too much too soon. Her eyes remain fixed on him as he unlaces his own and drops them on the floor with considerably less care, then stretches out next to her.

She moves to put her head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest—no words spoken, but demonstration enough from this most undemonstrative of women. He moves, too, so that she’s mostly on top of him, and he cups a hand over the thick coil of her braids at the same time she leans down to kiss him. She's tense at first—they tend not to do this lying down, and no matter how close you stand to someone, even if you’re pressed up against them, it’s not the same as lying on top of someone and letting your body sink into theirs.

He strokes her back and whispers, “Just kissing. We’ve done this before. Doesn’t have to go any farther than this.”

She looks down at him, and he wants to pull the pins out of her hair and let it cascade around them, but that’s definitely too much too fast. Her eyes are intent but unreadable; then she shifts, moves to her back and nudges him until he gets the hint and settles himself along her side, not quite on top of her but enough that he’ll be the one driving. He’s overwhelmed by the sudden urge to say something stupid--it's OK if you're nervous, I won’t hurt you, I’m yours--but manages not to, thank God. Instead he kisses her eyelids—two of them, anyway—and her temple, smiles at her because he can’t help it, and this time when she shifts, it’s to pull him into another kiss.

He feels her relax incrementally as they kiss, his hands on her face and in her hair, hers on his shoulders and back. She shifts again, and he feels her hand on his hip—it’s another nudge, he realizes, and a firm one. Her lips don’t quite curve up when he gets into the position she wants, their hips fitted like puzzle pieces, his leg between hers. She arches up against him, just a little but enough that he can feel it, and he breathes, “Yeah,” and kisses that not-quite-smile.

His eyes fly open when he feels two warm palms slide underneath his T-shirt.

Her shirt is as conservative as the rest of her dress: long sleeves, high collar. But at some point she discovered a tailor, because the curves of breasts are visible, inviting his hands and mouth even covered as they are. Her nipples are hard, and he traces exploratory fingers over them, feeling her shiver at the touch. He presses his lips over one, and she surprises him by undoing the top three buttons to the shirt. “This fabric is delicate, and I am disinclined to explain such a marring to the laundry operators.”

“Well, in that case,” he says, “are you sure you even want it on at all? I mean, I’d hate for anything to happen to it.”

“Indeed, your concern for my wardrobe is touching.”

He shrugs, as innocently as he can manage. “I’m just saying, maybe you should be wearing something more appropriate for the circumstances.”

“Do you have any suggestions, Captain?”

“I leave that matter to your considerable discretion, Commander.”

She undoes two more buttons. He undoes the rest.

He’s spent some time wondering—and dealing with the aftereffects of these wonderings—what type of undergarments the formidable Commander Spock might permit herself. Of course she’s not going to be a skanky Frederick’s of Betazed girl, but he’ll admit to hoping that she’s got more than granny-panties going on under there.

The bra is black, sleek, unornamented.

Perfect.

He pushes a cup down so that he can put his mouth there—her nipple the color of a Key lime, with an aureola the shade of a white grape. Her hands fold into his hair, and when he introduces fingers to the other breast, she gasps satisfyingly. “I think,” she manages after a moment, and Kirk tries not to feel proud that he’s gotten her hot and bothered enough that the words are just the slightest bit rushed, “that this endeavor might be best achieved with the removal of certain obstructions.”

He tongues her nipple for a few more seconds, then looks up and grins. “Aw, Spock, you sweet-talker. Does that mean ‘yes, Jim, please take my bra off’?”

She glares. In a not-glaring sort of way.

“I’m just saying. I wouldn’t want to perpetuate any tactical miscommunications.”

She glares some more.

He moves up to kiss her mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Here, sit up, and we’ll take care of this.”

He pushes the shirt back from her shoulders, but lets her get up to lay it neatly on the chair. She apparently wasn’t kidding about the delicate fabric. Then she turns back around, and stands in front of him wearing her very proper gray skirt, and her bra.

He gets up. “I really, really want to do this part.”

“Yet I observe that we are operating under conditions of inequality, Captain.”

He strips off his T-shirt and tosses it onto the floor. “OK. Done.”

But instead of letting him remove the bra, or doing it herself, she steps forward and traces his collarbone with two fingertips, then draws a meandering line down his chest, outlining the planes of muscle and then stopping at the barrier at his hips, where the black waistband of his briefs peeks out from under his jeans and belt. She strokes her knuckles over the hair on his belly—then curls her fingers around his belt and pulls him closer.

He unfastens the front closure on her bra, and she shrugs it off. He kisses the places on her shoulders where the straps lay. He wants to touch all of her at once, devour her with his hands, and judging from the way she’s roaming over his skin, she wants the same thing.

She unbuckles his belt, and it goes pretty quickly from there.

Her underwear are equally black and unadorned—not a thong or anything (the idea is so uncharacteristic as to be actively weird), but definitely something he could happily look at every day of his life. He thought she’d be shy about being naked, or almost naked, but she’s looking at him with frankness—and hunger, there’s hunger there too—along the same lines as his.

When they kiss this time, she nudges him back towards the bed. He has to work to keep from smiling.

She’s not a small woman—shorter than Kirk by less than an inch, and gifted with Vulcan strength. Still, she fits in his lap like she’s meant to be there. His hands return to her hair, and he kisses her throat and asks, “Can I take it down?”

She looks at him for a silent moment. “No one since my mother, when I was a child, has seen my hair unbound.”

He moves his hands, rubs the small of her back, lets her work it out.

In quick, decisive movements, she pulls out four pins and shakes her head slightly. Her two thick braids fall straight from their tight twist.

Kirk combs them out with his fingers.

Loose, her inky-black hair falls about halfway down her back. It’s perfectly straight, with the not-quite-coarse texture of unspun silk. He thinks he could probably touch it for hours, just sit with her head in his lap and stroke her hair until her eyes close. He thinks he could also probably spend a few—or a lot of—hours on his back, watching her hair spill around her shoulders as she fucks him. Could go to sleep with his face buried in it; could wash it for her in the shower and then go down on her for a while.

He’s getting ahead of himself.

She’s watching him with eyes that, as always, are steady, but her posture is back to the perfect poise she adopts when she’s nervous. He kisses her, holds her close, says, “Your hair is beautiful. Thank you for letting me see it.”

“It is pleasing that you find it satisfactory.”

He can be absolutely sure that nobody has ever said that to him during sex before.

“You know why it’s satisfactory?”

“I could not presume to guess.”

“It makes you look like a goddess. And it’s amazing to touch.” He lifts some of it to his face and ignores her bewilderment as he inhales. “Just like I thought, it smells good, too. But you know what the most satisfactory part is?”

Her spine has lost its perfect straightness, and she’s resting against him just a little. “Once again, the task of surmising exceeds my capacities.”

“The best part,” Kirk says, “is that no one gets to see it but me.”

“You are most illogical at times,” she informs him, and pushes him onto his back.

He’s fine with that analysis.

It’s not quite his fantasy of her riding him like she’s some kind of pale-skinned goddess, but the view from this angle is pretty awesome, the curve of her belly and the soft peaks of her breasts. And the way she’s looking down at him is also pretty excellent, like he’s a feast and she’s not sure which part she wants to start with first.

He can’t tear his eyes away when she bends down to unfasten his jeans. Her fingers, ever skillful, nevertheless fumble a little—she doesn’t wear things like this, and obviously she’s never unbuttoned a pair from this angle before. Experimentally, she rubs the outline of his cock, through the denim; he arches into her touch, and she looks at him with the unsmiling but pleased expression he’s come to know well. He sees her reach for the briefs, and he props himself up on his elbows because the image of her hand on his cock for the first time is one that he needs to capture very clearly for use throughout the rest of his life—

But then she stops, as though she’s nearly omitted some crucial step and must pause immediately to rectify the situation. “Do you consent to my touching you in this fashion?”

Kirk collapses back on the mattress, laughing and throwing an arm over his eyes. “Baby, any part of my body—it’s yours to do what you want with.”

“That endearment is illogical. I am certainly not a child.”

He moves his arm so that he can see her again. “Did you seriously just point that out to me?”

“I merely noted that the epithet, though intended with affection, was inaccurate.”

“How about ‘sweetheart’?”

“I have never tasted a heart and thus cannot evaluate their flavor.”

“‘Honey’?”

“I am comparable to a liquid sweetener used by humans and produced by insects?”

“Spock,” he says, “I can’t believe I’m asking you this when you’re about to do what you look like you’re about to do, but will you please come down here so that I can kiss you?”

In this matter if in no other, she is compliant. He smiles against her mouth and wraps his arms around her. She allows it, but then pushes herself up and says, “I would like to return to my previous task, if you do not object.”

“Oh God, no. I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t object. I mean—”

His words get cut off by a gasp as the heat of her hand wraps around his cock.

She’s inexpert, but it’s not like Kirk’s ever known her to be anything but a fast learner. She learns (or perhaps researched ahead of time—he wouldn’t put it past her) that the head is more sensitive than the shaft, and that rubbing hard on the glans makes him whimper.

“Please raise your hips,” she requests, and it’s not like he’s about to deny her anything right now. She slides briefs and jeans down his thighs, and they take them off him together.

He’s naked beneath a beautiful woman who’s wearing nothing but black panties and her long hair.

Who then decides to stretch herself out between his legs and take his cock into her mouth.

He gets out, “You don’t have to—” before she pins his hands with hers, and, holy shit, that’s the hottest thing ever. And just like before, maybe she didn’t go into this knowing anything, but she catches on fast, and she pretty obviously figures out what his breath and heart rate do when she licks around the slit. And her mouth is so hot, and her grip on his wrists is so strong—

“Stop,” he gasps. “I don’t want this to be over yet.”

She raises her head. Her lips are swollen and her eyes are gleaming.

“Let me up,” he says. His voice is hoarser than he’d realized. “I want to eat you out and then fuck you until neither of us know our own names.”

She releases his wrists and folds herself back to sit on her knees. He has a sudden and piercing image of her in front of him like that—sitting on her knees, hands on his thighs, sucking him while he buries his fingers in her hair. He has to clear his throat before he can say, “Let’s get those off you.”

She stands, and right now it’s him dropping to his knees in front of her. He tugs the black silk down her long legs; she steps out of the underwear and he pushes it to the side. On a whim, he bends to kiss the fine metatarsals of her right foot; he glances up to see her eyebrows doing the restrained Vulcan equivalent of “what the fuck.” He grins to himself and presses his lips to the knob of her ankle, the hard length of her shin, and the plateau of her knee. He kisses the other knee, too, then guides her back with his hands until she sits on the edge of the bed.

He wants to know what she tastes like, wants to know what her clit will feel like in his mouth, but he’s got a few things to do before he gets there. He licks the insides of her thighs, runs his hands up the length of her calves, traces the soft skin behind her knees and at the crease of her hips. The shirring of hair on her legs is soft, as black as that on her head—he never gave it much thought, but apparently Vulcans do not share the shaving customs of humans. This texture on a woman’s legs is new to him, but it’s nice, a different sort of sensation from bare skin.

He spreads her thighs a little wider and draws a path with his tongue where he knows it will feel good. They both moan.

She tastes like the ocean.

Her hands go to fists in his hair, and he hears her gasp, feels her fall back. He looks up to see that she has caught herself on her elbows and is staring down at him with fathomless dark eyes.

“Feel good?” he asks.

She nods.

“Want me to keep going?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

He can’t help giving another kiss to the delicate skin of her thigh. “Whatever you want, baby.”

She doesn’t object to the name, this time.

She sighs and rocks up into his mouth as he explores her. She’s wet under his lips, and so, so hot, her normal temperature elevated with arousal. He flicks his tongue over her, works two fingers up to tease the outer lips of her cunt, and she whispers, “Yes,” low but definite.

He strokes her clit with the tip of his tongue, slow and playful. Every sound she makes is a victory. He sucks it into his mouth and she cries out, fierce and guttural; he rewards her with a finger inside. He’s careful, wary of any barrier—but either she lost it or Vulcans don’t have one, because the path is slick and unimpeded, and she rocks forward, encouraging him. He gives her a second, and goes faster and more insistent on her clit; this time her cry is a desperate “Jim!” He doesn’t stop, no mercy, and she convulses around him, all heat and slickness and urgent staccato consonants. He still doesn’t stop, and she does it again, with cries so breathy that they might be pleas.

He pulls away and stands up. Her face is flushed the pale green of early-spring shoots, and there’s actual sweat at her temples. She touches two fingertips to his face, and he realizes that he’s wet with her—marked, he thinks, or claimed. She touches the tips to her mouth, face speculative, then raises an eyebrow at him.

He pushes her onto her back, and he’s inside her with one hard thrust.

With horror, he realizes that this isn’t how you’re supposed to do it—a girl’s first time is supposed to be slow, gentle, let her get used to it and to you. Except that Spock’s got one hand in his hair again, pulling him into a deep, hard kiss, and the other on his ass, urging him just as ferociously. She's moving with him, against him, all lithe limbs and lean muscle, and he bites his lip, gets himself under control. He maneuvers his hand between them and gets back to her clit; her eyes fly open in surprise and she breaks their kiss, stutters his name.

She shudders around him in orgasm, and he can’t hold back anymore—he pours himself inside her, comes until he’s trembling with it, held close in her arms, cradled in her thighs. He buries his face in her neck and lets it rush out of him, moaning into her throat and leaving a bite on the arch of her shoulder.

They stay like that, both breathing, wrapped around each other. After a few moments, reluctantly, he moves to lie next to her, and there’s some rudimentary cleaning. When that’s done, she cups his cheekbone and he rests a hand on her hip, and they spend a little while just looking at each other. He strokes her hair some more, because he can. He’s languorous, sleepy, ready for a nap and then maybe some food when they wake up. But of course his Vulcan girl is wide awake and ready for life, like always.

“You are tired?” she asks.

“You wore me out,” he says. “But just give me a minute, and I’ll be back online.”

She shakes her head. “Sleep. And we will partake of a meal when you awaken.”

“But—”

“It would please me if you would rest,” she says.

“Okay,” he relents, because you don’t fight Spock on certain things.

She turns them, so that her chest is to his back, and gathers him into her arms. It makes him the little spoon, but whatever—they’re on leave and no one has to know. It’s like being watched over, taken care of, and it’s actually kind of nice.

She holds him a little closer, and he wonders whether he just communicated that incredibly wussy thought to his favorite touch-telepath. Probably.

Whatever. It feels good.

He tangles their fingers together and drifts into hazy, peaceful dreams.
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