Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.pas.earthlink.net!elnk-nf2-pas!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshub.sdsu.edu!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newsread.com!newsstand.newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "lyrastarwatcher" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW TOS: Apollo Physician 1/7 (K/Mc)[NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable Lines: 317 Date: Sat, 13 Nov 2004 05:55:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1100325305 209.198.142.218 (Sat, 13 Nov 2004 00:55:05 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 13 Nov 2004 00:55:05 EST Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:85562 X-Received-Date: Fri, 12 Nov 2004 21:55:23 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Apollo Physician Author: Lyrastar Series: TOS Pairing: K/Mc, Mc/f Rating: NC-17 Parts: 1/7 Warning: The people depicted herein have cracks and flaws. If you like your characters always heroic, unfailingly certain, and never ever stumbling along the way, then move along please, these aren't the 'droids you're looking for. Contact: lyrastarwatcher at yahoo dot com Url: www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher/apollo for easier reading Disclaimer: All things Trek belong to Paramount; I'm just filling in some gaps. Summary: For the KirkMcCoyfest at APOLLO PHYSICIAN ******** Chapter 1 --In purity and holiness I will guard my life and my art.--From the Oath of Hippocrates It wasn't that I had anything against karaoke, I told myself as the opening notes of "Dream a Little Dream" came hissing down from the stage, Andorians just shouldn't try to sing Louis Armstrong; their vocal cords aren't designed for it. I drained the last of my virgin hurricane and, for about the two hundredth time, wondered what the hell I was doing here. Whatever it was, it sure wasn't having fun. The rest of my tablemates didn't seem to mind; they cheered and sang right along. Waves of Mardi Gras beads glinted around their necks in the dim glow of simulated gaslight. It wasn't even 0100-- Universal Time Coordinated, that is. The constantly shrinking world had made time zones too confusing, so UTC was now whole Earth standard. But it was a typical Saturday evening on Bourbon Street, and The Old Absinthe House was already packed. That was practically a given; Bourbon Street hadn't seen a slow night since the Eugenics wars. Seven days a week, from afternoon to sunup, it was crawling with folks looking for good food, good music, a good party, a good drunk, or just to get lost in the anonymity. There was a time that I would have gladly taken all four, not necessarily in that order, and still come back for more, but that was then and this is now and this was no place for a married man. I twiddled the wedding band on my fourth left. It was about the only proof that I could still claim that status, albeit if only by a technicality. No, I had better things to do. The wooden chair scraped the slate tile of the floor as I pushed back and stood up. I was involved with four separate clinical trials and the pile of xenojournal chips on my desk just kept getting bigger and bigger. And that didn't include my active patient load. I was off from the hospital until Monday, but when was a doctor ever really off? I said my good-byes to my residency classmates--all younger than me, for the record--and shouldered my tote. One quick stop before hitting the door. I looked around and spotted it in the back. Conveniently located next to the bar, of course, in the highly sensible and time-honored tradition of drinking establishments across the globe. I squeezed behind the crowd and slid along the wall towards the Men's. The wall was covered from floor to ceiling with overlapping business idents of tourists from all over the quadrant. Through the centuries, the type and variety had changed, but the calling-card wall had been a signature of this place for over three hundred years. Mars and Beyond: the only call you'll have to place for all your colonial real estate needs. Ketchew and Arryasyn, attorneys at law, Panfederation license. Rick's Wrecker Service: We'll pick you up when you need it. Thellwn Iolthyllian, Management Consulting, Andor Prime.... From the open floor-length windows, the rolling strains of JellyRoll Blues floated in from somewhere else. In the street, a living line of bodies pressed its way along, thick with beads and drinks and tacky souvenirs, reminding me acutely how out of place I was. Everyone else was having a damned good time-- or at least giving a damned good impression of it. The men's room stank like always. Five hundred years since the Industrial Revolution, and we still couldn't change that? Only one other man was in there; he wore some sort of uniform, navy-ish. Or maybe a military school. He was just a kid really--not even old enough to grow hair on his face--finishing up at a urinal. Or was he? As I began to take care of business, I realized something odd. The kid was still standing there, holding himself--and watching me. I shot a glance over to him, hoping he wouldn't notice, but there was no chance of that. He wasn't looking at my dick; he was looking straight at my eyes. The directness unnerved me, and I forgot my standard script of vaguely offended dignity and prickly distance. I groped for anything to say. The kid shook his dick a couple times, could have been shaking it off, I suppose, except that it was one or two shakes too many. And his eyes were aimed right at me. It was a pretty all-day-sucker of a dick. Cut and clean, rosy and plump at the tip, it was porcelain smooth and as silky as a baby's behind. Not that "baby" was the thought nearest to the front of my mind. A few loops of ginger hair curled around the base, just enough to say "man" instead of "child." The kid knew he had captured my attention, and now he pulled out his balls. They were enormous. Big and pendulous, they looked heavy enough to be a pain to carry around. They swung back and forth across his crotch, as if asking for a dance. A smell of youthful potency rose up over the stale restroom air, and I felt myself begin to swell in my hand. If there had been any doubt as to the language he was speaking, the kid winked and caressed himself. I heard the soft plop of skin against skin as he took his balls in his own hand, and my stomach flipped. I said the first thing that came into my head. "Let me guess. You must be from San Francisco." Taking care to look anywhere but at the kid's package, I arranged myself back into my pants with some difficulty. Dammit, it had been too long. Sailors in bathrooms? When had I become a clich=E9? The kid took a step closer, holding my eyes the whole time. They twinkled a couple different colors, more amused than discouraged it seemed. "Yes, in fact, I am. How'd you guess?" He paused, "And--should I take that as a--'no thanks, not interested?'" I looked him over: clean cut; nice hands--manicured, but not soft; toned muscles; broad shoulders; perfect teeth. And then there was that pretty dick. Dick wasn't my usual idea of a good time, but my usual ideas hadn't done too well for me recently, as my soon-to-be ex could attest to. Oh, Joey, where are you now? I spun my wedding band with my thumb. After the last few months alone, a little meaningless physical release from everything--or should that be, from so much nothing?-- sure sounded good. "I didn't say that exactly." I reached over and took the kid's balls in my fingers, letting the heat of them sink into my palm. Pale little curls tickled my hand from above. With one finger, I stroked the silky underside and watched the skin of his scrotum quiver under my touch. I hefted the balls, weighing them, as if the result would somehow make the decision for me. They were sticky with his oils and sweat--that certain smell of sex which never completely washes away. "Are you even legal?" "I'm in here, aren't I?" "Kids have been known to sneak into bars before, so I've heard." I realized I was still fondling his sac, and not at all in the standard professional fashion. The balls were the kind that filled your mouth from side to side and once inside there, made your tongue strain to find enough room to do its work. The pretty penis began to swell with a jerky motion, plumping and curving under my influence. My own pants grew unpleasantly tight. "I'm twenty-one," the kid said, looking down to watch his body perform for the hands of a stranger. The heat of the kid's erection seared against my skin as fresh blood rushed in, eager to be of service. "And I'll bet you're not much older." The kid's voice jolted my focus back. "Maybe not in body, but in spirit is another matter," I said, not sparing much attention for my own words. I scraped the tip of my thumb along the sensitive underside of the kid's now-erect penis. He sucked in his breath. The door swung open. I dropped my hand and hurried to the sink. The smell of the kid's package clung to my fingers and under my nails. I turned the hot water on full and scrubbed, but couldn't wash myself free of the craving that had started in my gut. Four thousand years of Human medical study and it still came back to men being led around by the balls, held helpless by their by their own testosterone. What a cosmic joke. In the mirror I could see the newcomer at the urinal, his face to the wall, relieving himself. Moving as if he had all the time in the world, the kid tucked himself in and sauntered back over to me. He moved up behind me, and well into my personal space. I tensed, expecting him to press himself against me or grab my ass, but no touch came. To my chagrin, my brain spat out more disappointment than relief. "So?" He breathed too closely behind my neck. I smelt the obligatory local rum and fruit drink on his breath, and felt the steam waft across my skin. In the mirror, color began to fill my cheeks. The blush: the perpetual bane of the palefaced. "Not here." Christ, not in a bathroom. I flicked my wrists once under the infradryer. "And wash your hands," I said, as I hurried through the door. I waited just outside the entryway, taking in the sights and sounds of the evening. Beads were flung down from the balconies above as shirts were raised up from below to the standard ritual of hoots and hollers. Had I ever been that young? I jumped. The kid was at my shoulder. Another cheer rose up, and a shower of beads rained down. "So, where to?" the kid asked. A little voice suspiciously like my mother's warned me that this was cheap and degrading behavior unbecoming of a gentleman--but what the hell? He was the best looking thing on the street and he wanted me. Flattery: the universal lubricant. Or as P.T. Barnum once put it, there's a sucker born every minute. I turned around. Now I saw the Starfleet emblem on the front of the uniform. Terrific. I had myself the full sailor/bar/sleazy one-night- stand combo; at least if I was going to be a clich=E9, I was going to do it all the way. "Don't you even want to know my name?" My voice didn't quite reach the level of rancor I wanted; it came out sounding much more like the nervous stall tactic that it was. The kid shrugged. "If you want to tell me. But I've already seen what I want." I felt the heat rising to my cheeks. "How romantic." The kid snorted and shook his head. "That's not what I meant-- although you do have a nice one. I meant your eyes. You have the most beautiful eyes. Did anyone ever tell you that? They're real, aren't they?" "Yes, they have. And if I said 'no' to the second part?" The kid grabbed my chin and pulled it out and up to the light. The motion startled me, and I jerked backwards, but his grip was strong and my head didn't budge. The kid searched my face hard. Nobody paid us any mind; why should they? This was the heart of Bourbon Street. Tits and ass were everywhere. It would take a hell of a lot more than two guys not quite kissing on a corner to turn anyone's head. "They're real." His verdict pronounced, the kid released his grip. "You an ophthalmologist too, Popeye?" I rubbed my chin where his hand had lain, and shook myself mentally, my mind still replaying the feel of those earnest fingers on my face. "Huh?" I refocused from where I had drifted away. He repeated, "I said, I have to know who I can depend on--what people are really like. I'm good at reading people, and you're not the type to fake anything. "So, where to, Blue Eyes? Your place or mine? Or would you prefer the alley?" His eyes twinkled as he motioned behind him with his head. It was already too late when I realized I was supposed to laugh. "Oh, my apartment's in Mississippi. About an hour away." I hesitated realizing that I wasn't sure when Jerry would be back. "I can make you a better offer. I have a place here for the night." He took my hand. He felt my wedding band. He must have; there was no way around it, but he just rolled my fingers around in his, and pulled me a step closer to him. For a minute I thought he was going to kiss me right there on the street. When he didn't, the unexpected depth of my disappointment and the tumult in my groin that must have shown in my face confused me. I was completely unprepared for its intensity. Cheap thrills had never been my thing, and you couldn't get anything cheaper than this at a weekend flea market "Well, lead the way, Popeye, to your ship or whatever. I'm not getting any younger." If my diffident grumble fooled him, it didn't help me any. He grinned and dropped my hand. "Great. But it's not a ship, just the Fairmont." He spun around and headed down Iberville at a brisk clip. "I don't get my own ship right away. It'll probably take a couple years, at least." He shot off so fast that I couldn't tell whether the cocky little bastard meant it or not. ~end part 1/7 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: