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Story Notes:

This is an (entirely plot-free) deleted scene from a longer story I'm writing. Kirk and Spock have just concluded negotiations with an advanced society which has agreed to join the Federation. When they return to their guest accommodation, they discover that their hosts have the power to create molecularly-perfect replicas of biological matter based on images in their minds.

Counterfeit goods

 

“I’d wager this is perfect to the molecule as well.” Kirk had in his hands a bottle of Dom Perignon. He was somehow unsurprised to see it was the same vintage he’d drunk the night he took command of the Enterprise.  

“If it is, it is highly illegal,” said Spock. “The synthesis of origin-controlled—”

“I know.” Kirk’s smile came with a roll of his eyes. “But, since we don’t want to get our new friends thrown out of the Federation before they’ve even joined, I think it would be only fair to dispose of the evidence.”

“No doubt that is what Doctor McCoy would say.”

“And he’d be right.” Kirk began untwisting the cage from the top of the bottle. It really was perfect, right down to the traditional cork. “Come on, Spock. Have a drink with me. We’re not on duty. We can have some fun.”

Spock gave the human a long-suffering look. It was the wrong strategy, as it left him open to a frontal assault from Jim’s huge hazel eyes.

“Very well. I shall have a glass of champagne.”

Between them they finished the bottle. The effect on Spock was to leave him not exactly drunk but somewhat disinhibited. However, as the result was Jim in his lap, naked, with his tongue halfway down Spock’s throat, the science officer was prepared to judge the experiment a success.

Kirk was getting squirmy as the kiss continued. Spock had latched on to his nipples, which only heightened his agitation. He broke for air and rose up on his knees, grinding his cock into the Vulcan’s chest hair. He was forming an idea that he might quite like to fuck Spock before very much time had passed, and it was better that he didn’t let things go that way, because it was always better the other way around, and he wanted this night to be perfect.

“Hey.” Kirk painted the word on a pointed ear. “Are you going to suck me, mister?”

“I am presently undecided as to what I am going to do with you.” Spock suppressed a shiver at the feel of Kirk’s soft, wet mouth against his acutely sensitive ear. “In find I am enjoying seeing you torment yourself in this manner.”

“You’re a sadist,” Kirk grunted. He bent to kiss Spock again, then grabbed his hand and shoved it down to his throbbing penis.

“I do not think so.” Spock removed the hand and planted both on Kirk’s buttocks instead. Then—slowly, deliberately—he trailed one finger down the sensitive cleft to tantalise Kirk’s anus. Kirk grunted and ground himself into Spock’s sternum, to which Spock replied by pushing the finger inside him—a little way, then just deep enough to brush Kirk’s prostate—and leaving it there.

“Shit, Spock, what are you doing?”

“I am working you into a state of frenzy,” Spock replied calmly.

“You’re telling me.” Kirk was wriggling, trying to press himself back onto Spock’s finger. It was too much and not enough, the not-quite pressure on his sensitive gland, and now his groin was aching, craving release.

Spock remained unmoved. His own cock was iron-hard, but his Vulcan control was harder, and so he sat, motionless, as his hapless lover writhed in his lap.

Kirk was sweating now, panting. He groaned and reached for his cock, but Spock caught his hand with his free one, leaving him with the choice of a left-handed job or begging—and he was not going to beg.

“Spock, why are you doing this to me?”

“Because you are so utterly, exquisitely beautiful—and at this moment I cannot think of anything more arousing than watching you like this.”

Kirk blinked. Maybe Vulcans were more susceptible to alcohol than he’d thought.

“All right.” Time for a change of tack. “And what are you going to do next?” His voice was low, breathy, calculated to seduce as he had so many times before.

“I am going to watch you,” Spock said, with a calmness and finality that condemned Kirk to suffer forever, pinned like a butterfly on the edge of pleasure. “And then I want to fuck you. Over... and over.” Spock’s finger circled inside Kirk with the rhythm of the words. “I want to fuck you, Jim.”

“Then for god’s sake do it!”

Happily for his captain, Spock had not forgotten the importance of obeying a direct order. He removed the finger, and in one motion sprang to his feet, carrying Kirk to the vast, molecularly-perfect feather bed.

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