DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of T'Eros and is copyright (c) 2001 by T'Eros. This is rated NC-17 for sexual situations.
If only he could get some sleep, perhaps the demons pounding away inside his head would settle down for a short time. He'd tried meditating without success, unable to still his jittery nerves and the growing sense of imbalance in his soul. And he was so tired. So wretchedly tired. Fighting to stay alert and in control was sapping his strength.
He decided to lie down, for a while at any rate. Even if his mind would not sink into the serenity of sleep, at least he could rest his body and stop it from pacing tensely for the duration of his self-enforced rest period.
Spock stretched out atop the red coverlet on his bed, willing his body to relax. Home. Must get home! The cadence of the blood pounding in his ears kept up its insistent, monotonous rhythm. T'Pring. Parted from me and never parted ... never and always touching and touched ... I await you at the ... I await you ... await ... Hurry, T'Pring ... I cannot wait much longer ... Hurry...
What would she be like now? The only holoimage he had of her was from their childhood betrothal. Strange that he had never requested, nor had she ever sent him, a more up-to-date holo of herself. Nor had he provided her with one of him. He had not actually seen her for ... how long? His chaotic thought patterns refused to work, to pinpoint precisely the number of years, weeks and days since their last meeting. A long time, anyway.
He had been home on long leave during a refit of the Enterprise's warp engines, four months in space dock. Beyond restoring himself with a long visit back to Vulcan, basking in its glorious desolation and energizing heat, he had dutifully attended to personal and family business. One of those duties had been paying a call on T'Pring and her family.
Her father had been hard-pressed to keep in check his impatience with T'Pring's pledgemate. "How much longer will it be, Spock?" he had demanded. "Why do you delay? When I was your age, I was already the father of two children. Why do you not declare the Bonding time and fulfill your marriage to my daughter?"
"I am an officer in Starfleet," Spock had hedged. "I have very little control over how long I would be away on missions. I could be gone for years."
"But leaving behind a wife and heir, should the ancestors look on your marriage approvingly," the older Vulcan had argued. "Or have you found something in T'Pring that causes this disfavor?"
"No, that is not it at all," Spock had answered with unseemly hurry. "It would simply not be logical to take T'Pring to wife and possibly father a child with her and then leave her for extended periods of time. I have no desire to do that."
And all the while T'Pring had sat across the room, perched daintily on the edge of a chair, her eyes boring holes into his soul, demanding that he fulfill his duty to her, eradicate the humiliation that she was enduring because of his continued avoidance of her, and yet feeling dirtied to be pledged to this half-human thing who could not even be counted on to uphold the ancient traditions.
Spock winced as the memory caused his headache to stab him anew and he rolled over on his side in an attempt to locate a comfortable position. He ached all over, as if his muscles had been abused by a rigorous set of exercise. All of his joints ached, too, and no matter which way he turned, it made some part of him hurt even more.
He couldn't get T'Pring's face out of his mind. The way he'd seen her at their last meeting. Great dark eyes, delicate upswept brows, small, perfect nose, generous mouth and full lips. Petite but lush, womanly body. Full breasts, full hips, slim waist. Beautiful, supple legs. Legs... Oh, how he wanted to lie between those legs and quench the conflagration that was burning him alive. To join with her and finally release the beast within him that was struggling violently at its restraints. His internal fire would set her aflame as well and they would melt and fuse into the blood fever, and he would make her his there upon the sands of his homeland.
The fever roared up to a higher pitch at the thought of what was to come, at the mindless, primeval beast he would be as he took his mate in full consummation of their Bonding. It both excited and horrified him and Spock gasped and struggled to force the beast back down inside his soul. He was only partially successful.
Groaning, he curled into a fetal position on his bed. He was losing control of his body. No matter how hard he tried, he could not prevent the throbbing erection that swelled his manhood into a shaft of fire whenever he thought of T'Pring. And he thought of her all the time now. Night and day and for hours without end. It was becoming unbearable. He was a prisoner in his cabin now, ashamed to be seen in the throes of this uncontrollable sexual condition.
Masturbation had provided him no relief. He needed mental contact with his mate, needed to enter her mind even as he entered her body, joining with her soul as they fused into a new being. He was frantic to consummate his Bonding with T'Pring now, if only to bring himself some respite from this torment. And yet the thought of the last time he'd seen her, the way her hard black eyes had seared through him with contempt, he could not imagine a permanent mind link with this woman. It was abhorrent.
He rolled over onto his other side, his back toward the bed chamber entry, and sheer exhaustion finally dragged him down into a light, fitful sleep. It wasn't deep and dreams of T'Pring's eyes kept him from resting properly. They hovered around him, icy, calculating, hate-filled. He couldn't get away from them.
But somewhere in those dreams, her cold dark eyes changed into warm blue ones. Her face became kind and caring, not as stunningly, exotically beautiful as before, but a face full of devotion for him, with a soul behind it that loved him exactly the way he was, with all the flaws he tried so desperately to hide, the emotions he tried to keep from showing.
A warm soul that reached out to him, despite his constant rebuffs, and was reaching out now, this minute. Beside his bed. Almost touching him before thinking better of it. Wanting to soothe the hurt in him, to stroke his hair, to hold him. To cradle him in her arms and press his fevered face against her cool breast until the heat and madness left him and he was returned whole to her.
But then she was drawing back, turning away, emotions warring within her and, as she moved toward the door, he opened his eyes and knew it was no dream. She had really come to him, despite his previous irrational anger and violence toward her, despite the danger now.
Without moving, he said softly, "Miss Chapel..."
He could hear that she had halted and could detect the short, startled intake of her breath. He lifted himself and looked over his shoulder at her. She was standing with her back to him, one hand against the doorframe for support, rigid with apprehension. But then she steeled herself and turned calmly back toward him. "Yes, Mr. Spock?" she asked, as if it were perfectly normal for her to come into his cabin uninvited, to stand over him as he slept, to observe him at his most intimate and defenseless moments.
He continued the smooth movement that brought him upright, sitting on the side of his bed, one foot tucked underneath him, one forearm resting lightly on his thigh. "I had the most startling dream," he informed her. "You were trying to tell me something ... but I couldn't hear you."
She gulped, taken by surprise, and couldn't speak. He felt the maelstrom of emotions in her -- fear, hope, love. He rose to his feet and she took an instinctive step toward him, but he halted her with a raised palm. He didn't know if he could control himself had she touched him. But he was unsteady on his feet and braced himself with a hand on the top of his dresser, the other slipped behind his back.
For a second, he analyzed the feelings he was receiving from her ... and the emotions that were warring within himself. She wanted him, loved him desperately. Wanted to help him in a nurturing way, but overlying it all was the overwhelming sexual attraction she felt for him. And in his sexually heightened state, his body was reacting to hers. She wasn't T'Pring, but he wanted her. Wanted to take what she instinctively offered ... needed to take it. And he dared not.
She seemed to tremble as she stood before him, keeping herself from going to him. Locked as he was in the fever of plak tow, he fairly radiated sexual potency. Had she not already been drawn to him, he would have pulled her irresistibly now as a moth to a flame. His flame. It was frightening how much she wanted him. He could feel it in her, an aura that radiated all around her and echoed back through his own soul with a power that shook him.
Run! he thought desperately to her. Get out while I still have a shred of sanity. Before I lose all sense of self-control. But he couldn't let her go. He just couldn't. Because he wanted her, too, with a depth of desire that was growing as every second passed. Wanted her because she was not like T'Pring, who would come to him in obligation and contempt. No, Christine had come out of caring and understanding of him. Understanding to the point of backing away from him now because she thought that was what he wanted of her, no matter how much pain it inflicted upon herself. And he couldn't allow her to feel such pain on his account.
With surprising gentleness, Spock said softly, "It is illogical to ... protest against our natures ... don't you think, Miss Chapel?"
The deep, dark baritone of his voice sent a chill over her body, further fraying her controls. Shivering, she didn't notice the tear that slipped down her cheek as she answered, her voice quavering, "I ... I don't understand."
He moved closer to her, the overwhelming masculinity of his persona engulfing her. "Your face is wet," he whispered and reached up to wipe the salty drop of moisture away.
As soon as his finger came into contact with her skin, it was as if lightning had cracked between them. His desperately searching maleness seized upon her femininity and the plak tow exploded within him. It jolted through her being with the suddenness of a photon blast and her answering eruption of instant arousal nearly took the top of her head off.
The next thing she knew, she was being crushed hard against him, meeting his devouring kiss with a fervor easily as great as his own. Then he seemed to come to his senses as well and lifted his mouth from hers, pulling away a bit to stare at her in a bewildered manner, something very like fear in the depths of his deep brown eyes.
"I'm sorry," he finally said in a soft, hoarse voice. "I do not know why I did that."
"Yes, you do," she answered, breathless, looking up into the fever-bright eyes. "Because you needed to. You still need to."
His breath was ragged. "I must ... control ... that need. I cannot give in to it."
She could feel his hands shaking as they continued to grip her arms. "I'm here now, Spock. Give in to it," she whispered. "There's no need to hold back any longer."
He closed his eyes and drew a sobbing breath, his whole body trembling. "Do not offer me that option, Christine," he answered, using her given name without thinking. "I am too close as it is to being completely at the mercy of the blood fever. If I surrender now, I will be lost."
"I came to tell you that we are bound for Vulcan, but we won't be there for five days," she said. "Can you hold out for that long?"
"I must," he replied through clenched teeth. Another tremor shook his body and, as she instinctively pulled him against her, he bent to rest his forehead against hers, working to maintain control. "I must!"
She could feel the state of his body as he pressed against her, the heat of the fever, the intense arousal that he fought. He wouldn't make it. He was near the flashpoint of full plak tow and the sexual firestorm inside him was setting her on fire as well. She could feel sweat breaking out on her brow as her body responded to his with the most profound sense of sexual excitement she'd ever felt. No, he wouldn't make it to Vulcan. And neither would she. And if he wouldn't bow to logic, then she would. Here. Now. And without delay.
Pushing him away just a little, she took his face between her hands and brought his lips down to hers. He flinched away but she held him steady, continuing to kiss his unresponsive mouth. She could feel that his teeth were clenched tightly behind his pale lips. He closed his eyes as if in pain and gave another sound like a sob, and she felt his lips move against hers, hesitantly and then again. Then with a moan of exquisite surrender, his mouth came full upon hers as the final threads of his control broke.
As his hands went convulsively around her, she heard fabric rip and realized that it was a seam on her uniform. He was tearing it apart in his fever-fueled haste.
She tried unsuccessfully to shove him away, but his lips were intent on hers, his fingers continuing to pull at her clothing. Finally, she slammed him full in the chest with the heel of her hand and shouted, "Spock! Wait!"
Breathing hard, his gaze showing the first wild incomprehension of plak tow, he stared at her.
"Let me get my clothes off myself," she said forcefully. "You get yours off, too. While you're still able to."
He seemed to mull that over and then numbly turned to comply, undressing himself with fumbling fingers while she hastily disrobed, glumly surveying the damage to her uniform. As he finished up his task, Christine took a moment to click the lock on the door and then punched the intercom to sick bay. "Dr. McCoy," she said softly. "Please don't ask any questions because I can't answer them. I just wanted to let you know that I've been called to Mr. Spock's cabin and I may be here for some time. Please don't let anyone disturb us. It's very, very important."
"Doctor, I can't answer you! Just leave us alone! It's urgent that you do!"
There was a few seconds of silence then McCoy replied, "All right, Christine. I hope you know what you're doing."
She glanced over to where Spock was standing beside his bed, waiting for her, naked now, his eyes fixed on her with a frightening intensity. "So do I," she murmured and went to him.
Despite her powerful need for him, her step faltered as she approached him, for there was a madness covering his face now that made her hesitate. He was intensely aroused, his breath coming shallow and quick as he stared at her, and something told her that, whoever this man was, the special spark that made him "Spock" was no longer there. She doubted that he even knew who she was -- that she was simply female, woman, mate.
Swallowing, she steeled herself and stepped up to him. For a moment, his wild eyes roamed her features, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent, then abruptly he seized her face between his strong fingers and initiated a mind meld. It was so emphatic that she couldn't help crying out and instinctively fighting the invading force that slammed itself into her mind, but it was to no avail. Fire crackled around her and through her, devouring her. Red flames of alien suns and roaring volcanos howled through her psyche, possessing her, and a firestorm of sexual fervor consumed her in its powerful heat.
She found herself hard against him, rubbing her body against his, nails digging into his back, her groin grinding against his in a primal rhythm that further inflamed both of them. There was no foreplay as humans would do. They needed none. He twisted, taking them both down onto his bed, and at once sought to center himself between her thighs, searching for her opening.
She needed no preparation. The overwhelming desire that smothered her had immediately caused her to be ready to receive him and she eagerly spread herself beneath him. It took only a moment before his seeking hardness found the goal it sought and, with a heave, he was within her, hilt-deep. He came quickly and hard, hardly pausing before he began pumping into her again.
She writhed in ecstasy beneath his straining body, running her hands from the bulging muscles of his shoulders down to his tight, working hips and back. Her nails scored bleeding grooves in his skin, neither of them noticing as he pounded away into her. Their minds were locked together and they were lost in a world of their own, a mental world in which he was elemental man and she elemental woman, fused together in a mating that went on and on. And each time in that world, as he emptied his seed into her eagerly receiving body, unknowingly he was doing the same with his physical body and hers.
In the real world, he remained atop her, buried deep within her, but in their mental world he took her in positions that boggled the imagination. He could not get enough of her for she engendered a hunger in his soul that demanded endless feeding and yet refused to be satiated. Again and again, he sought the tight, slick sheath of her sex, knowing only that he must mate her repeatedly until the madness left him and the fever burned itself to ash. And for time without end, she returned to him -- his woman. His mate. His ... love...
An interminable time later, it was over. He came to his senses slowly, in growing awareness that he was lying with his face against the warm, moist skin of Christine Chapel's neck. His arms still embraced her and her breasts pushed up against his torso. His stomach pressed against hers, the bare skin of his abdomen moving against hers as they both took deep breaths of air, and -- more importantly -- his hips nestled snugly between her spread thighs, the heat and wetness there telling its own unmistakable story.
With a cold shock of horror and embarrassment, he realized what had happened. He had lost control and taken her sexually in his madness. How he would ever explain this to her was beyond his comprehension. Surely she would press charges of rape against him and would be totally justified in doing so. He was guilty. Completely and totally guilty.
As he began to lift himself gingerly off her, her eyes opened and she smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. That reaction stopped him in mid-motion and he peered down at her, puzzled. In answer to his unspoken query, she asked softly, "How are you feeling? Any better?"
"Yes," he answered, at a loss. "Christine ... I'm ... I'm sorry for what happened. This is inexcusable. I cannot begin to make it up to you. If you will allow us both time to dress, I will go with the security guards with no protest."
She reached up for him, drawing him back down into her arms, unable to suppress a soft, warm chuckle. "Oh, Spock, you don't remember, do you?" she asked. "You would never have made it to Vulcan. You would have gone insane if you hadn't released some of the pressure building up in you."
He looked devastated. "I am truly sorry, Christine," he answered hoarsely. "I should have been stronger ... never subjected you to ..."
"Hush," she answered in a whisper. "It was my choice."
"Then I did not ... force ... you ...?"
She smiled blissfully and whispered, "Not in the least. And it was ... extraordinary."
He didn't know what to say to that. The fact was, he did remember. Parts of it at least. And the parts he remembered of the twining fantasies of their combined minds -- furious, fiery mating ... making love on a moonlit beach ... coupling in zero-gee ... taking her again and again and again -- all this plus their intimate position began to cause his body to react of its own accord.
He looked dismayed because obviously the blood fever still burned within him and his body recognized and desired its chosen bondmate. She knew it, even if he did not, and caressing his face, she said softy, "Spock, it is illogical to protest against our natures."
And she pulled him unresisting down to her kiss.