Eight Days

Part III:

“You require sustenance.”

He is plying her with pudding. Even the act of sliding the spoon into her mouth triggers warm flutterings at the juncture of her legs. She sighs and cuddles closer, mouth full of chocolatey decadence.

“Can’t this wait? We -- ”

“I can go quite some time without sleep or nourishment. You cannot.”

Another mouthful. But there is a gleam in her eyes. One of his hands is holding the spoon and the other is cradling her far shoulder. But one of her hands is free. She slides it down.

He flinches, almost dropping the spoon. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” A knowing smile.

His stern look lasts for a few seconds only. Then it evaporates and his eyes flutter closed as a throaty sound escapes him.

The spoon has come to rest just to the left of his sternum. She removes it to the shelf above the bed and then resumes her attentions, leaning over to lick the smear of chocolate off of his chest.

“How’s this?” she whispers.

“Your caresses are,” and he swallows, “entirely appropriate.”

“Not good enough. I want to be inappropriate.”

He smiles at the jest.

“Show me.”

He turns towards her and finds that she is serious. Thus, still holding her gaze, he slides a hand down to envelop hers. He experiments, changing grips. When he’s at last satisfied, he finds a rhythm that quickly ramps up in intensity and force.

She is dubious. “That rough?”

He bares his teeth. “Yesss.”

And then he catches her, flips her, and slides home. It is every bit as intense as the first time. Writhing, prone on mattress, she gasps at the renewed heat of it.

His voice filters in, dark and throaty and in time with his powerful cadence.

“Careful . . . what you . . . wish for.”


I jerk awake.

The time is a bit past oh-four-hundred.

Dammit! I’ve only been down for three hours. After that disastrous attempt at exercise I was too wired to sleep either easily or soundly. This isn’t the first night I’ve had trouble dropping off, either.

I shift restlessly in my narrow bunk, looking for a more comfortable spot. But that just makes it obvious how wet this last dream has made me.

“Dor-sho-gha.” I swear quietly in Klingon. It’s the only language with expletives even remotely strong enough.

Now what?

The room is dark and Galia’s sound asleep, as usual. I could try to take care of things -- calm myself down -- but I hesitate. Succumbing to the urge right after this dream would be acknowledging how far this has come, or how far gone I am.

But then I shift again, and the wet heat changes my mind. Yeah girl, as if you need any _more_ proof.

Impatiently, I drag at my clingy bottoms, sliding them down, away from me.

Besides, I remind myself, I’ve been actively fantasizing for awhile now.

Still, this session brings sensations that are entirely new. I’m so _warm_ down there. In fact every part of me is so warm that I have to kick away all but a single sheet. And when I finally make contact with my clit there’s this electric pulse. I catch my breath. What is _that_ about? Just from my own hand? It’s like a jolt from a phaser set to “yeah, baby”.

I blink a couple of times and finally find a grip that doesn’t make me want to leap off the bed. Cupping myself with just a middle finger resting between my lips seems to be about as much as I can take.

In this most recent dream, my lover’s face was completely clear -- especially his eyes. If I close mine, they’re there, even now. But so fierce. Like his control had gone missing, somehow.

This dissonance, this divergence from his normal calm is exciting beyond belief. What if he ever got like that for real? All hungry and hot. Everything in that brilliant mind just surrendering to sheer animal pleasure.

Fantisizing about animal-Spock makes bringing myself off ridiculously easy. Just a minute or two in the soaking wet and I’m gasping, clawing, and muffling my cries with a pillow clenched in my other hand.

I don’t bother to lie there and reflect. Instead, I give myself a quick cleanup, a change of clothes, and some time on the track. No running around the grounds this time. I put the time in on the synthetic oval surface and really pound the hell out of it. After a shower and a change, it’s late enough that I can go to the mess hall for breakfast. But, strangely, food doesn’t tempt me. And now that I’m sitting here with a coffee, taking stock of things. I find myself just as tense, just as keyed up as when I woke from that dream.

And -- ghuy’cha’! -- there’s phonology today!

I consider skipping class. I’ve never felt so out of control before. If he intuits or, God forbid. senses how I feel, it could ruin everything. I can see it now: a call to his office, my last chance to sit in one of the two chairs facing his desk. He’d inform me in an infuriatingly neutral tone that I couldn’t continue as his assistant.

Then again, with the way he’s been acting in the last couple of days, he might just send me a message and never speak to me again. But however it happened, all our little intimacies would end. No more office visits. No more walks together after class, wrapped up in the discussion of some intricate matter of linguistics, minds humming with ideas, oblivious to the crowds surging around us.

All these weeks and months of wanting him -- I thought I could keep it locked up. Just indulge once in awhile. But now something’s broken open, spilled over. I feel naked and ashamed.

Yet despite all my doubts a nagging worry drives me to risk class anyway. Because last night, when I uploaded the graded freshman papers, the files bounced back.

Commander Spock not checking his messages? It doesn’t make sense at all.

None of my classmates notice anything is wrong with me. They’re all too bored, or tired, or wrapped up in their thoughts. Rudan takes his usual survey of times and we all dutifully announce our guesses -- even me.

So when it’s ten hundred hours and he doesn’t show, it’s pandemonium.

“No WAY!” shouts Rudan, laughing. “I don’t beLIEVE it!”

“Do you SEE this!” Kanaharr is showing his PADD to everyone, even though we’re all perfectly aware of the time.

“He’s _late_,” breathes Nevi . She looks at Galia and the two of them dissolve into girlish laughter.

Surek slaps me on the back, “Hey Uhura, check it out. Ten hundred oh oh twenty one!”

I just nod, quietly.

We all quiet down after a few minutes. There is some quiet chatter or message checking, but no one gets up to leave. Even though Commander Spock is spectacularly late for him, we owe him the same ten minutes we’d give any other instructor.

Then the door slides open. A harried-looking administrative assistant steps into the room and frowns when he sees who is missing.

“Commander Spock?”

“He’s not here,“ Rudan adds a note of dismay, as if the loss pains him.

The assistant looks even further annoyed. “I need to get this PADD to him ASAP. It’s contains an important message.”

“I’m his TA,” I venture, thinking he might ask me about Commander Spock’s schedule.

He homes in. “And you are?”

“Nyota Uhura.”

Before I know what’s going on, the tablet is in my hands. “See that he gets this, Cadet Uhura. The device will signal us once he’s read it.”

He spins on heel and marches off.

“Charming, “ mutters Galia at his retreating back.

“Well, that’s that.” Rudan stands up, brushing down his uniform. “Who’s for brewskies?”

“It’s not even noon, “ Surek objects. But the other three are up for it, so he trails gamely along.

“Have fun with your little errand, Uhura.” Nevi tosses this back over her shoulder. She says something lower as they’re moving off down the corridor and Rudan and Kanaharr laugh.

A deep uneasiness settles around my stomach. Despite my misgivings about broadcasting stray feelings, it would have been a relief to see Spock in class. Also, it would be much easier to encounter him in a room full of people is different than having to track him down and meet him alone.

I know that the commander wouldn’t read my mind on purpose. Vulcans consider it rude. Besides, they are mainly touch-telepaths. But what’s always bothered me is that some individuals are like high-gain antennas, broadcasting their feelings in every direction. Am I like that? Flashes of those dreams keep spinning through my mind, too. Could he see those? I’d be mortified.

Spock’s office is upstairs.

It’s on the west side of the building, with one large window facing the grounds and a smaller one on the corridor. This configuration makes it easy to see that there’s no one inside. However, the office is oddly messy. Printouts are scattered around, some crumpled. An empty drinking cup is tipped over, the last of its contents dried into an uneven stain on the pale desktop. When has Spock ever left _anything_ out of place?

I stand frozen. My heart is knocking insistently at me from the inside. Something is very wrong.

The PADD has a list of places to check. I already knew the location of this office, but his unit in the faculty quarters is listed, too. I brush my fingertips over it, grimly. I’m reluctant to go there, but I have no choice.

Muttering another choice string of Klingon curses, I stride back down the corridor.


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