The Latest Dream I Ever Dreamed
By PB Wrapper


This story is a sequel to 'If Music Be The Food of Love' and 'Uninvited' by Skazitelnitsky. It contains frank references to m/m sex. Please do not read if you are under age or disapproving.

***

The dreams stopped.

Spock was puzzled by this. He didn't think that Chekov was capable of blocking the link - particularly since his own earlier attempts in that direction had proved useless. He was sleeping well - he was too much in control of his own consciousness to allow the situation to keep him awake - but dreamlessly. He kept a discrete watch over the ensign, for fear that Chekov might be resorting to strong coffee and sleeplessness, but Chekov remained bright eyed, alert, and coolly polite.

Jim, of course, realised that something was up.

"Have you and Chekov fallen out over something?"

Spock considered rapidly. They could not have been said ever to have been 'in' agreement on the subject, so no. "No."

Captain and first officer returned their attention to the chess board. On the other side of the rec room, Uhura and Sulu were making plans for their next shoreleave.

"Have Chekov and Spock fallen out over something?"

"Mmm?" Uhura looked up from a padd displaying the best beaches on Thorax III. "It's nothing to do with..." Her gaze became distant as she contemplated the possibility that there had been something to fall out over. "There is a certain chill in the air between them, isn't there?"

"Where is Chekov, anyway?"

"I think he's seeing someone on the Beta shift. He's working Alpha with us, going to bed the moment he gets away from the bridge and getting up to all kinds of things from one 'til eight in the morning that we know nothing about."

Sulu pushed the padd with the details of snow-caving, ski-gliding and moose-driving holidays towards Uhura. "Why don't we all do that?"

"Because it scrambles your brain."

"I meant crevasse trekking."

Uhura looked at the images and shivered.

***

Spock did not find the blues helpful in adjusting to his difficulties with Mister Chekov. Expressing one's frustration and thwarted desire did nothing to ease the frustration or satisfy the desire. His compositions were formulaic and musically, the attempt was not judged a success, by either Lieutenant Uhura or himself. They returned to the mathematical certainties of the madrigal and like-minded Vulcan forms.

Excursions into poetry, the novel and the visual arts all concluded similarly. (Spock had always thought of himself as the figurative type, but he found abstraction oddly liberating. He could explore his obsession in acrylics, oils, pastels and various offset techniques as much as he wished and no one was any the wiser, not even Chekov, who made the same polite noises as everyone else about even the most powerful of the three full frontal male nudes in the triptych which formed the centerpiece of the Vulcan's first impromptu exhibition.) The experience was educational, but his monomania, if anything, increased.

Then, as the result of a week long mission to a city whose clock wasn't synchronized with the Enterprise, or anything much (it was colonized by humans who were making the best of a seventy three hour day), Chekov slipped up and napped while Spock was off duty and asleep.

***

Pre-Reform Vulcan never experienced slavery as a large scale economic or colonial phenomenon, but it was occasionally used to put upstart clans firmly in their place. Mildly erotic 'harem' literature survived to bear witness to the practice. It was, of course, only read by scholars of the period, so Spock didn't immediately spot the warning signs as he lounged on a silk draped divan, a glass of iced sherbet in his hand while a slave girl peeled fruit for him with skill and grace, passing him the slices of perfectly presented, scented flesh. The mathematical precision of his captive flute players enlivened one of those afternoons when the Vulcan desert resembles the inside of a pizza oven.

He became aware that his housekeeper, a eunuch from the regions beyond the Forge, was waiting to be noticed.

"What is it, Krk?"

"My lord." The man bowed until his forehead touched his knees. "Your kinsman Mstkl'serai has sent you a gift. A member of the clan Tchkv."

The Tchkv were infamously impudent. Little better than robber barons, they constantly complained of their exclusion from the councils of the more senior clans. And Spock had particular reason to hate them. He had, some time previously, proposed a temporary bonding between himself and a minor Tchkv princeling. The bonding had been refused.

Obviously, the Tchkv had now irritated the Serai clan in some way. Perhaps this would be a good moment to form an alliance and take a war party into the hills where the Tchkv farmed on narrow terraces, squabbled over water rights and extracted extortionate fees to guide passing travelers through the tortuous mountain passes.

"Bring it in," Spock declared carelessly. One serving girl stepped forward to take his glass and plate, another to straighten his fabulously colourful robes. He waved them away impatiently.

The Tchkv was naked and bound at ankles and wrists with fine gold chains. In the fashion of the time, his flesh was pierced. His foreskin, navel, nipples, nose, ears, and no doubt his tongue, were all embellished with rings and studs carved out of priceless stones. Two Serai warriors carried him in across their shoulders and stood him upright. They steadied him as he swayed a little before finding his balance. Then he looked Spock straight in the eye.

Spock smiled a suitably cruel and lascivious smile. "Pavel. How pleasant to see you again. Have you, I wonder, reconsidered my offer?"

"No."

"I'm glad you didn't waste your time, since it no longer stands. It seems I have what I want without needing to make any concessions to you and your clan. No need to acknowledge you publicly, no need to consider the difference in our social rank, no need for discretion..."

The prisoner spread his naked feet as far apart as the chains between them would comfortably permit, squared his shoulders and said: "You have possession of my body, Spock, and no doubt you intend to have my mind but you will never own my soul."

Spock had been correct. The slave's tongue bore two rings with a connecting chain of fine gold links. As a result his words were rather hard to follow.

The Vulcan raised his hand and signaled minutely with his fingers that he wished to be left alone with the slave. The flute players fell silent and vanished along with everyone else. Spock rose to his feet and slowly circled the object of his desire. He felt arousal stirring beneath the silken folds of his robe. He reached out with his fingers and spread them across the prisoner's face.

/Kneel/

It wasn't a mindmeld. It was an assault. The slave folded like a marionette.

"Did my kinsman, Mstkl'serai, have you adorned thus, for me, or was this your own choice?"

Pavel didn't answer, so Spock entered his mind and relived the piercing. Bound and lightly drugged, the prisoner had had no choice, apart from the gold ring in his left brow, a Tchkv warrior piercing administered at puberty.

The experience, at second hand, was *most* erotic.

"So very charming," Spock purred, giving a gentle tug to the nipple rings, and then moving down to run a thumb nail over the six studs around the slave's navel. He was eager to explore the possibilities of the tongue rings, but that would have to wait. "I chose well when I offered you my bond... Such elegant proportions." A finger traced the ratio of shoulder to spine. "The right amount of muscle." Palms cupped the rounded ass. "Fine skin." The pads of the Vulcan's fingers gently sampled the inner surface of the slaves thighs. "And above all, your chief attractions..." They were weighed in both hands. "...About which I could only speculate, and whose full beauty I have yet to see..."

The slave twisted away. Spock caught at his wrists and dragged him back into place.

"This is, in all ways, a vastly superior arrangement. So much more convenient." Spock nodded to the divan. "Lie down."

He turned away as he removed his robes, letting the silk puddle on the floor, letting Pavel know that his complete compliance was taken for granted. A tiny sigh drew his attention back to his slave. Pavel had plunged the fruit knife into his own chest. The blood bubbling out of the wound, and out of his half-open mouth, was shockingly, obscenely, scarlet.

Spock woke, his heart pounding, and a roar like surf on pebbles in his ears. His cabin felt icy yet his skin was glazed with sweat and his whole body was trembling. "Shock," he said aloud. He swung himself up to sitting and began the Vulcan routines to rein in the wave of adrenaline the dream had loosed in his veins. He'd never experienced a nightmare before, but he knew of the symptoms, the way his body would react was if the fantasy was real.

Real? His hand hit the comm unit. "Medical, emergency team to Ensign Chekov's cabin, immediately." He was out of the door, unmindful of the brief non-uniform robe that flapped round his thighs. The corridors were empty and he circled half the saucer in seconds. Chekov's door yielded to his override code and he stumbled in to the cramped cabin. "Ensign Chekov..."

The lights came up, revealing that the navigator was -- or had been -- soundly asleep. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. Two medics, whose speed Spock would normally have commended, just then pushed him aside. McCoy followed close on their tail. "We were just dealing with a broken finger..." The doctor turned to look at Spock in surprise. "What's the matter with him? Why did you call us?"

Chekov was blinking. He looked sleepy and annoyed. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"Not that I can see," McCoy said crisply, waving his team out of the cabin. "Unless you want to tell me otherwise?"

Chekov pulled the sheet that covered him up higher and sat up. He stared for a moment at Spock then turned back to McCoy. "I am quite well, I think."

"Spock?" McCoy sounded more curious than annoyed by the false alarm.

"I... I formed an unusually strong impression that Ensign Chekov was in some danger... I cannot... entirely... explain this. I apologise, Doctor, Ensign..."

"Better safe than sorry," McCoy said comfortably, but showed no sign of going. "Maybe I should just run some scans on you both, since I'm here."

Chekov took a deep breath: "Since you are here, Doctor..."

"You heard the doctor say that he was dealing with an injury, Ensign," Spock interrupted. "Any unrelated concerns you may have can surely wait until morning."

McCoy smelled a rat instantly. "The finger's set. If we're wasting your time, Spock, you could leave us."

"I would prefer to speak to Doctor McCoy privately," Chekov confirmed.

Spock could not quite prevent his temper from rising at this combined dismissal, but couldn't summon any logical reason why he should stay. An illogical reason sprang readily enough to mind. "I am concerned about the ensign."

McCoy frowned at him. "If there's anything you or Jim should know, you'll be informed..."

Spock coughed. "This is not... entirely... an official matter. That is to say... my concern is personal, rather than official. Although of course..." He stumbled awkwardly to a full stop. Something in Chekov's appearance, the faint glow of sleep, the weight of his eyelids, the hint of a pout in his lips, all conspired to rob Spock of rational speech. "Although..."

"What's the damned matter, Spock? If you ask me, what this boy needs is for us to let him get back to sleep."

Still, Spock hesitated, and then Chekov, quite deliberately, in Spock's opinion, let the sheet slide to his waist to reveal the growth of fine, dark hair that reached up almost to his navel, and licked his lower lip. He let his eyelids fall so that the longer upper lashes lay on his cheeks for a moment, then opened them again, and looked up at Spock. "Why are you concerned about me?"

McCoy glanced rapidly between his colleagues, eyes like saucers.

"I am concerned... that what I said to you may have..."

Chekov reached round behind himself to arrange his pillows, causing the sheet to slide a few inches lower. When he turned back, he didn't seem to notice that it now lay across the tops of his legs, leaving little to the imagination. Spock pulled the belt of his robe tighter and wondered just how intensely he was blushing.

"I am concerned about you because... because I find myself... That is to say..."

McCoy snatched the folded blanket from the foot of Chekov's bunk, flicked it open and threw it round the ensign's shoulders. He looked in surprise at Spock's hand on his wrist. "Let me go, Spock. I'm just trying to keep you out of trouble."

"We are both adults, Doctor," Spock said, surprised at how easily he could find the words he wanted to say. "We will keep ourselves, and each other, out of trouble. Please leave us."

"Chekov?"

The ensign was smiling. He nodded. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm sorry we disturbed you."

McCoy humphed and left them, hesitating at the door but finally making up his mind to go. Spock stepped forward. He felt a strong desire to pluck the ensign from his bed, turn him over his knee and discourage him, strongly, from displaying such sluttish behaviour in the future, but he wasn't at all sure how Chekov would react if he gave in to this particular urge.

"I trust you are not planning to act the coquette while on duty," he said instead.

"Of course not." Chekov sounded only mildly offended by the suggestion. "If you don't like it..."

"I do not like to be embarrassed. And you cannot expect me to emote. You should have chosen someone else if you wanted displays of sentiment."

Chekov was staring at the bedcovers, as if having second thoughts. He grasped the front edges of the blanket and pulled them tighter round himself. Then he looked up. "How much don't you like it?"

"This much." Spock tugged the blanket away from him, sat down on the edge of the bunk, pulled Chekov clear of the sheet and over his lap, and raised his hand. And stopped. There wasn't really enough room between them. He parted his legs to make way for Chekov's expanding erection and let the ensign wriggle a little until Spock too was comfortably accommodated in the limited space. The Vulcan's robe had already parted at some point. With his hand still raised, Spock enjoyed the sensation of bare skin on bare skin and coolly examined the twin curves of Chekov's ass. They complied very exactly with several most elegant mathematical relationships, and were in addition a delightful shade of peachy beige. They were, however, just a little too pale, Spock decided. He slapped first one and then the other. He could feel Chekov's diaphragm tighten as the ensign took a sharp inward breath.

All manner of shapeless, wordless sensations were filtering their way through the large area of physical contact between the two men. Spock began to find it difficult to distinguish his own arousal - the controlled, disciplined thread - from Chekov's helpless focus on the chaotic fire in his groin. He gave the buttocks two more slaps. Chekov thrust impatiently against him. Two more, and this time, as Chekov raised his hips to thrust again, he found himself impaled on a saliva slick finger.

"Aaaah."

"Tell me what you want me to do," Spock commanded. He resisted the urge to grind his own erection against Chekov's and waited for the reply.

"More... more of this."

"Very well." Six more slaps earned the ensign a second finger. "And now what do you want?"

Chekov desperately massaged his hips into Spock's lap. The Vulcan obliged with a third digit, beginning to stretch and ease the puckered opening to his lover's body. He accidentally brushed the prostate and Chekov keened with pleasure. A tingling warmth flooded over into Spock's nervous system. He repeated the contact, and had to stop for fear of climaxing too soon.

Suddenly urgent, he pulled Chekov to his feet and propelled him across the cabin, to lean against the bulkhead. "Tomorrow, I promise, we'll take longer," he muttered into Chekov's ear, as he smoothed the seeping moisture over the head of his erection and positioned it for penetration. He bent his knees a little, to get the angle right, and thrust forward and upward. Chekov struggled but had nowhere to go. He relaxed instead. Spock slid home past the reluctant opening, paused then sheathed himself to the hilt inside the ensign's tight, silky warmth, feeling himself clutched and caressed by firm muscle every millimeter of the way.

He caught Chekov's hands and pinned them against the steel panel, willing the ensign through their informal meld to stay still and let them both exalt in the sensation of perfect physical unity. Chekov complied, barely breathing. Spock expanded his awareness of Chekov's mind to take in the core of Vulcan heat at the centre of the human's being. Then, slowly, he began to move, rolling his twin ridges past the resistant sphincter, angling the tip of his glans to nudge Chekov's prostrate with each forward thrust. The ensign began to sob.

The rhythm established, Spock began to kiss and nip Chekov's shoulders. Releasing his wrists, he reached round and forced his hands between the wall and his lover's ribs, until he found nipples as hard as pebbles. He rubbed his thumbs across them, then moved down, letting Chekov's aching hunger for the touch of his hands guide them into place.

As soon as he formed a fist and began to pump, Chekov lost control and climaxed, pulling Spock with him into a pinpoint of pleasure so intense it threatened to rupture the fabric of space. As, eventually, it faded, he felt Chekov's legs begin to falter, and hastily withdrew, catching his lover under the arms and half lifting, half helping him over to the bunk. Chekov rolled onto his back and looked up at Spock with eyes full of wonder. "Tomorrow? We're going to do this again tomorrow?"

"At least once, and quite possibly twice," Spock confirmed, freeing the cover from under Chekov's legs and settling himself beside the exhausted ensign. "But now, as Doctor McCoy advised, I think I should let you get back to sleep."

The End

Back to the Archive

Please use the form below to feedback to the author. Your message will also be forwarded directly to the author. Thank you.

Name
E-mail address
Homepage URL
Story Title or Subject
Comments

Counter Visits to this page since July 2000.