Title:                      Stranger Things Happen

Author:                 Lady Charena

Series:                    TOS

Codes:                   withheld by choice, just to keep you guessing for a while <g>

Rating:                   NC-17, ft, POV

 

Feedback:             I'd love to get -  <LadyCharena@aol.com>

 

 

Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom owns Star Trek. This story is mine and only fanfiction. No moneymaking or offence of copyrights is intended. If you are under age or have a problem with homosexuality, please stay away.

 

Summary: Somebody is dreaming of an unreachable lover.

 

English is not my native language, please be patient with mistakes. My thanks to Lisa for beta. If there are remaining errors, blame me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stranger Things Happen

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lady Charena

July 2001

 

 

Like the previous four or five nights, I lay awake. It seems impossible to rest, much less to sleep...

 

I lay awake with my eyes wide open. And wait to be claimed by sleep. I am comfortable - the pillow lies properly beneath my head, my arms are at my sides, my legs stretched out.

 

But still each muscle is tightened, my fingers are curled into fists, and I feel a gleam of sweat on my forehead.

 

With a soft sigh I turn my head, away from the upsetting, offending object on the bedside table I long to touch. Maybe I should get up and put it into the refuse chute. I should forget about it and go on with my life as before. Or so I tell myself each night since I first laid hands on it.

 

I do nothing at all. Except breathing another soft sigh and being still unable to sleep.

 

* * *

 

For almost an hour, I fight against the desire to reach for the thing on my bedside table. And now I confess my defeat...

 

Slowly I move to lay on my side, facing it. I caress it with my eyes, enjoy stretching the moment until I can hold it in my hands, and fondle the soft, cool material.

 

Nobody saw me – or so I truly hope - as I grabbed it in sickbay from the neatly folded heap of clothes, during the medical check-up of the surviving members of the Galileo-crew, almost a week ago. I put on my best innocent air as the absence of the undershirt was noticed some time later. I even offered my services in searching for the missing item, but of course, it was never found.

 

How could it be found - securely hidden beneath my clothes...

 

Later, I went to my room to hide it in the lowest drawer of my night table, under some other, harmless stuff - together with my other "souvenirs" - a used napkin I once found by chance in the mess, and a single boot I managed to grab during a secret visit to the quarters of my beloved. Luckily no one I encountered on my way back to my room asked why I carried only one boot with me.

 

I still feel shame - mingled with a strange excitement and even pride - rising up in my chest, thinking of that day almost two months ago. I never before went as far as truly breaking into the quarters of another person. But I never before was so in love with someone so unreachable.

 

Sometimes I am afraid of my obsession, sometimes I think I should seek counselling... but on the other hand, stranger things happen than  some lovesick fool who is steali... collecting.... pieces of clothing from an adored person. This is what I am – a lovesick fool and I behave like a teenager dreaming of some idol. Oh, I know that much of course. After all, I am not ill. I am still aware of the things I do. But it does not help either. He *is* my idol...

 

* * *

 

I throw back the bedclothes to sit up and hold the cloth closer to my face to revel in the familiar scent, sweet and spicy. It never fails to excite me. I wonder how his skin would taste. Similar? Different? I press the undershirt to my face and breathe deeply. Ahhh... My excitement is increasing and I feel my body coming alive.

 

It is always this way, always with him. How many hours of the night have I spent during the last year, imaging his body, his touch, his kiss? A hundred? More?

 

I did not care to know as long as I was able to keep my dreams to the hours of my lonely nights. But now...

 

Yesterday I dreamt of him whispering shyly ‘I love you’. Oh, I know of course he would not be shy in reality. Nor will he ever say these words to me. It is just easier to imagine him this way. A virgin. Tender and innocent – eager to please and to learn how to please. And as much in love with me as I am with him. It is more satisfying to picture myself as his first lover ever, even if I know it would not be true.

 

It was not the first dream of this kind – but it was the first invading my mind during my shift. I am afraid.

 

I brush this thought away. Nobody *knows* – he does not know.

 

I lay back and spread the cloth over my face, closing my eyes. Now his scent is surrounding me and I can imagine him being here with me in the darkness. I can picture his hands travelling down my chest.

 

I can feel my nipples tighten. There is a sweet ache between my legs as I eventually touch the hard nubs. I draw in another deep breath and imagine him bending his head, taking one of my nipples into his mouth.

 

A soft moan, muffled by the cloth upon my face, escapes me. I feel my cock stiffen. I am drowning in my fantasy...

 

His mouth now releases the erect nub and with a tiny, shy smile he asks for confirmation. I weave my fingers into the silken strands of his hair, bending his head down for a kiss. “You are just doing fine,” I whisper as I release his kiss-swollen lips.

 

He slides deeper; his mouth leaves a burning path on my tingling skin. And across my belly where he stops hesitantly.

 

“Go on, please, oh please,” I urge him to continue. His cheek brushes my weeping cock, then his fingertips. He is still somewhat reluctant to let me use his mouth and at the moment I can only dream of the day he will allow me to penetrate him. But I will... can... wait until he is ready for more. For me.

 

I moan as he closes his fingers firmly around my cock and starts to move them as I taught him. His free hand is fondling my testicles, then slides away to caress the sensitive skin on the inside of my thighs.

 

I tremble beneath his touch, yearning for more, for his sweet mouth, but am afraid to ask him. Somehow, he seems to sense my desire because he suddenly takes his hand away – and even before I am able to mutter my protest, his lips close around the tip of my cock. His tongue explores my burning flesh. And I am hard pressed not to buck up and to thrust my cock deep into his throat.

 

But suddenly he releases me and withdraws to kneel next to me.

 

“Why did you stop?” My voice is hoarse, I barely recognise it myself.

 

His eyes lift to mine. And I see… am I mistaken? But no, I do not think so – desire shines in the dark orbs of his eyes.

 

“I want...”

 

“What is it?” I ask. “Anything. Just tell me, my love.”

 

“I want you to love me.”

 

I barely understand his whispered words. “But I do love you.”

 

His eyes travel the length of my body to fasten on my erection. “I want you to make love to me.”

 

I gulp. I never imagined he would desire me this fast – but I am glad. More than glad, I am ecstatic. “Yes, yes I will.”

 

His gaze returns to mine, full of trust.

 

“Turn on your belly,” I order, reaching for the lubricant in a drawer of the bedside table.

 

“Relax,” I whisper as I put some of it onto my cock and my fingers to prepare him. “I will not hurt you.”

 

I wait for his nod before I press my finger against the entrance to his body. The tight ring of muscles gives way beneath the careful pressure and soon my finger enters him.

 

I have to take some deep breaths to steady myself and not to rush things, but I am barely able to wait any longer. I ache to thrust my cock into him.

 

Using some more lube I carefully work a second finger into him to stretch the tight opening wider. I hear his soft hiss, then a low moan – and it nearly is my undoing, as he presses back, impaling himself deeper on my fingers. He is ready.

 

I carefully ease my fingers back to replace them with my weeping cock. The tip of my penis slowly enters the tight muscle-ring.

 

With a muffled cry, he suddenly moves beneath me, arching against me and impaling himself on my full length.

 

I dreamt for so long of this moment and now I am unable to hold on any longer. I thrust into him, two times, three times. And come, sending my seed deep into him with a shout of his name. “Spock.”

 

Yes, my dreamt of virgin is Spock. I am in love with the Vulcan, first officer of the Enterprise and Bondmate to its Captain - my best friend James T. Kirk.

 

* * *

 

I release my spent cock from my stained fingers. The frenzied race of my heart slowly decreases. Despair and loneliness close anew around me. And I lift my hand to take the undershirt from my face.

 

The soft clearing of a throat startles me from my depression and I sit up, throwing the cloth away.

 

And find myself face to face with the manifestation of my dreams - Spock. Heat burns up my face. “What are you doing here?” I hear myself asking in a strange, breathless voice. “How long...?”

 

“Not long – but I think long enough. Why, Doctor McCoy I must confess I had a certain curiosity to learn why you have such a fondness for my clothes," Spock said softly. “However I did not expect this.”

 

And is there a hint of amusement in his voice? I cling to the hope this is still a dream...

 

“How... how did you know?” I finally ask, fearing his answer. I dare not gaze at him – but suddenly I feel his eyes on my exposed skin, the rumpled bed, the sperm on my belly – and throw the bedcover over my body.

 

“I watched you in sickbay.”

 

I close my eyes. At this moment, all I want to do is to die. “You will of course tell the Captain that I stole your clothes and broke into your quarters.”

 

I feel his hand on my shoulder and my breath catches in my throat.

 

“I will not.”

 

Surprised, I open my eyes to gaze at him. His face reveals nothing of his thoughts, but there is something in his eyes I cannot read. Compassion? Or disgust? I do not know. I do not want to know. “Why?” I whisper.

 

He withdraws his hand. “I am sorry, Leonard,” he says – and without a word more he turns and leaves my quarters.

 

I am sorry, Spock. And you will never know how sorry I am…

 

End