Keywords: sf mf series mild dom X-Moderator-Review: 7: high quality but doesn't feel as focused as it could
Archive-name: ContinuingEd-3
The replimat was fairly busy with the shift changes all over the station, but with the variety and number of different people on the station, it was never really completely quiet. The array of faces and languages had once fazed him slightly, but no longer. Now the kaleidoscope of variety was simply taken for granted.
Today, though . . . he took special pleasure in the walk. Colors seemed sharper to him, smells more enticing. Each person's unique face demanded attention and interest. The sussuration of speech -- vocalized, clicked, whistled -- sounded like a linguistic dagwood to his ears. Nice day, he remarked, watching out the port as the wormhole writhed into existence, admitting a ship, in or out he could not say. Even that sight, which he freely admitted was one of the more spectacular he had ever seen, appeared to be more vivid, more immediate, today than since the first time he had witnessed it. The stately whirlpool spun in place for a few moments, revealing the throbbing interior glowing with strange light, and then flashed into a point and disappeared, as it had countless times since he had arrived on the station.
He looked back from the window with a jerk, suddenly aware that he had spent quite a few minutes simply staring out the port and watching the stars. That's ten minutes less time you'll have for lunch, he told himself sternly, but he didn't really care. With the same light step he had used all day, he continued to the replimat, sat down, and ordered his meal. As he brought the first mouthful to his lips, he realized that his sight, his hearing, were not the only senses to have been sharpened for some reason. The curry had never tasted so marvelous to him, and he had never been nearly sent into a reverie of philosophical contemplation by the hot and cool contrasts of mint tea before. He thought back to his appointment schedule and pondered whether he could get away with taking an extra quarter hour for lunch; he didn't want to rush the experience. Chastened by his desire to put off his duty but unhappy at having to rush, he began to eat just a little faster.
There. Ten minutes left. I can stop by Quark's, get something to wash this down with -- the mint tea was the only decent beverage the replimat was capable of producing -- and get back in plenty of time. After entering his account number into the table, he wiped his lips, rose, and exited the replimat.
Quark's was also relatively busy at the time; he always got the overflow from the lunch crowds, and then there were the barflies who never seemed to leave the place as well. He had just asked the Ferengi behind the bar for an apple synthale (Quark was not in evidence) when his eye fell upon one of the corner tables. His Lady sat there, quietly drinking a starduster, and going over what appeared to be cargo manifests. The bartender handed him his synth, and where previously he would have been uncertain about approaching her away from the ship, he walked over and smiled to her. She smiled back and he felt a tug at his spirit.
"Doctor," she said, pleasure in her voice as she put down the little handheld display she had been tapping at. Her smile was genuine, with only a little hint of scandal. "Please," she added, gesturing to the seat next to her in the booth, "have a seat." Her eyes watched him as he sat. "How are you feeling?" she asked him, leaning back. He smiled at her, slowly and slyly.
"Well, I'm not tired, if that's what you mean," he said, matching her light tone. "I got plenty of rest while I was on the Ariad."
She sat silently for a few moments, then spoke. "Actually, that's not what I meant," she said. "I mean how are you feeling." Her expression was penetrating but tender. Julian nearly blushed.
"Oh," he said lowly. He did not answer for a few moments, but his Lady could see fleeting expression dawning on his face and flying to make room for others. Finally, he smiled openly, and shook his head. He looked up into her eyes. "I feel wonderful," he told her, shrugging. Unable to think of anything else to say, he sipped at his synth.
She nodded. "Yes." She took a small sip at her starduster, and he watched as she licked at the moisture left on her lips when she put the glass down; he was unaware that she had watched him similarly. "I was hoping you would. So does Rala."
Julian looked into his drink. "Where is he?"
"Off somewhere," she told him. "Sightseeing, I suppose." She patted him on the arm. "Your experience meant a great deal to him, as well." At first, Julian did not respond. Then:
"I didn't know that was really possible," he said. "It wasn't something I had . . . considered for myself before." He looked up at her, leaning back against the booth, clad in the most clothing he had ever seen her wear since the first time he had encountered her. Unbidden, his eyes imagined the contours of her body beneath her clothing. "I had thought . . . " His voice trailed off, ending on the merest breath of air. Softly, tenderly, he felt her hand against his thigh, caressing.
"Had though what?" she prompted, concerned. He squirmed just a little, uncertain of how to continue. Finally, he simply spoke.
"I was afraid it would get in the way of . . . of what I felt for you," he told her, honest and entreating. His face was so open, she saw, so sincere. His uncertainty, his fear at losing her shone out of his eyes as if they were lit from inside. The synth, forgotten, sparkled under his chin.
His beautiful Lady did not respond at first, touched and surprised at his response. By now, she reminded herself, no depth or magnitude of devotion from this young man should surprise you. "Doctor . . . " she said. "Doctor, I should not be surprised to hear you say that."
"Surprised?" He was not following her.
Her sharp face was tilted down, her eyes narrowed just a little. "Every time I encounter you, you show me greater depths of caring and devotion." Her starduster was also forgotten, and she turned herself in her seat to face him more directly. How I wish we were back on the ship, she told herself . . . back to where I could touch you openly, wih no fear of being seen to make you shy from me . . . She could not keep her hand from wandering languidly up his thigh, brushing him just briefly. "I wish I could touch you now," she said finally. His face betrayed his inner jolt of emotion at her words. "Your pleasure in Rala and what he has opened you to could never keep you from enjoying anything else, Doctor," she said simply. "No one pleasure can block another. Often, it can deepen all others, all other sensual pleasures, making them far more rich and textured. At least . . . that is what I have found, starting during my training and continuing up the present day." She chuckled. "You may find that my next lesson for you will be the richer for what he has shown you. For what you have shown each other."
He was beginning to fall forward, and the feel of her hand on his hip had begun to excite him. Warmth and tingling radiated from where she had touched him, and he saw that if he didn't get up and leave now, he would be in a . . . less than collected state upon returning to the infirmary. Jumping slightly, he saw that he was due back in less than a minute. "Lady . . . " he said.
"You must go." She removed her hand, paining him.
"For now. I will be back at the Ariad" -- back with you, where I should be -- "later tonight."
"Good." She took another sip from the starduster and watched him as he rose, her keen eye aware of the barest signs of his arousal that no one else would see. She could say nothing else, and her only thought as she watched him exit the bar and return to duty was sorrow at his departure, his devotion to his duty.
Damn it, she thought. Never another Starfleet officer. Never again. Shocked, she raised her hands to her eyes and felt a hint of moisture at their corners. What a consort he would make.
Unsettled and unhappy, she picked up the padd and resumed her perusal of the cargo manifests.
Two patients brought in from an accident during routine maintenance and one false labor from the Bajoran woman he had seen the previous day -- nothing too demanding. The Bajoran woman had had a history of uncertain births, so he had been well prepared for such an emergency. The most complex part of the repairs to the accident victims had been the transporter-based removal of the bone chips in the woman's left leg, which had been shattered like ice under a falling girder that the safety fields had failed to catch. Had they been left in her system, they could easily have blocked an artery in her heart or even her brain, leaving her dead. The bone itself had been matched and stabilized, and the patient dozed under the restraining field as the regenerators placed over her leg worked to heal the break. The diagnostics showed her system clear of any bone chips or fragments; she was out of danger. An eventful day, but not really a demanding one.
He rubbed his hand over his chin, and felt it scratching against his palm. His beard repressor had evidently worn off some time ago; he automatically walked to the little cabinet near his desk where he kept personal items against the time he might have to sleep in the infirmary; the student habits of medical school and very late nights as an intern died hard. However, as his hand signalled the drawer, he caught a reflection of himself in the door of the trans-autoclave where the instruments were kept. His own face shone back at him, through a shadow wreathing his jaw, and it seemed darker to him. The reflection-Julian's brow knit slightly. He had no other patients today, and it was only twenty minutes until his shift ended. He could afford to look a little less than . . . professional for a few minutes until his shift ended. And then . . . we will see. The other Julian seemed to agree,and the deep eyes over the shadowy veil of darkness on his cheeks narrowed in anticipation.
She will definitely get a few surprises, he thought. That was how he could pass the time! He sat at the desk and called up a few of the files on Ishtarian training that were not proprietary that he had archived on his account and spent the ensuing twenty minutes brushing up, getting himself in the proper frame of mind for what he would do. His eyes glazed slightly as he envisioned her strong supple body beneath his hands, what he would do to it, and what he would ask of it . . . Unknown to him, his eyes had narrowed, their natural tilt accentuated until they appeared nearly feline. His delicate lips curved slightly.
The alarm sounded again, signalling the end of his shift as it had the night previous. Without another thought or look back, he stood, snapped off the viewer on the desk, and strode rapidly out of the infirmary on the way to his quarters.
Fifteen minutes later, he again stood at the entrance to his Lady's ship, his hand on the chime with far more confidence than previous. With deliberation, he pressed it once. In response, the door slid open silently, revealing the interior, dark again, but lit with one lone candle in the center of a small table standing beyond the bed. The ports, which he had not realized were there, were completely transparent, and the effect was that the entire far wall of the ship was completely open to the stars. Her ship was on the far side of the station, facing away from the planet below, and toward the wormhole. Glittering cold lights from a million stars sparkled back at him, ignorant of his existence but aware of his pleasure in observing them. Moving further into the room, as if in a trance, he found himself being drawn toward the ports. There were plenty of them on the station, and he had been outside in the runabouts many times, but never had he seen such a large expanse of stars at one time, like a solid wall of them before him; EVAs were not typical training for medical staff. As he moved closer to the port, placing his hands against it, he felt as is he were dangling over the edge of a precipice that called to him like a siren. Rapture of the deeps, he told himself, aware of the phenomenon that had been known and spoken of for most of human history.
He did not turn or jump as he felt warm strong hands at his back, which slid quietly up against his shoulders. "The ports can be dialed to opacity if the sight disturbs you," she said, unwilling to break the cathedrallike silence with more than the vaguest whisper. For a moment, he did not respond.
"No," he finally said back, his soft voice complementing the silvery stars. "No . . . " For what felt like a few brief centuries, they both stood, simply looking at what was presented to them. Julian felt his Lady's warmth behind him, against him, and in the darkness he smiled. He leaned back just a little into her body, and felt as she held him, nuzzling his neck just a little. The melting started again, the bodymelting he felt upon being with her at any time, and his arousal appeared to delight the stars that watched them. With the tolerant love of a great matriarch, they seemed to smile down upon the doctor and the trader, blessing their desire and their play, ringing like little sparkling silver bells in approval.
Still they watched the stars, and felt the other's breathing until their chests were rising in spontaneous synchronization. Two voices were stilled, two minds calmed, as they watched the stars quiver with a consciousness they could taste. They waited until they both felt the energy, the vibrance, as they began to resonate in tune with one another. His beautiful Lady reached up past his shoulder to place her fingers against his slender neck, running gently down from his chin to his collarbones, feeling the warmth, the texture, the living pulse. Finally, Julian was able to turn his eyes from the stars, to see them in his Lady's eyes as she gazed at him. Caught by her eyes, whose color he could still not fathom, he took her face in his hands and moved closer to it. With difficulty, she placed her hands on his chest.
"Doctor, I cannot," she told him, her body so close to his that he could feel her heart beating.
"Yes," he told her, placing one hand against the back of her neck. "You can." Firmly, gently, with unyielding tenderness, he kissed her, unbound and unbonded. It was only the second time that his Lady had kissed a man out of bond, and he felt her body stiffen against his; she did not push him away.
After a time, he moved his hands down her back, pressing his hips into hers, toying with her moist lips, feeling his shadow rough against her skin. Boldly, he began to probe her mouth with his tongue; it seemed so warm, so open to him, and after a time, her tongue rose to meet his. The silence that had risen up out of the stars that watched their play was broken, or simply caressed, by her sighs. She sounded like an angel.
Her body had begun to move against his as well, and she writhed against him. He felt her fingers twining in his hair, pulling his face against hers more firmly, tasting him more deeply. That, her hips between his hands, her body against his, her lips and tongue under his, the scent of her, the soft sounds of her mouth . . . he felt himself beginning to lose his individuality, drowning in the sensations again as they stood by the ports, by the stars. With effort, he pulled away from her; he did not want to destroy her training completely, or even a little, but she had said that she may wear the collar this time. Perhaps she would wear it on her heart and not just her neck.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said, softly, looking at her evenly. "I know this is against your vows."
She seemed to be gathering herself, breathing more quickly than usual, pressing herself into him. She did not reply right away, but only closed her eyes as she felt herself on him, feeling her lips pulled to his skin, to his beautiful long neck. His warmth was intoxicating, and she nestled her face there for a brief time, letting it fill her like a sweet liquor.
"Doctor, I don't know what my vows are anymore," she said simply. "I haven't wondered this since I was invested . . . " Shaken, she stood away from him, her raised hand between them, halting him from putting his arms around her and comforting her. "Please do not . . . " she said on a breath. Words jammed on their way out of her mouth, and Julian could only watch as his normally calm Lady had to gather her thoughts. "Doctor . . . " she said at last, "I must teach you the next lesson."
"I know," he replied softly. He brought his hand to her face, and she did not shake it off, though the touch seemed to distress her. "I'm ready to learn."
"I know, she echoed. "But . . . but I may not be ready to teach." Confused, Julian only looked back at her. She walked away from him then, stood with her back to him, the starlight coating her in her plain drape of gossamer grey; she needed no ornament. "I must teach you," she repeated, and Julian got the distinct feeling that she was speaking more to herself than to him. "I have sworn it, and it is my duty for a pupil so skilled as you." She turned to face him. "I must begin as your teacher . . . but I do not know if I can remain that way." Alone in the middle of the wide room, she looked back at him, his reed-slender body outlined by the stars -- a dark shade, only the eyes reflecting back light. He walked toward her; she could not see his face against the port.
"I don't understand," he said to her.
She knit her hands and composed herself. "Doctor, I have been here for several hours, ever since seeing you on the station, thinking to myself. I have spoken to no one of what I've thought, not you, not Rala." A breath, the vaguest whisper. "I have contemplated my vows, thought back to what I told you when we last met, the time before." Without conscious volition, her hand rose to move gently over his chest as he came close. "I can only join with a consort, or a man in bond. It is against our way, the way of teachers, to do otherwise."
"But," he said, and pain was in his voice, regret as well, "I am not your consort." She saw his thoughts flickering over his face, saw as the memories of their last time, pressed close and warm, ran through his mind. "I cannot be your consort," he continued, his voice softening almost to the point where it vanished. He closed his eyes, and she saw him swallow.
"I do not know if I can remain only a teacher to you," she said. Only. Would she ever have called a teacher "only" anything until now? "I do not know if I will be able to keep from calling you consort, even if it cannot be legitimated." She could not restrain herself from placing her body close against his, feeling him against her skin. "I may not be able to -- remain true to what I am."
Julian placed his arms around her, holding her close. I don't know if I can keep from calling you beloved, he thought silently, though he did not say it. Her hair was at his face, the fragrance in it rising to suffuse him in a warm vapor. He felt the silkiness under his lips, felt as it caught against his face, his rough chin. "Lady," he said at last, "I don't know if I can . . . see you leave again." Her head jerked upright. "I had to tell you."
"You will have to," she said. "And I will have to see you stay behind." A rueful chuckle, with great sadness behind it. "It's too early for us to get so maudlin," she said. "We have another lesson yet to learn ahead of us." Stepping away from him yet again, she smiled at him. He dipped his face close to her and brushed his lips against hers.
"And what will I learn now?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. I'm not sure what I can teach you now," she said quietly. "I don't know if I can remain as teacher for the entire lesson; I can't tell you what you will finally learn." She nuzzled his cheek with hers. "It may be that I will learn -- learn that I judged too well when I first saw you, that I took too much of a chance in teaching you." Her voice had nearly disappeared. "I may learn that I am not the teacher I thought I was." Julian looked back at her, horrified.
"No . . . "
"It may be," she said firmly. "I do not yet know." Her face became wondering, something he had never seen. "You are unlike any pupil or man I have ever encountered. Young, unlettered, impulsive . . . kind and loving, caring and with depth that even you cannot guess at." He simply stared back at her, unwilling to accept what she was saying.
I am a doctor, he thought -- the first thing that came to mind whenever he contemplated his life, his purpose. That is all. A good doctor, an . . . egotistical one . . . Someone who hasn't had half of what he says he's had, or wants. Someone who speaks before thinking, and does precious little of one, too much of the other. He shook his head, chastened. "Lady . . . I don't think I am what you seem to think."
"I think you are," she replied simply, and walked to the bed. She turned and sat on it, watching him. "I want to show you," she said.
"Show me?" He was confused. "How can you show me . . . "
"What you do not know yourself?" She smiled. "I know it is there, and I have seen it in others, though never before as clearly . . . as purely. Come here," she told him, her hand on the bed next to where she sat. "I will show you what you have inside yourself."
Like a sleepwalker, he moved to where his Lady was sitting. He felt an impulse to kneel before her, but controlled it. He sat next to her. He looked into her gaze, placing his hand on hers. "What will you show?"
"Something you need to know about yourself. Something you suspect is there, something I know is there . . . what is drawing me to you." She rose. "Wait here." Following these pregnant words, she disappeared from the room. Julian sat, awaiting her return, but she did not do so. His heart began to beat more strongly, and he wondered why she was taking so long. Idly, his eyes began to roam the room -- over the bed, the tapestries serene with the voices of ages speaking silently from them, over the few other articles of furniture, the flame lamps, which had lit them last time . . . His eyes fell on something at the foot of the bed. Black, matte . . . he reached toward it and found a pair of the boots, the same ones she and Rala had always worn, in black suede this time instead of leather. They were like butter beneath his fingertips, smooth and swallowing what light fell on them. He unrolled them; they looked to be nearly the right length and size . . .
. . . for him. He looked more closely at the animal skin, and ran his fingers over the top cuff of the left boot; embossed on the suede he saw a tiny Starfleet emblem, the little trefoil glowing up at him, the only shiny thing on the boots catching the starlight. Without realizing it, he smiled thinly. Their size appeared to be no coincidence. By himself, he laughed. Why not? It was a matter of moments for him to pull off his boots and undo his uniform, tugging it past his hips. One quick pull and his shirt was off as well, tousling his hair. He removed his underclothes also, folded them into a neat pile, and placed them all on the table upon which sat the flickering candle.
He turned to the port then, to see the stars, to stand before them, and the blue candylike glow coated him from head to heel. Placing a hand against the glass again, he watched them twinkling at him for a few moments, then turned away and picked up the boots.
The cool suede felt wonderful sliding over his skin. He had been concerned that they would be too tight around his calves and thighs, but his fears were unfounded. They were . . . snug, almost more like suede tights. Tugging firmly, he brought them up to his upper thighs, feeling the loose upper cuff of skin caressing him as he moved his leg. The little emblem flickered back at him as he moved, and quickly, its twin joined it on his right leg. He tightened the laces along the back, and stood. The suede kissed his skin, languidly, and massaged his legs as he walked. He felt the upper cuff tickling at him as well, and the dangling laces tapped against his thighs. Like his Lady's, and like Rala's, there were no heels on these boots, but only supple soles that did not impede his movements at all.
Grinning, he considered that they were more comfortable than his uniform boots. Pity I can't wear them on duty, he said, and actually chuckled out loud at himself. He walked back to the bed and resumed his place on it. As he suspected, his Lady returned not long after.
He turned to see her entering from the other room, and watched as she watched him. She appeared to slow her pace for a few moments, then resumed.
Oh . . . she had to catch her breath at him -- slim, feline, with his eyes glittering at her over his darkened cheeks. His angular body was supplely turned toward her like a dancer, and his legs looked impossibly longer, coated in the buttery soft animal skin. One was underneath him, one stretched out before. The starlight was on him as well, outlining his fine slender shoulders, his graceful arms, pooled like quicksilver at his collarbones and neck. His entire back was coated with the bluish-silver glow . . . She lowered her eyes, taking control of herself, and began to play her part.
Julian watched her as she dropped her eyes; her entire demeanor had changed. She simply stood before him, her hands clasped before her, her gaze on the floor. Clutched in her hands was the wine-colored collar she had shown him before he left, the one she had promised she might wear, if he so chose . . . Her eyes did not come up to meet his. She remained where she was, silent and waiting.
Julian got up and walked toward her, curious. "Lady . . . ?" he asked. Her eyes met his at last then, but almost timidly. She was not the woman who had left the room so recently. Julian smiled, understanding, as again her eyes fastened themselves to the floor. With deliberation, he held out his hands and looked at her expectantly, an amused expression on his sharp face. She was still for a moment, then took a deep breath and placed the collar in his hands. He took it from her, regarded it for a few moments, then tossed it at the bed; it clattered loudly against the wall and slid down behind the headboard, disappearing.
"I don't think we'll need that," he told her easily, his voice resonant and sensuous. Courtly and smiling, he held out a hand to her; she placed hers in it, and he led her slowly to the edge of the bed. "I need not bind you here," he told her, running one finger up her neck to her chin, tilting her beautiful face to his. "You will wear your bindings here," he said, tapping her chest over her heart, "the softest bindings you will ever know." She closed her eyes at his words, and sighed. He dropped his face then, to her chest, kissing the place over her heart lightly, lingering there to drink her scent, to nuzzle her breast with his shadowed cheeks. Dropping to one knee, he wrapped his arms around her hips, embracing her with passion. Her strong thighs, muscular yet not without softness, gave under his fingers as he ran his hands over the velvet skin. Her round buttocks as well filled his hands as his rough chin brushed against her tight black curls. Slowly, lazily, he took locks of the ebon ringlets between his lips and tugged very gently, nuzzling. The faintest scent of her rose to his face, and he felt himself begin to throb, to thirst. Revelling in it, he told himself strictly that he would slake the thirst, in time. Her hands were at him, running so lightly over his skin, his shoulders, his neck, toying with his hair. She tried to kneel to face him, but he gripped her legs too strongly, compelling her to remain standing. "No . . . " he whispered, and stood, his body merest inches from hers. With infinite care, he embraced her and laid her gently onto the bed, taking care not to catch her hair, which draped over her body, her only clothing. For a time, he simply looked at her, as the silvery starlight poured over her, turning her forearms, her legs, the points of her hips, to liquid metal. His fingertips roved over her as he knelt once again next to the bed; belying the metallic sheen, her flesh was warm, pliant, delicious. Shimmering flashes of it caught in her hair, and as he brushed his fingers through it, it shivered and danced like water. Dazzled, he wondered where to start. He could kiss and fondle, taste and adore, every part of her at once.
She lay back, watching him, watching his eyes, feeling his cool slow hands on her, and felt like fleeing. Badly, she wanted to run, to dash away from here, from what it meant confronting. Unseen, her fists clenched. My vows . . . she told herself again, appalled at the lack of conviction in her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she felt nothing save his gentle touch roaming tenderly over her body, his palms brushing over her, his lips at her skin again; she gasped slightly. My vows . . . Throwing her head back, she opened her eyes at last and looked at the stars against which the headboard of the bed was placed. They watched her back, and whether they were accusing or approving she could not say. Perhaps, she thought as she felt his lips travelling with agonizing slowness over her breasts and neck, moving toward her own, they simply did not care.
Suddenly, his lips were on hers, the subtle warmth of his face at hers, the scent of him evanescing from his skin. Startled, she turned her face toward his, shadowed against the stars and by the darkness on his cheeks and chin, and caught her breath as his lips descended toward hers. Again, her fists clenched as she felt herself dissolving into the kiss, into the warmth and darkness.
She opened her mouth just a fraction, sighing against him, and fought to keep control over herself, to keep playing the part she must to teach him what he needed to learn. From wanting to run and hide, she had gone to fighting a passionate desire to fall into him, to clutch him to her, to lose herself in him, never coming out . . . to keep him forever, no matter their duty. With a will of absolute iron, she compelled herself to stay in her designated role. He is pupil, I am teacher; he is not my consort. Her tongue rose against his, and ran over his lips. She felt him take it, gently sucking at the tip, toying with it.
"Lady . . . " he breathed, and she heard the devotion in his voice as well, the wanting. His hands then came up around her face from where they had been caressing her and she felt them at her cheeks as they kissed, their passion growing. They began to devour one another; she too took his face in her hands and pulled him to her. Firmly, though, and with care, he grasped her wrists and pulled her hands from him. She looked as his breathtaking eyes pinned her where she was.
"No," he told her with such gentleness that she nearly melted. He placed her hands back down near her sides, pressing them there. "Relax, my Lady," he said. "Relax" -- as he began to toy with her again, with her face, her neck, with her ears, and she began to move beneath him. She tried but could not suppress the sounds of passion stirred from her throat, she felt him smile against her as they rose to his ears. Her arms strained against his grasp, but not by much, and after a time, they stopped altogether and she simply gave herself to him and the passion he roused in her. Play the part, she told herself, play the part . . .
He sat atop her now, still devouring her skin, moving down toward her breasts, toward the tender skin there and at her stomach, her hips, still gripping her wrists. Julian felt her gasp and start when he took her breast, firm and athletic, into his mouth, again teasing and playing with the baby-soft nipple. He felt it grow firm in his mouth, and the knowledge of her arousal multiplied his own. Running his tongue over her gently, slowly, he began to draw lazy shapes on her skin, his chin rough on her skin, leaving a cool trail of moisture behind. Beneath him, against his chest, she shivered and her stomach tensed; he felt her hips rock just barely forward, and her hands tightened into rocks. For what seemed like hours, for what may have been, he teased and delighted her this way, feeling himself grow firm and pressing into his body, pressing into hers as well. Finally, he began to trail his eager mouth further down to her hips, to kiss and fondle everything in between, to grasp her thighs in strong hands and part them ever so slowly. He cast a glance at her; her head was back, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Again, the bluish glow of the stars lay over her like a thin sheen.
He returned his gaze to her gateway -- beautiful, fragrant, ringed in tight and soft black curls. Julian kissed each curl in turn and ran his lips over them all, beginning to drown in the softness and scent. Tenderly, he kissed these lips as well, running his tongue over the niche between them and her thighs, making her gasp yet again in pleasure and want. Teasing her yet further, he toyed with her lips for several long languid minutes and felt as his own sex urgently pressed into him, pulsing in time, jolting him with its insistence. Steady . . . he told himself against the voice that told him to rise and plunge himself into her; he was shocked at how much easier it was to resist this time. The knowledge of her impending delight, and his, and how both would be the greater for the wait, made it nearly trivial, until he took a pure strong pleasure in forcing himself to resist, feeling his body sing to him with sensation. Finally, he parted her lips with his own, searching for the place that the Ishtarian mythology called the temple jewel, the place of holy life, where life began. Yes . . . there. He took it between his lips, tasting its sweetness, its moist delicious softness, and felt her hips rock against his mouth as the sensation ran itself through the body of his Lady. Moaning, she tried to break his grasp on her wrists, but he increased his strength and held them firm as she fought to free her hands. He flicked his tongue over the jewel, quickly, distracting her until she no longer tried to free herself but instead was simply forced to lie back, allow herself to be buffeted by the stimulation.
Then, suddenly, he pulled away from her, leaving her gasping and moaning beneath him. He looked to the little table and saw . . . yes! It was there; she had known he would need it and left it out. He rose from the bed, leaving her there.
It, too, was turned into shimmering light by the stars, but the glow only added to its already silvery sheen. He removed the lid, taking out a small dollop onto his finger, and walked back to the bed where his Lady lay, watching him. Her face was . . . as he looked, he saw a flicker of emotion, deep and strong, that shook him slightly. Could she be . . . he wondered, then stopped himself. He must trust her as well as himself, trust that she will tell him what he needed to know, about the training, about her own feelings, about himself.
He returned to the bed and resumed his position at her. Smiling, he took the little ball of sweet cream on his tongue and bent down to where she was open, wet and wanting. Her hips rocked yet again, but this time she did not give him cause to hold her wrists, as she felt his tongue probing inside her, coating her with the cream. He felt the powerful surge of appetite in himself, and heard his Lady's voice as she did as well. The thirst gripped him, and he began lapping at her even more strongly, burying himself in her sweetness, devouring her as she bucked against him. For a brief few moments, he lost himself in her, then pulled back, remembering that it must last, that he must not rush, no matter how badly he had to resist. Again, he concentrated on the resistance, on the hunger; it was harder this time to find pleasure in it, but it was there, deeper than it had been before and more rewarding.
Julian opened his eyes at her gateway, panting, trying to take control over himself. A teacher he was not. He moaned, light and delicate, and laid his cheek against her curls, regaining his wind, and his control. He had nearly given himself to it, nearly lost himself. "Lady . . . " he breathed. "I am not . . . I don't have what I thought I had."
Her voice was far softer, more pliant-sounding, than anything he had ever heard from her. "You have . . . more than you think," she breathed, her hand rising from her side to caress his hair. You have enough to make me question myself in ways I never thought possible, she finished, though she did not say it. After a time, after he had regained himself, he rose above her; she watched his slim body stretch before her eyes. He turned then, and picked up the little jar of kamireh.
"Lady," he said, "I'll need your help for this part." A trick of the light? she thought, or was he actually smiling like that, that smirk? She shook her head then, and watched as he opened the jar and scooped out another little ball of the white cream. He leaned toward her, his hand going to her mouth, and again she caught her breath. "Will you help me?" he asked. She nodded. "Good." She felt her lips parted gently, and her tongue rose to his fingers. "Here," he said, placing the ball of kamireh on her tongue. She held it, between her lips, and he rose before her, moving slowly up her body until his wanting sex, pulsing in firmness, was against her cheek. Her eyes went to his face, looking down on her with the dollop of cream on her tongue. He said nothing, and she knew what he wanted from her. Doctor . . . her mind was a wisp, a mere veil over a warm sea of want at his actions. Doctor, you are more pupil than anyone I have ever taught, she told him with silence, with her eyes as the cream began to melt from the heat of her mouth, entering her system and making her mad. Turning her head slightly, she took him into her mouth then, feeling him slide into her without effort, slowly. He did not push, did not thrust but merely . . . entered, with careful gentleness. With her tongue, she coated him all over, down the length of his shaft, and heard him moan, low and quiet.
With a loud clap, he laid his hands on the edge of the headboard, gripping it convulsively as she excited him further, as she felt the hot surge of hunger build in her from the kamireh. She saw his head fall back, saw his body arch, and felt his hips rise against her mouth. The wanting was in him, and his voice gave it life. He was atop her, but she had him in her grasp, in her control. The solidity of her position relaxed her just a little, the part she played less likely to make her feel that frightening falling. You are playing a part, she told herself again, you must not live it . . . She toyed further with him, drinking in the intoxicatingly musky male scent, feeling his tight curls tickling her nose. Relaxing, she took him in more deeply, as deeply as she could or as she needed to, massaging him against her throat. His voice grew more insistent, more plaintive. Suddenly, she felt him withdraw from her until he was inches from her lips, shaking before her, his body tense as piano wire, his hands still clutching the headboard in an absolutely iron grasp. Whimpering lightly, he knelt there, his knees on either side of her shoulders, still as a statue but for his subtle shaking and the quivering of his shining sex. She moved forward just a little, licking the starlight from the head, and felt him jerk away from her again.
"No . . . " he breathed, almost begged. She brought her hands up to his waist, and his eyes jerked open. "No," he repeated more firmly, taking her wrists and placing her arms at her sides once more. He took several gulps of air, steadying himself, then resumed his earlier position, kneeling with his hips just below hers. He could just barely make out the dizzying folds of her gateway, beckoning him. Clenching his jaw, he parted her thighs again and, sliding his knees under hers, he entered her, slowly and carefully. She moaned to him, and pushed her hips further against his, and he saw her eyes widen as he drew himself back, keeping only the head within her. You, he thought, you would take me only so far at first. I will give you only so much at first as well. He placed one hand against her hips, stilling them. "Wait," he told her, watching her breasts rise and fall as she breathed. Then, "I'll enter you, but you must do something for me first." Her response was on a wisp.
"Yes . . . "
He placed his hand, his sure hand, over her jewel, caressing and tickling at it with his fingertips. Her body writhed. Now, it was time for this, he thought. Not from any Ishtarian manual, perhaps totally unfamiliar to her . . . "I will continue for ten counts," he informed her, barely able to keep from plunging into her as he felt her twitch in response to his caresses. He swallowed. "During that time, if you move or make a sound, I withdraw." She moaned at this, unbelieving, and incredulous eyes met his. Indeed, she had not heard of this before. Then, as he continued, her head simply fell back limply, and she moaned again in abandonment. "If you withstand until I count ten," he said, leaning against her, "I enter you completely." A pregnant pause; he placed his lips against her sensitized skin. "Do you agree?" Silence, then the barest of nods. "Let's begin."
He pressed into her wet jewel, flicking it lightly, just a few times. "One." Just a few more flicks, and he watched his Lady's face, saw her tensing muscles as she fought to hold herself back. He pressed slightly harder and felt her suppress a jolt. "Two." Twitches against him, around the head of his sex, nearly made him lose concentration, but he let himself fall into the rhythm of his partner, and found it again. The slightest of quivering was all she betrayed, making the starlight on her skin shimmer like water. "Three," and he moved his fingers more lightly, more lazily. "Four." He looked down and could see the milky cream running in pulses from her.
"Five." As he watched, she bit her lip, and swallowed what would have been a strong and delicious moan as he felt her legs jerk just slightly. He had found a very sensitive place.
"Six." Yes, this place and this movement was what she thirsted for, what she wanted. Again, her stomach muscles grew tense, pulsed, and she gasped like a drowning diver. He concentrated his fingertips on this place, pressing just slightly harder, and his Lady had never looked so abandoned before. His heart was soft; he could never do anything other than enter her, no matter what she did. But she did not need to know that.
"Seven." He continued, just a touch more slowly. There was no need to raise her so close to the peak that he would have to bring her over into the fall; that would be unconscionable.
"Eight." He began to move his fingers in a lazier fashion, bursts of movement followed by even stillness, a stillness during which she would clutch involuntarily at him, her breath coming sharply at each of the clutches.
"Nine." He wanted to tell her something sweet, something kind and loving, but kept from doing so; he could not break the flow of what he was doing. With several sharp flicks, one, two, three, he brought her even higher. She could not help herself -- her back arched slowly.
"Ten," he finished, feeling her tense finally, and was shocked to hear her moans. They seemed as if . . . he looked closely at her face. In the darkness, he could not see her well enough to tell normally, but with the ports open and the stars looking in at them, their light was just enough for him to make out the glittering at her eyes. "Lady . . . " he said, astonished.
"Ju -- Doctor," she replied, and her voice caught. She gasped deeply, unable to keep her body still. Still supine, not fighting his hands, she simply gazed back at him. "Doctor . . . you who cannot be my consort . . . "
Immediately he was against her, his chest pressing into hers, his face at her face. He had slipped out of her but did not realize it. His hands wreathed her features, and he watched in helplessness as she wept quietly. "No," he breathed, his cheek against hers, his lips fondling her skin. Nuzzling against her, he kissed her neck tenderly. "Lady, no . . . " He could barely stand her tears. Gently, he placed his hands on her wrists, bringing her fingers to his face; she held it then, her hands at his jaw, still weeping quietly in the darkness.
"Doctor . . . " They kissed then, the abandonment and passion, the wildness of their timeless desire for each other finally surfacing in both. "I cannot . . . " she began, but could not continue. Julian Bashir stilled the failing lips of his Lady with his own, devouring so hungrily, so lovingly. "I must play a part, but I cannot . . . you would have me live the part." His gentle lips were at her cheek. "Live the part of the taken lover, the initiate." Between gossamer sobs, she spoke. "I must show you how to take an unlettered lover, and I must play that part, I must play that to you . . . and now . . . " His eyes too began to grow moist and shining. "I am no longer playing the unlettered lover, I am the unlettered lover." Her moist eyes ran over his face in amazement. "I cannot finish as teacher, and yet . . . I must finish. I must have you, and I must have you take me."
He closed his eyes, and kissed her with more depth than he had ever felt before, more so than at any time previous. "Then take me, let me take you -- as consort." Her lips quivered at his.
"I cannot," she replied simply. "Ju . . . " Her voice trailed off. He knew what she had nearly done, the nature of the precipice upon which she teetered. No teacher could speak the name of a lover not a consort, and most especially not that of a pupil. He had learned that much during his perusals of the Ishtarian lessons during the last five months.
The nearness of her breach, how close she had come before catching herself, frightened her. She gazed up at him in the darkness, and her eyes became warm and soft as she saw him over her, saw his concern and even his love.
"Lady," he told her, "I never wanted you to be hurt."
"I chose you," she said, "that day, so long ago . . . I chose you. Perhaps I chose too well." She kissed him so softly that he nearly wept at her touch. "You did not wish to harm me; I know that. You could never have foreseen . . . "
"Lady, take me as consort. No one need know . . . " His eyes burned brightly and his chest rose quickly against hers. "I've felt it, too. I've felt it with you . . . the feeling like I'm being awakened, like I'm in a dream that's not really a dream, that's a reality more real than anything in my waking world . . . " His voice trailed off; the words were so hard to find. His kisses trailed down to her neck, powerful and strong. "Lady, you've shown me parts of myself I didn't know I had." He stopped entirely, afraid of sounding too prosaic, too maudlin. She was looking back at him, silently.
"But you must stay here," she said. "And I must go."
"Yes." Another kiss.
She gasped and caught her breath, quelling her tears with iron will. "You cannot have only me," she told him. "You must take others."
"I will, I promise."
"You are the best pupil I have ever known; for you to refuse to take others would be . . . unthinkable." He swallowed.
"I will, Lady," he said weakly. "I promise." Starlight on tears drew a trail of quicksilver on his sharp cheek.
"You will find other parts of yourself, new ones with each person, new ways of feeling caring, trust, love, lust . . . and you will grow deeper with each person, woman and man."
"I will," he said with a kiss she could barely feel. "Old sailors kept lovers in every port. I can be here for you."
"And I must return, trade or no." Her eyes burned into him, and her hands caressed him with care and love. The candle on the table behind them burnt down to the end at last, leaving them awash only in the glow of the stars. "I will return, Doctor." Their mouths touched, and through their kiss, they became one being of passion and love. "My love. Julian, my love."
Her thighs embraced him, slowly, and with liquid grace, he lowered himself onto and into her, feeling her envelop him, feeling her fluid embrace. He slid into her very slowly, and saw as she reacted, closing her eyes in pleasure and satisfaction, finally able to say what she had felt, to give voice to what he had felt as well -- the unity, the trust, even the love.
When he had entered her fully, pressed against her, he kissed the tip of her nose; she opened her eyes. "You have used my name, Lady, but I still don't know yours." He felt her hips moving against him then, and felt her hands running along his slim back, wrapping around his waist. His Lady smiled.
"Come here," she said. He leaned down close to her until he felt her breath stirring his hair, and she told him what he wished to know. On the softest breath, he whispered it back to her, his voice filled with love.
"It is done . . . Julian," she said. "No pupil knows my name, not you, not Rala, no other. You do; you are my consort." Her lips brushed his. "My beautiful consort away from me."
"But you will return," he stated.
"Of course." Her smile was a smile he had waited his entire life to see. "I must return; I am bound here, to you." It took him a few moments to realize that she was not speaking metaphorically; she was indeed bound to this place, and to him. It took him the merest sliver of time to realize how fully he was bound as well.
"Lady," he said as he began to thrust lazily, caressing her entire body with his, feeling her skin moving on his, her body beneath his, "do you believe in a soul? A spirit?"
Surprised by his question, she took a moment to reply. "I believe in a spirit," she said. "A liquid spirit . . . " Her voice halted as she felt him touching her, deeply. " . . . which is poured into a great cauldron upon each death. The cauldron is mixed, and new spirits are dipped from it." She smiled coyly, and sighed like melody. "We may have been dipped from similar spirit," she told him.
Julian smiled. "We may have been," he responded, then began to thrust more strongly, yet retaining his easy pace, synchronizing their appetites. The bond deepened, beyond what he thought was possible. Closing his large eyes, he laid himself full against her, and closed down his mind until all he knew was the warm pliance of her flesh on his, the curves and textures beneath him as his body fit into hers, against hers. Her warm body seemed to glow against him, and he concentrated until he could hear even the soft sounds of his gentle thrusting, and the scent of both their bodies echoed in his spirit. He wanted to sing, or to dance with his soul. How could he not? How could he feel this, all over him, all five senses and his heart and mind, and not want to? The music of her spirit called to him, and he moved himself against her; indeed, he told himself, I am already dancing.
It seemed hours, and could never be long enough. There could never be enough time to explore all of him that I must, nor to find all of myself in him. His weight was on her, and yet she seemed to float with him, in a choir of emotion, of taste and scent and sound. My consort, she thought. My consort. She felt her eyes growing moist again, and did not stop to dry them. She did not need to; Julian saw them and, with his fine lips, took the wetness from her into himself. She kissed him, and could taste the salt of her own tears on his lips. Joyfully, she smiled at his love, then laughed aloud. He heard her, and his own smile then dawned and grew until they were both laughing in their love for each other. Amazing! she thought, and laughed again. She threw her arms around him tightly, and felt as she embraced him with herself. The energy between them grew, flourished, until they shared it with each other, one person loving itself. Outside the ship, the stars as well shimmered with their own laughter.
He felt himself pushed upright until he was sitting on his heels, his Lady atop him, and together they rocked to a gently rolling music that she hummed, punctuated by occasional gasps as she held him inside her more tightly, two bodies together warm and soft. Her hands were on him, caressing, fondling, toying over the curves and dips, the landscape of his slender, lovely body. His arms were around her, his face nuzzling with such tenderness, his graceful body bending into hers. He was so smooth, so soft; she had never felt anything like him, never seen anything alike. The soft suede of the boots kissed her inner thighs as she moved herself on him, and could not compare to his tender skin.
They were approaching the peak, the delicious peak; both the doctor and his Lady. Their bodies, their minds felt the teasing tightness, the mad feeling of desperate want, and did not fight it but drowned themselves in it until at last, they plummeted over the precipice into a warm waterfall of moist joy. Julian felt his Lady's hands clasping at his waist, her thighs tensing around his body, as if he no longer inhabited himself, and felt her cries in his own mind, music he could gladly hear for the rest of his life. His Lady could feel him swelling, bursting, inside her, and felt his spasms against her stomach, felt/saw/heard/tasted a glorious starburst of emotion and sensation that made her gasp in amazement. The energy grew past them both until when it finally abated, neither could tell where the other stopped and they began. In the darkness, together, they slept peacefully, each filled with the other. Starlight coated their oblivious bodies as they slept, in a tangle of arms and legs and hearts and minds. From time to time, each would drift lazily into wakefulness, open sleepy eyes, and see the astonishing multitudes of stars. Eyes would then close, and the stars would vanish, replaced by dreams to which even they could not compare.
Copyright 1993(c) by the author. -- Moderator, rec.arts.erotica. Submissions to erotica@unix.amherst.edu. Please, no reposts, first drafts, or requests for "subscriptions," stories, GIFs, or archive sites.