By Acidqueen






"I can't help it, Spock. It's in the regs and you know that. I mean, you're usually the one who can quote them down to the last period." McCoy looked up from console, feeling for once sympathetic with the first officer. The Vulcan stood straight as usual, hands clamped in his back, but a light frown above the slanted eyebrows showed his discomfort.


"Every fertile male crewmember with no offspring has to deliver a portion of sperm to be deep-frozen at Starfleet Central," McCoy repeated. "And after the Pon Farr, you're subject to this rule. So as long as you can't prove me that you've got kids somewhere, you'll have to go through it. And now, because your sperm production will soon rest for another seven years."


Spock's face went blank, the way it went when the Vulcan tightly clamped down some embarrassing feelings. "I see. However, I'm not able to deliver the…sample…without preparation."


"Hm, I thought that famous Vulcan body control would do it," McCoy said, looking at his screen again in a meager attempt to hide a smile. Too bad he couldn't tell anyone about this. "But we can always fall back on old-fashioned human methods." He bent down and fetched some data disks.


"Here," he said, and offered them to Spock. "You can use the small examination room in the back. Lock the door behind you."


Spock took the disks, staring at them. "What are these for, Dr. McCoy?"


"It's a variety of stimulating material."


"Material?" Spock repeated.  


"Movies. Sexually explicit material. Porn, Spock," McCoy added in slight exasperation when the Vulcan looked uncomprehendingly. No wonder Spock was a virgin - or at least he'd bet on it. "Hetero, gay, lesbian, some kinks thrown in for good measures. Whatever floats your boat."


Spock raised a brow. "My boat?"


"Whatever excites you enough to deliver that sample." McCoy got up and nudged Spock into the back of sickbay. On the way, he fetched a cryocup, pushing it into the Vulcan's hands. "Come on, Spock. I'm sure you'll find something to feed your fantasies."


"Vulcans do not have sexual fantasies," Spock said flatly, as he was forced into the small room. McCoy blocked the door, determined not to let Spock escape once more - this was already the third attempt to get that sperm sample.


"Then it's all about handwork. Good luck, Spock," McCoy said, and closed the door. His grin deepened as he returned to his office - Spock watching porn while jerking off, now that was a pity that there was no monitor in the examination room…




There were human men and women having intercourse; human men having intercourse with other men; women satisfying women. To Spock's eyes, it was an abundant frivolity of emotions and flesh that he found rather detestable. On one of the disks, there were movies with alien sex partners and mixed parings, but the sight of a female Klingon sucking an Andorian's antenna was nothing that moved Spock beyond a purely scientific curiosity.


In the end, there was only one disk left, and Spock scrolled through its contents. This had to be the one the doctor had referred to as "kink". Thankfully, this kink seemed to involve less activity of the flesh. But while Spock could aesthetically appreciated women in tight rubber skirts, there was no way to receive sexual stimulation from the shocking pictures of beaten victims. Spock fought some nausea and hastily jumped to the next movie. It had two men in black rubber, and while it involved some bondage and domination, it had none of the painful aspects of the other movies. In fact, this kink showed structured patterns and high contents of rituals. This might do it.


Spock leaned back in the chair, reluctantly opening his fly. Although he had tried masturbation after his Pon Farr and usually had succeeded, it held nothing particularly attractive for him. It was a matter of correct physical stimulation, applying the right pressure at the right spots. Sexual fantasies were no aspect of it.


Rubbing over his soft penis and staring at the movie he waited for some response of his body to the stimulus on screen. One of the man knelt on the floor, yielding to his master in a vain conversation. Spock switched off the sound and scrolled to the next scene. The dominant was tying the hands of the kneeling man with leather straps. As Spock could tell from the bulged groins, this measure was an effective stimulant for both participants.


Spock looked down on his own hand between his slightly spread thighs. Between the fingers, the head of his penis barely peaked out, the shaft still soft and without any measurable filling.


Spock looked back at the screen, where the dominant took out his impressive erection. It was hard and lingered only centimeters apart from the other one's face. Some inaudible order was given, and the bound man began licking the glans, then sucked in the shaft. The dominant's lips moved, and he put his hands around the submissive's head, forcing the erection in deeper.


Already knowing the frustrating sight, Spock looked down on his own penis. It was still hanging between his fingers like a cheap soy sausage. In frustration, Spock switched off the whole movie. Was it really that easy for humans that they watched others performing sexual acts and could climax on it? In this case, it was a wonder that humans ever succeeded with anything else in their lives.


Heaving a small sigh, Spock sank back in the chair, ignoring the cryocup. He took three deeps breaths. There was a limit in trying to enforce his body's response. But maybe a small meditation would make it easier to reach his goal.


As expected, the meditation worked. However, it worked not quite in the way Spock would have expected - instead of relaxing, his body began tensing over images that suddenly flashed through his mind. One was the image of McCoy, not in his usual blue tunic but in the black shirt. It modeled the wiry body underneath, the slim, long lines, showing the slightly haired underarms. Spock had always found those arms attractive on an aesthetic level. They befit a doctor, not overly muscled but well-coordinated, with determined movements. The fingers were thin and flexible, trained for optimal performance. For all the rattles and beads Spock liked to ascribe to McCoy, he knew that the doctor was professionally handling anything from an old scalpel to high-tech surgical equipment without problems. An attractive property.


For a while, the imagined McCoy lingered in front of his inner eyes. He worked in the lab, bowing down over some equipment, showing off his buttocks without realizing the effect it could have on his colleagues. More than once, Spock had stood behind him with a sample in his hand, patiently waiting for McCoy's attention. The doctor would raise and turn in one fluid movement, giving first him, then the thing in his hand a flash of his blue eyes. All focused scientist in lab, McCoy would speak much more normal with Spock than in their often heated debates when the captain was close. Their diametrically opposed views on many philosophical aspects would easily vanish in the face of some biological puzzle that needed to be solved by meticulous research. Both were nothing less than obsessed with their work, once they had found something to hook their interest.


Then there was McCoy's side of being a physician. Not always rational, in Spock's rating, but always passionate, McCoy had proven over and over again to be close to a miracle worker. But Spock also knew the tired sides of McCoy, the moments where the doctor sat in sickbay and had to write yet another autopsy report, the moments where McCoy and Kirk shared an all-too-human guilt over some lost crewmen, not able to rationalize those feelings like Spock did, and actually not even willing to.


In those moments, Spock wanted to go to McCoy, remove the padd from those surgeon's hands, hide the liquor and take away the doctor's pain. He would pull him up, face him; tell him that this was not the right solution, that he could help him in another way. Touching the doctor's temple, he would meet those blue eyes, and they would be open wide, but not in fear. He could dissolve the pain without damaging the passion, without cooling those fires of emotions, if McCoy just would let him in. He would delve into him and they would merge, first slowly, then quicker, deeper, whirling around each other, erratic waves of a blue sea, Atlantic of thoughts, swirling, challenging, intense energy of minds…


The blaze was unexpectedly rushing through him, and he could barely manage to grab the cryocup to shoot the colorless liquid into it. For a longer time than ever he ejaculated hard, his whole body jerking with every spasm. In the end, he limped in his seat, shakily closing the hutch of the almost full cup. He placed it on the table next to him, then wiped away some splashes of sperm with a nearby towel. McCoy would be satisfied with the results, if not with the means by which he had achieved the goal, Spock thought clinically. But since the doctor would never learn of his attraction, it was of no consequences.


Taking the cup and the scattered disks, he stood up to leave the examination room.




McCoy was delighted to see Spock coming out of the back, as he was tired and barely fighting off a yawn. It was way over the end of his original shift, but he wanted to be the one to take the cup from Spock to spare the Vulcan any more discomfort.


"You're done? That's fine," he said, as he took the cup and the data disks. He was curious, but didn’t want to ask if Spock had liked any of the movies. Thankfully, the Vulcan answered his unvoiced question anyway when McCoy was putting away the precious sample.


"I found the disks very uninspiring,” Spock said coolly. "Human sexual drives seem to be very one-directional."


McCoy only smiled, too exhausted to engage in a debate now. "Different folks, different strokes - as long as you could deliver the sample, everything's fine." He dropped the disks into his table's drawers. "I'm ready to call it a day. May I invite you for a drink?" he asked, and reached for the liquor cabinet.


The look Spock gave him was indescribable, and for a second he wondered if the Vulcan would wrench him bodily apart from the cabinet. But then Spock turned on his heels, leaving sickbay with long steps.


McCoy heaved a sigh as he poured the drink. Nothing like the Vulcan to make his day. He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Here's to you, Mr. Uninspired," he said and downed it, pondering in amusement with which sexy scientific theory Spock might have ejaculated.



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