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Spock’s lips trailed lower, and then lower still. His tongue swirled exotic patterns and moved on, leaving trails of moisture in its wake. The contrasting sensations of heat and evaporative cooling were slowly driving Kirk out of his mind.
He moaned, and squirmed in anticipation. He knew instinctively what Spock intended, though not a word had been spoken between them. The thought of it was amazingly arousing yet at the same time a little disturbing.
Spock couldn’t possibly want to kiss him there -- could he?
Not that he wasn’t clean. He’d washed thoroughly, as he always did, before coming to bed.
It wasn’t as if he had never been kissed in that particular way. In fact he had, and had kissed others in that way as well, to their usually considerable mutual pleasure. Not Spock, though -- but he and Spock were still new to one another, and there were many things they had not yet shared. He guessed that after tonight, the list of “erotic activities we’ll have to get around to sometime” would be at least one item shorter.
It was just that, well, he’d always expected that Spock would be more fastidious, to say nothing of much less oral.
This evening had already proved him wrong about the “less oral” part. Spock had placed him on his back, restrained him by the simple expedient of making him lie on his own hands, and proceeded to kiss, lick and suck his way from the top of his head to his toes. There was hardly a spot on his body that hadn’t felt those burning lips, that searing tongue. No spot, that is, except his genitals, which Spock had assiduously avoided. The inch-by-inch exploration had been slow, and steady, and relentless. When he felt the lapping at a particularly sensitive patch of skin high on his inner thigh, he didn’t think he could stand another instant of it.
“For God’s sake, Spock! Please . . . ”
He yelped at the nip of sharp teeth. Spock raised his head and gazed calmly at him. “Have patience, t’hy’la.” He bent over and swiped his tongue just once over the head of Kirk’s aching cock before raising himself up and sitting back on his heels.
“Tease. Torturer,” Kirk moaned.
Eyes dark as ebony regarded him unblinkingly. “Do you not find this enjoyable?”
“You know I do. Bastard.”
“Hardly a correct appellation.” But his eyes were warm, and they both knew his words were merely a tease of another kind.
When Spock turned him over and continued his ministrations, admonishing him to rest his head on his arms and not to move, Kirk discovered that being unable to see his partner’s actions made them all the more arousing. The nibbling on his left sole was so unexpected that he cried out in surprise and delight. The fluttering of a tongue on the back of his right knee made him moan and bite his arm.
But it was the slow, swirling progress down his backbone that reduced him to a state of gibbering incoherence. Spock’s lips just at the top of his buttocks, and now lower, to the base of his spine. Fragments of speech poured out of him, soft curses, cries and moans and entreaties to stop, to not stop, to finish him, to go on forever. And still Spock was silently fixed on his goal.
He could not help himself, nothing could stop him from arching himself up and back against those bewitching lips, that magical tongue, and Spock didn’t try to stop him but wrapped an arm around him in support, and then strong fingers were opening the way and oh! Spock was kissing him, kissing him there--
He thrashed once, like a fish on a hook, well and truly caught, and then was still as his orgasm ripped through him. He couldn’t move, had no breath to speak or call out or even to moan. The sensations traveled throughout his body, a delicious agony contracting every muscle; he found his voice, uttering a strangled cry as the agony finally pooled in his groin and his semen jetted from him. And then for a time he floated in a void, empty in mind and body.
When he once again became aware of his surroundings he found himself on his side, Spock spooned at his back, buried deep inside him. He thought he was probably done for the night but the hot, full feeling was pleasurable nonetheless. He was lying in a wet spot of his own making and for once, he didn’t care. “Wow,” he said. He could barely hear his own voice.
Spock’s arms tightened around him in response. “Should I take that to mean that the experience was satisfactory, t’hy’la?”
Somehow he summoned up the energy to smile. He reached with paired fingers and caressed the lean thigh snugged tight against him. “‘Satisfactory’ is an understatement. Where in the universe did you learn to do that?”
“No study was involved. It was a strictly . . . improvisational undertaking.”
He laughed. “I always knew you could be spontaneous.”
“Please do not tell McCoy. If you do, I fear I will never hear the end of it.”
He recognized the slight strain in Spock’s voice that signaled he was trying to hold his own orgasm at bay, waiting for his lover’s active participation. “I won’t breathe a word.” And he pushed back against Spock and rocked his hips, deliberately contracting and relaxing muscles around the hardness within him, and was rewarded with an answering shudder.
Spock was closer to the edge than Kirk had thought. One thrust, one more, and he was pouring himself forth, and the quiet “Ah! Ah!” breathed into his ear spoke volumes to Kirk, for Spock was usually silent in orgasm, just as he was usually loud. He felt Spock relax behind him, and as he softened and slipped free, Kirk turned to him and sought his lips.
“I was worried for a bit,” he whispered, after the kiss.
“About what, t’hy’la?”
“I thought you might not like it.”
“‘It’?”
“Kissing me. There.” He didn’t know what made him reluctant to be explicit. Shyness wasn’t his usual condition. “And I wanted it, very much.”
“Why did you think I might not enjoy it?”
Now he was embarrassed. “Many people won’t put their mouths there. It’s considered -- unclean.”
Spock understood the deeper meaning of his statement. “I have no such concerns. There is no part of your body that I would not willingly kiss, or caress, or manipulate in whatever way might give you pleasure. There is no part of you that is unworthy to be cherished.” He brushed Kirk’s hair, damp from his exertions, from his forehead. “A kiss there is no less sweet than one here.” He placed his lips lightly on the spot from which he had moved the errant locks. “Or here.” And he captured Kirk’s mouth. “You are fatigued, as am I. It is time to sleep.”
It was true; he was tired, so he snuggled deeper into the unconditionally accepting arms of his lover. And he was lulled into slumber by the memory of Spock’s kisses, all of them, kisses sweeter than wine.