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To: "ASCEM-S" <ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com>
From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" <campbratcher@psci.net>
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Date: Sun, 16 May 2004 20:41:19 -0500
Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW TOS  Fever  1/1 (K/S, PWP) [NC-17]
Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" <campbratcher@psci.net>
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Title: Fever
Author: Lyrastar
Series: TOS
Codes: K/S, PWP
Rating: NC-17
Contact: lyrastarwatcher at yahoo dot com
  or www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher
Disclaimer:  Paramount started it; Theodore Sturgeon made it hot.  
I'm just running with the ball.
Summary: I said it was a PWP.  Geesh, what more do you need?



FEVER


Sometimes he comes to you and throws the full weight of his naked 
body over you, smothering you with his passion.  He takes you fully 
back in his throat and sucks and pulls until all the heat within you 
flares like raging wildfire though your chenesi and shoots out in one 
staggering explosion through your slit, leaving you reeling and 
bereft of strength or speech.  Then he lays his hands tenderly upon 
your hips ands works you gently with his mouth, coaxing with all the 
skill of lips and tongue and teeth, until you swell a second--or 
third, or fourth--time.  And then he begins to pleasure you all over 
again.

Sometimes he comes to you trembling and needy, as needy as you feel 
yourself, too far gone to voice the cravings of his fervor.  He 
strips and bends and offers himself to you any way, in every way, and 
he waits silently prepared for whatever you might choose.  Sometimes 
you take him in your mouth and feed your bottomless hunger at his 
expense. Suckling like a newborn baby, you draw him deep within and 
hold him through and past his spasms, quite content just to never let 
him go.  Other times you take him from atop, hard and rough and 
fast.  You all but crush him, both with your weight and with the 
urgency of your desires.  It's not important if it hurts.  You need 
him too much.

Sometimes he takes you.  Yes, he does.  Sometimes he takes you like 
you want.  It's not logical.  It does not befit an officer, but at 
times nothing but this will do.  At those times he takes you on the 
floor, on the bunk, on the desk, against the wall, over a chair.  He 
takes you fast and fiercely, like an animal.  He fills you to your 
limit, then pulls back and thrusts and fills you just a little more.  
He does not stop until you cry out in completion.  Only then does he 
shudder in climax himself and slump replete against your back.

Sometimes it is nothing but an ethereal blur of sensation.  A 
thousand hot hands, a hundred wet tongues caressing you in every 
place that you yearn to feel his touch.  Every one of them tasting of 
Jim.

Other times he lies against you and slides his body up and down, up 
and down. The weight of him presses into you, but your strength moves 
you easily enough beneath him.  He is as a toy in your arms, but no 
child's plaything.  He is a man.  He will not touch you where you 
ache, but only scrapes his skin more roughly against yours, stoking 
the fire, never extinguishing it, driving you higher until you 
incinerate in a blissful blaze of white and heat. 

Through it all you see his face, his shifting smile opening wide in 
welcome.  You smell his scent, familiar, but now accented with the 
masculine musk of arousal, and the combination stirs you despite all 
tenets or dictates of logic.

And always there is the pacific rhythm of the undulations of his mind 
as they continually surge and lap in rolling waves against your 
brain.  You have known his mind in times before, but never like 
this.  Never has it been like this.  The waves crash and beat at the 
bonding center unremitting, increasing in strength and fury every 
time.  Those waves will persist until they break down the old ties 
and wash in the new.  Either they will do this or they will surely 
drown you both in trying. 

He is tool, slave, force and master all at once.  He is all things 
and everything that matters.  He is yours and you are his and you 
bury yourself within him body and soul, feeling the comfort and the 
belonging and the rightness of your world.  But each thrust brings 
both the fleeting glimpse of almost satisfaction and the sharp sting 
of keener torment.  There is no relief for you.  There is no way it 
can ever be enough.

And so you use him in any way you can, physically, mentally; you have 
yearned for this too much for too long to stop.  And he lets you.  He 
makes no motion of protest; he freely gives you what you must take 
from him and he reaches out for you with his mind and with his love 
to be with him as he comes.

Every part of him makes you hotter, the ripples of his belly, the 
pulsing valleys of his neck, the little hollow between side and hip 
that makes him shiver when it's touched.  The hardness of his pelvis, 
the softness in his eyes, the brush of his hair against your chest.  
The swell of his ass as you slide along his skin, the ooze of his 
arousal wasting out against your stomach as you smother him with your 
mouth.  All of it only makes you want him more.

You palm yourself frantically to no avail.  Biology cannot be 
overruled.  Your hand cramps and your genitals are raw, but still the 
vision of his body swims before you, and like a drowning man, you 
cannot help but throw yourself towards salvation, however hopeless it 
might seem.

Your cabin door buzzes, but you do not hear.  Only one man knows the 
override.

"Spock.  Mister Spock.  We're in orbit."

He grabs your head, fingers falling inexplicably near the meld 
points.   The shock of the contact brands into you and your eyes fly 
open, but focus on something far beyond his body.  You blink and 
grasp frantically for the last threads of your retreating sanity.  
Perhaps it is the sheer intensity of the concern in his gaze that 
finally guides you home.

"Spock, it's me, Jim.  Can you hear me?  We're in orbit around 
Vulcan.  Spock!"





[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]



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