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"Passionfruit"
Rating: NC-17 Part Two Enterprise Turbolift, 2205 hours "Something *is* affecting the female crewmembers on the Enterprise," T'Pol stated steadily. "Something intangible to the sensors, a factor that is . . ." " . . . emotional?" Trip guessed nervously. He'd braced himself against the side of the turbolift car and watched the science officer with the same wary fascination a bird has for a snake. She nodded hesitantly. "Emotional. Hormonal to be precise. Dr. Phlox will begin to see the pattern within an hour from now." She shook her head slowly. Trip felt a needle of concern, and held out a hand. T'Pol looked at it. "I know you're a Vulcan and you suppress everything, but maybe I can help," he ventured. She raised her stare from his hand to his face, and Trip felt the heat of her gaze. He faltered. "Or not . . ." he gulped. Her eyes were smoldering; she licked her upper lip. Trip felt his knees buckle under the wicked surge of his body's reaction and forced himself to keep his voice light. "I should try to repair the lift control . . ." "Without tools?" she pointed out softly. He glanced beyond her to the crumpled control and winced. "Why'd the hell you do it, anyway?" "It was logically necessary," T'Pol admitted with reluctance. "I am not in complete control of my . . . drives, and you are--" A light dawned on Trip, and as it did so, a tiny smirk lit up his face. "Attractive. Admit it--" T'Pol looked slightly ill, but she refused to deny it. As fast as his grin came, it vanished, and he shifted uneasily. "Last I heard, Vulcans don't get attracted, especially to humans. Theory is that you all probably reproduce by genetic lottery or something." T'Pol raised an eyebrow, and Trip shrugged. "It is a private matter, and not open for discussion, especially by those who would not understand," came her cold statement. Trip crossed his arms and glared at her. "Try me. It may be my first trip off the planet, Sub Commander, but I know how to fuck." T'Pol blushed; the greenish bronze flooded her cheekbones in a sudden bloom of exotic color. Trip waited. Finally, she began to speak in a rush, not looking directly at him. "In the distant past, Vulcans were quite violent. When Surak brought enlightenment through logic to us, we suppressed the baser parts of our nature. However, one aspect could not be completely . . . controlled." "Un huh," Trip prodded gently. T'Pol licked her lips again, a faint hint of sweat at her hairline. "The drive to mate underwent a transformation. Vulcan males developed a seven cycle of Pon Farr, or blood fever. When it happens, they must mate or they will die." Trip digested this thoughtfully, aware of what this revelation cost in terms of her dignity. T'Pol moved closer to him. "Okay, it's different, but logical I guess. What about the women?" "We are mentally linked to our mates at our childhood betrothals," she spoke slowly now. "We sense when their blood fever is eminent, and our own cycles begin." "A cycle of--?" Trip asked, suddenly sensing the answer in T'Pol's proximity. "Arousal. To procreate successfully, we must synchronize with our mates for maximum receptivity." "But you don't have a mate . . ." Trip looked at her with a tender pity. She said nothing. He uncrossed his arms and asked, "T'Pol, are you telling me your cycle's going? That if you don't mate, you're liable to die?" The pause was agonizing. She nodded. Trip drew in a huge sigh, and spun, slamming a hand on the wall. He hung his head, shaking it. "Damn it woman, of all the places and all the times to . . ." "I did consider dying," she retorted. Turning back, Trip flashed a quick grin at her defiant glare. "But instead, you got us in a situation where the choice is really no choice at all. How the hell did you end up picking me? You don't even *like* me!" "On the contrary. You have proven yourself to be both discreet and compassionate," She pointed out gently. "But the Captain--" "Captain Archer is still coming to terms with his emotions concerning Vulcan's, and considering the added complications of my situation--" "--Added complications?" Trip demanded. "I don't think it can get any more complicated. I'm trapped in a turbolift with a hormonally charged Vulcan female who could snap me in two at any point during sex. How the hell could it get any worse?" "I am virgin." *** *** *** It took twenty minutes for the newly freed and dressed Reed to work through his rage. He calmly and methodically destroyed an outdated training manual, tossed the mangled remains into a disposal and then turned his attention to Gordon-Ross's whereabouts. Grimly, he began a swift systematic search of the ship, using a life form scanner pinpoint her bio-pattern as he strode along. Reed bypassed Engineering and the Bridge out of an odd sense of trust; despite her outrageous behavior, Gordon-Ross hadn't lied and he didn't expect her to start. The turbolift didn't seem to be working, so Reed climbed his way to the next deck and swung the scanner around at the personal quarters. A flare of light images showed him that Mayweather had company, that neither T'Pol nor Trip were in, and that Archer was holding some sort of party. He stepped forward, and a blipping sound made him glance down in surprise. She was here. It was an unexpectedly simple turn of events. He marveled at her sheer audacity, knowing that her own confidence was about to do her in. Tucking the scanner away, he pushed open his own cabin door and stumbled. Bending down, he kicked away the discarded karate uniform that still smelled faintly of Shalimar. More clothing formed a trail into the room: a tee shirt, a brassiere, and a pair of still-warm panties. Reed scooped them up, suddenly, painfully aware of their silkiness. He had always prided himself on being able to keep in balance, and yet here was Gordon-Ross of all people, shy timid little Gordon-Ross putting him to the test. Angrily he tossed the lingerie back on the floor and stepped forward, determined not to let lust overcome his judgment. The cabin was dark except for a light coming from under the bathroom door. He set the scanner on the desk and pushed the door open with deliberate slowness. No one was there. Puzzled, he tensed and looked around the somewhat Spartan decor: toilet, shower, sink, and linen shelf, no Gordon-Ross. For a second he studied his reflection in the mirror, catching sight of blazing eyes and a hard mouth. He glanced up, expecting an ambush. Nothing, Turning, he looked back into the main room and mentally ran through the very short list of possible hiding places it offered. A faint smile came to him as he thought of looking under the bunk. "It's no use hiding, Lieutenant--the hour is nearly up and I have you dead to rights," he called out. No answer. He reached for the scanner and waved it around the room, realizing even as he did so that she'd slipped out while he was checking the bathroom. A classic backtrack. Her life form was now far down the corridor. There were only seven minutes left, and Reed raced out the door on her trail. *** *** *** "I don't believe this!! You have no--" "--experience--" T'Pol supplied quietly. The look she gave him was ever so faintly tinged with chagrin, and only someone familiar with her face would have realized how overwhelmed she was. Trip could see a light sheen of sweat growing heavier across her brow. "Okay, let's take this one step at a time. How are you feeling right now?" "Warm. My skin is somewhat sensitive at the moment." "Gimme your hand," he ordered. She held it out and he took it, running his thumb into the hollow of her palm. She blinked. Experimentally, he let his cool fingers glide on the underside from her knuckles to the back of her wrist; she shuddered ever so slightly. "Your calluses are irritating." "Really? Why haven't you pulled away then?" He could see the annoyance in her eyes--to do it now would be childish, but to make no protest would be as much as admitting that the touch was pleasing. Taking pity on her, he let go. "You're feverish all right. Okay, listen to me. I'll help you in any way I can--even if it means getting kinda--" he swallowed hard, "-- intimate. But only three people are ever gonna know about this, okay?" "You, myself and--?" "--the doc. Even if it all turns out fine, I think he ought to know." "Agreed." Trip steeled himself. "T'Pol, I don't know how compatible we're gonna be, but whatever happens, I won't hurt you if I can help it--" "Are humans always so talkative prior to mating?" she growled in irritation. Trip sighed. Advancing slowly, he backed her up against the opposite wall and braced a hand on either side of her shoulders, trapping her. Slowly he brought his mouth close to one delicately pointed ear. "It's called being considerate, " he chided, his breath softly stirring her hair. She closed her eyes. "I would prefer that you perform the necessary actions as quickly as possible," she hissed back. "By tradition, Vulcan males are not particularly gentle or slow." He brushed his lips against her temple. "I ain't Vulcan. Just follow my lead and we'll see where it gets us, okay?" Receiving no reply to this, Trip tenderly planted light kisses across the rise of her cheekbone, trailing his way down the side of her face. T'Pol's skin tasted of something herbal, and the moist heat of it warmed his mouth. When he reached her lips, they were quivering with suppressed tension. "Ready for a kiss?" he coaxed quietly. Languorously, she looked at him through her lashes; Trip pressed forward and let his mouth touch hers with a slow throb of passion. Pliantly she yielded as he gathered her into his arms, pulling her close, focusing his attention on the ripe sweetness of her response. Her arms snaked around him, one of her long legs wrapped around his, and between her hands clutching in the middle of his back, cloth ripped. Trip dizzily broke off the searing kiss, panting. "Jesus, honey, leave me some skin!" His words reached her; T'Pol loosened her grip, and leaping into the fray, Trip kissed her again, flicking his tongue against her lips. She swiftly opened her mouth to his for a deeper, wetter kiss. Trip slid one hand up to cup her breast; she gasped as he spun a gentle thumb in circles over the hard rivet of her nipple. His tongue caressed hers. T'Pol gave a soft moan. "That's my girl. Just keep in mind . . . that lust is . . . just a sensation, not an emotion . . .," Trip muttered between kisses. Despite his calm tone, his own body eagerly responded to the heat of hers, and it took all of his will not to give in too quickly. He ran a hand up her spine and found the zipper to her uniform. It slid down with a soft growl. Impatiently, T'Pol shrugged her way out of the top, baring herself to the waist. The sight of her, hair disheveled, half naked against the wall--Trip tried not to hyperventilate. "Damn you've got--" "--a bodacious rack?" T'Pol retorted softly. Trip flushed, and she reached for the zipper of *his* uniform, yanking it down with enough force to make him wince. Her hands slid into and under his clothing, her warm palms making his skin tingle. Patiently, he managed to get his T-shirt off and dropped it to the floor. T'Pol nipped the edge of his collarbone hard enough to bruise. Trip smothered a groan as her lips burned against his skin. "Slower, lighter . . ." Firmly, he gathered her wrists, and held them behind her, then turned his attention to her chest. His tongue flicked across one ruckered nipple then the other. She writhed, not in protest but in confused desire, as Trip let his teeth rub against the tender flesh. "You must . . . take me soon--" T'Pol hissed as she arched up. Trip let his chest slide on hers as he licked a trail between her breasts to under her chin. He released her wrists and cupped her bottom; she ground herself against him impatiently. Trip shuddered as her hands raked through his hair. "Yeah, soon--" he muttered hoarsely, trying to work the rest of her uniform down. *** *** *** It took Reed only two steps to realize that the scanner in his hand was faulty. He paused, gave it a shake and the life form on it blinked out immediately. A slow smile crossed his stern face as he realized Gordon-Ross had lost her gamble. Quietly, he stalked back to his cabin, where the open doorway beckoned. He stepped in and shut it behind him. "Full marks, Lieutenant. If your jury-rigged scanner had held up, I'd probably be on the next level by now." For a moment, silence, then a muffled oath. Gordon-Ross unfolded her from under the desk, crawling out slowly. Reed lightly pressed the toe of one boot on her fingers. "Ah-ah--" he chided, savoring the delicious image of her on all fours. In the dim light, her bare skin gleamed, and her long curly hair hung down over her shoulders. She raised her head and stared up at him defiantly. "I n-nearly had you, too." She reached for her karate uniform, but Reed applied a little more weight to her fingers and she froze. "No," came his deliberate tone. "We've got a little unfinished business, Gordon-Ross, and these--" he bent down to pick up the clothing, "- -are only going to get in the way." "S-s-sir?" her voice squeaked with desire and fear. Reed straightened up again, crossing his arms behind his back. He could feel himself stiffen. "Security on this ship starts with discipline, lieutenant. An acknowledgment of command." He lifted his boot, letting her pull back her fingers. "On your knees, Miss." Without a word, Gordon-Ross rose up, biting her lip. Reed glanced down at the top of her head. "Strictly speaking, I can't put you in the brig, or even confine you to quarters. Initiative is admirable, but I am still your superior officer." "Yes s-sir." it was barely a whisper. Reed could feel her exhaled breath against his thighs. He licked his upper lip, tasting sweat. "Therefore, I believe an unofficial reprimand is in order. A physical notandum to cement the fact that your place is . . . under me, Lieutenant. Do I make myself clear?" "S-Sir?" "A spanking," Reed growled. Startled, Gordon-Ross looked up at him, disbelief all over her face; Reed met her eyes and nodded slowly. Numbly she got to her feet. He reached over for the desk chair and planted himself in it. "If you please, Lieutenant-" Trembling, she shifted to one side of him, and gently draped herself over his lap; the sensually warm weight of her nearly made him groan, but he merely braced an arm across her delicate shoulder blades. He could hear her whimpering. For a long moment, Reed gazed over the luscious sight of her narrow waist and curvy round bottom before him. His hand flew down and cracked against her flesh. Gordon-Ross jerked, but she didn't cry out. Reed smacked her bottom again, suddenly aware that his breathing was louder. Gordon-Ross mewled and squirmed across his lap while he bit back a grunt. By the time he'd delivered the sixth blow, both of them were trembling. Gordon-Ross was sobbing silently; he could feel her stomach quiver against his straining cock. He pulled her up, and she slid back to her knees resting her hands on his thighs. One searing look passed between them, a shared moment of intimate recognition that spoke volumes. Gordon-Ross stretched up, and lightly took the tab of Reed's uniform in her teeth, tugging it down and open. He stood up, letting her hands strip him. When she was done, she licked away the tears that had trickled to the corners of her mouth and waited. Wordlessly, he backed her up to the edge of the bunk, dropping with her on the sheets. Their coolness stung her bottom; she arched up and gave a soft cry. Reed rolled her over and kissed his way down her spine, flicking his tongue over each vertebra. Gordon-Ross shivered. He chuckled when he reached the dimples at the base of her backbone. "Still holding out?" he whispered. He bent his head and deliberately nipped the rounded tender flesh. She dropped her face into the sheets to muffle a yelp. Her bottom arched up, and Reed shifted behind her, rising on his knees and using them to lever her thighs apart. His hands rested on the pink stripes that stood out on her rear. Slowly, he let his cock plunge into the slick wetness between Gordon-Ross's thighs. She pushed back against him eagerly, a low almost musical moan rising from her throat. Reed groaned, and began to thrust himself into her, his strength rocking them both across the sheets. The muscles running the length of his hard stomach tightened as Gordon-Ross suddenly tossed her long hair back and cried out. Her entire body tensed rhythmically, and growling, Reed followed her a moment later, his spasms dying away as she slackened under him. He slumped across her back and they stayed that way for a long time, not speaking, simply content in sharing heartbeats. "Gordon-Ross?" Sleepily she looked over her shoulder at him, eyes dark and satisfied in the dim light. He rubbed his nose with hers. "I suppose it's rather a moot point, but--may I kiss you?" She giggled. |
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