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THE BRIAR PATCH








They banged up against the far corner of the bedchamber. Spock's thick breath lapped his neck, wrapped around it; the heat of it seemed to leak down his shirt, to penetrate right through his skin. It violated his mouth and nose; it entered him at every opportunity.



Where their lips met, it was fierce, not gentle. Later he would be swollen, even bruised. He barely had space or means to breathe. He jerked his neck to steal some air, but the back of his head wedged more firmly into the corner until his skull pressed painfully on two sides.



These movements were involuntary, the blind reflexes of a body doing what it must. All his thoughts, all his drives, all his will and all his yens were focused lower, where their bodies blended, hearts hammering nearly one atop the other, and much lower still, where Spock's hand cupped his pants and held him tightly between the legs.



Jim spread his hips a little further, but the corner boxed him in. The wainscot shelf dug a dent into his side; the hunger in his crotch stayed just as keen. Spock pressed him too closely in front--too close, yet not in the spot he craved. He thrust and gyred, but couldn't satisfy his longings. Instead he reached around, groping, letting his hands find whatever compensations they could reach.



They found their way down the back of Spock's pants. They clutched at his ass, clung to it. Something tore; he needed this much too much. Someone moaned in their mouths--he wasn't sure who. With all his might he tried once again to move, but he couldn't budge against that strength.



He settled for the next best thing, and pulled Spock closer still. He couldn't fight that brawn, but he could use it.



Oh yes, he could use it all right.



"Lie down for me." Spock's timbre was soft; his tone was not. Predictably, the rebel in Jim flared.



"Uh-uh." Jim shook his head. There were two dull thuds as his skull banged against each wall. He rocked his pelvis up and out and felt his clothing cloying to his skin. Sweat dripped down his uniform, down every crack and crease. His balls itched; they ached. He wanted nothing more than the dear relief of skin on his love's silken skin.



"Lie down for me," the frank desire echoed in his ear.



"Hell no."



It was the wrong thing to say. Spock dropped his hand, grabbed Jim's arms, and with the ease of a man handling a child, twisted him around and stomach against the back wall beside the bed. He bent him forward over the wainscot ledge, legs banging up against the shelving, cheek against the wall.



With one hand, Spock held Jim's wrists, with the other he ripped the trousers off. There was a word of protest, a name, then Spock reached below and cupped the heavy-laden balls wrapping them in the heat of one palm. The scent of musk aroused diffused through the room in unmistakable accusation; the only noise was the furious breathing of the two.



It was not a mechanically advantageous hold. Any healthy man with a modicum of training could have broken loose. But what many people never come to understand is that those who always lead can never rest--can never know the sweet freedom that can be born of chains. The rock solid surety that one can let go completely and yet--in the hold of bonds of utter trust and love-- never be allowed to fall, is not a bondage but a magnificent release.



And so Jim Kirk did not break away in that unguarded moment, but he waited until Spock covered him from behind. He heard the seal of a fly come undone, then in the rear there came the familiar feel of Spock's caressing hand.



His body was spread wide, though not as wide open as he felt. He closed his eyes and let the sensation carry him away. He thrilled to every touch that seemed to sample every vulnerable inch, but leave a greater empty ache somewhere deep inside.



The shelf dug into his pelvis--crushed him painfully where he craved to be touched in tenderness. The stance was awkward and uncomfortable, but his brain focused solely on the travel of Vulcan fingers--no, more than fingers--pawing, exploring him from behind.



He couldn't predict where the next touch would land. Each new place jarred his sensitized nerves afresh like a surge of electricity running deep inside his gut. He gasped and all but came when the first trail of cool jelly spread along his crack. He stopped himself by sheer force of iron will.



Half of the pleasure is in the fight. The sweetest victories are hard earned.



He must have said something, for Spock answered, "yes," but he had neither the interest nor the ability to consider what it might have been. His only awareness was the precious sanctuary of Spock's hand cradling him, holding him without mercy from beneath.



The hand held constant. Something poked him a little higher, farther back. It tiptoed across his hole, then away, then almost--then almost, but not quite back in again.



Jim held his breath; his body coiled, his balls contracted, more than ready to release the load they held dammed within. The phantom touch hovered so close that Jim could feel it twitch--feel every pulse of blood. His balls hurt; his body screamed to be filled. It was so empty to be alone.



The touch hovered. From a distance, Jim heard himself beg. Right now, this was all he wanted. As he panted needy and expectant, it seemed like all he would ever need.



Spock licked his ear. A shiver ran down his body and back. "Lie down for me." Spock's voice dripped thick, and sticky, but never sweet.



It was very, very far from sweet.



"Never." It sounded like more of a curse than a word.



Spock growled; there was no better term. In one harsh movement, the fingers spread his cheeks wide apart. Jim tried to relax. God, this was going to feel so good! He braced himself against the shelf dripping in anticipation of the exquisite pain that would end his ache, and then he felt the tongue.



The rough rasp tickled around the edges, teased for just a moment before plunging against the rim. Caught unawares by the sensation, Jim thrashed wildly at the shelf. A Vegan statuette went flying; a book tumbled to the deck. He bucked and thrust back into the tickle, trying to capture more. Spock knew just how he liked it, knew just how to drive him mad. The tongue went deeper; the feeling churned through his guts, close to overload--so very, very close.



And then it was gone, leaving his body crying out for more.



Kneeling behind him, face pressed against his ass, Spock held his legs in a tight wrap. There was nowhere to go. There was nothing to do but wait.



"Lie down for me."



The words were uneven now. There was no demand in the tone; it was almost a plea. Spock's chest heaved against his thighs. A hand massaged his inner leg, circling high in a reflexive rhythm, stoking him, touching him everywhere but there. The penis bobbed against his knee, hard as duranium and swollen to its limit. Spock needed this as much as he did. Endgame. It only remained to be seen which king would be left standing.



Jim smiled into the wall. A shameless finger tormented him with promises of what could be. He jerked and oozed again as a thumb brushed his cock. Vulcan's did not have accidental contacts like that. He felt the movements as Spock shifted and revised his hold. He heard the rustle of fabric falling down along the length of hairy thighs. The words repeated again.



Jim summoned his resolve.



"Like hell, Vulcan!" Seizing the moment, Jim moved.



He twisted and flipped, landed Spock face down over the bunk. He jerked one leg free and clear of his ruined trousers, and leaned his body over and into the center of Spock's ass.



It was a good trick, but not a great one. It was a trick that could have been logically countered by person of greater strength, equal reflexes, sufficient knowledge of his opponent.



Spock went willingly down on his belly.



Flushed, glowing, and gloriously free at last, Jim settled on his angle of attack.



He spread more gel; Spock shivered and clutched the sheets. Jim braced his legs; he nestled his shaft along and between the cheeks. Thrusting back and forth as cool and the heat melted into one perfect medium, he found his rhythm and watched in fascination as his slippery tip poked out above only to disappear within the fold when he rocked away again.



Mesmerized, he watched himself pop up and back, up and back, up and back. The rosy tip beckoned and teased like a professional coquette daring him to come close and sample its charms. He leaned his mouth closer and closer still.



It is a rite of passage, always has been, always will, that each human male must discover it is quite impossible to suck one's self. And yet they keep right on trying. Jim made a lunge--missed; lunged again--missed; summoned himself, lunged one more time, missed and fell out of position, sagging onto the bed. As the spell faded, he came back to himself. The raw lust eased in his balls until the world gradually congealed back into focus.



"Jim?" Spock had turned over, held his shoulders and stared at him with earnest intent. Jim looked up into that face, now so open and vulnerable--just for him. Only for him. That look always made him melt. The touch that accompanied it re-fired his lust.



Jim shook his head. "Not like this. Your face--I want to see your face." He rolled onto his back and raised his legs, an offering freely given on the altar.



With the startling fluidity of a cameloid shape-shifter, Spock's expression changed. Most humans wouldn't have termed it tenderness; any Vulcan would have known it was. Spock shuddered as he stood and positioned himself.



He took the full weight of the human legs over his arms; he grabbed Jim's ass and pulled it in. He hesitated, as if for permission. There were no words in the air; they were written all over Jim's face. Spock touched him once; Jim groaned and splayed his hips as his penis leaked another heady drop. Waiting further would be torture not technique, and so Spock plunged himself in, holding back nothing at all.



How could he hold back anything? He never could with Jim.



If Jim could have picked one moment to live in forever, this would be the one. There was no space, no time, no him, no self, no pain, no needs, no obligations. There was nothing but the visceral joy as wave after wave of primal pleasure crashed and rolled and receded only to start all over again. They were one in the motion, one in the feeling, one in each other's hold.



He watched Spock's eyes roll back in concentration or dissolution, watched the passion wash the stones of Vulcan clean away. He closed his eyes; Spock's face still loomed front and center in his inner vision, that ineffable look of control eviscerated proclaiming the victory that is love.



The pace didn't change, but he heard the crack in Spock's breathing. That most basic of all body functions was now gone far beyond his control. Jim knew his man was close.



"Come with me," Spock managed.



How long had they been here? Time had ceased to pass. Jim dropped his hand to his belly, felt himself clammy and oily, but now soft as the day he'd been born. He'd forgotten his organs, forgotten the goal, forgotten the need to come. He'd forgotten everything except that glorious wholeness living and moving deep inside him now.



"I can't. You go." Jim raised his legs higher still.



Spock pulled back--pulled out. Jim moaned at the loss.



Spock shifted and freed his arms, sliding Jim's legs up to his shoulders. Jim steeled himself and waited--and waited--but the final thrust he expected never came.



He opened his eyes. Spock stood before him, stroking himself, his breathing ragged, his face utterly undone.



He watched Spock move his body to the same meter that had sung within him, between them both. He could almost feel the familiar friction again, like an echo or a shadow of something that had been in times past, haunting him with its unsubstantiated promises. He reached for himself--he was swelling already. Something wet slid down his crack and tickled when he moved. He tried to shuffle his ass to draw the drip away, but Spock's left hand still held his hip.



He soothed himself now more from sheer need than from conscious sexuality. His body remembered the release it needed even if his mind did not, and his penis strained within the grip of his hand.



It has been said that he made a beautiful sight.



Spock's eyes rolled back and he quickened the actions of his wrist. "Faster," Spock whispered. Faster and faster still.



They matched stroke for stroke in perfect two-part harmony until the pressure centered in his pelvis was once again as acute as the crying void within his middle. "Now!" he choked, and Spock was back inside before the word had fully passed his lips.



It wasn't like the last time. This was fierce and merciless. If he had had the presence of mind to count, he would have made it at most to five before they both cried out, Spock first, Jim afterward--mission completed--content to let himself go.



The orgasm was everything he had expected and more.











They found themselves on the deck in an interesting pile of arms and legs and sheets and pants. Getting up seemed far too much trouble, so Jim settled for a cuddle with a shoulder and a patch of chest. He was smelly, sweaty and thoroughly depleted, but for now mind and body and soul were all at perfect peace.



Here in the quiet afterglow he could feel their psychic connection without the formality of a meld. He slipped a hand under Spock's shirt, and let his palm settle over the thrumming heart. For the millionth time he marveled anew at the all-consuming gentle affection that flooded over him with out reserve. Sometimes he thought this was the best past.



Then he remembered that orgasm.







Well, maybe not the very best part, but it was certainly in the top two.



Jim Kirk did not have a close association with the concept of humility, but the intensity of such devotion directed solely at him humbled him every time. He had done nothing to deserve such a gift, but he was determined to be worthy of it.



If it took him the rest of his life, he would earn the right.



"Jim."



"Mmm?" Jim wasn't entirely sure that he had vocalized the sound aloud.



"Lie down with me."



The chuckle came out as more of a snort. Jim pulled himself onto the bunk, making it almost to his half before he collapsed. He waved his nearer arm in invitation and pulled off his utterly ruined shirt to better feel the presence and yes, the emotions next to him as they turned in for the night. He wrapped an arm around Spock's waist to refresh the connection, and basked in their love again.



Then again, maybe this was the best part.



It certainly was no hardship, he thought as they settled in to spoon. Really, all Spock ever had to do was ask.
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