Title:  “Pussycat” (or “Five times Spock and McCoy had public sex and one time they didn’t.”)

Author: tprillahfiction

Fandom: ST TOS

Pairing: Spock/McCoy

Rating: NC-17 (for porn)

Words: 3,280

Summary:  Five times Spock and McCoy had public sex and one time they didn’t.  PWP.  Inspired by Fred Willard.

Disclaimer:  Star Trek does not belong to me. 

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5.

“The Pussycat Theatre.”   Standing alone in an alleyway in the backstreets of downtown San Francisco, Leonard McCoy reads the neon sign as it flashes alternately on and off:  “XXX.  Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.” 

He sighs.  He really should move on.  If anybody knew he was here...  

However...he is on Shoreleave.   And it’s a lonely one at that.  Jim’s dealing with some Starfleet Command brass issues right now which meant:  Too busy to meet up to go drinking.  Scotty, as usual during even the briefest of leaves, is holed up in his quarters, engaged in his technical journals.  Sulu’s been working nonstop in the Botany Lab on some new hybrid plant he’d been excited about.  Chekov has plans for dinner with Uhura.  Spock---well, it’s Spock we’re talking about.

So, there was nothing else to do for the next three hours.  McCoy fishes out his credit chip, glances around him, shrugs and heads on over to the ticket booth.  Might as well check this place out for a little while.

The theatre, or at least the outside of it, seems to be about 250 years old, at least.  Probably not really that old, but it sure does look it.  A beautiful old fashioned marquee, featuring XXX reel run, celluloid movies, just like in the early twentieth century.  The place appears to be a reasonably classy establishment, considering.  Maybe they’ll even feature a live strip show.  Oooh.  

He hands over the credit chip to the Tellerite working the booth.  “Hi there,” he says, a little friendlier than he’d intended and hoping he didn’t sound creepy.

The Tellerite nods, takes the card, runs it and hands it back.  “No recreational drugs in the theatre.  No smoking of tobacco, either.  No sex.  Clean up after yourself.  Plenty of paper towels in the bathroom.” He slides over a paper ticket.  “Have fun.”

“Any chance I could get some popcorn?” McCoy asks.  How he managed that with a straight face, he’ll never know.  The Tellerite just glares back at him.  

There’s a customer behind him, impatiently tapping their foot so he moves out of the way, walking through the antique looking metallic turnstile.

Inside the theatre it seems just as ancient and beautiful as the outside.  Red vinyl seats, a stage at the front--maybe they DO have a live strip show--that would be nice.  Huge screen at the front.    Theatre was already halfway filled up.  He selects a seat, plonks himself into it.  According to the countdown on the screen, next flick in about five minutes.  

He dares to take a look around him.  Seems to be all males in here.  Various life forms present, although the majority appear to be human.  Quiet as can be.  Everybody’s patiently waiting for the film to come up, he guesses.  He moves around in the seat, getting himself comfy.  Kind of jerks his hips up so that he slides down a little--hunkering down.  He resists the urge to put his feet up on the seat in front of him.  Puts his communicator on vibrate.

The lights dim.  Half of the assembled suddenly spark up some type of pungent, fragrant cigarette.  The first movie begins with some weird, electronic, spacey music.  The title is: “Starship Schtoopers”.  Interesting.  Alright, fascinating even.  He wonders what Spock would make of this place--and why is he thinking about Spock at a time like this?   Two buxom females, one blonde and one brunette, are wearing uniforms that look suspiciously like female Starfleet uniforms--only shorter, if that is possible.  No bloomers on underneath that.  Starfleet should sue.  No, really.  

A man clad in technician’s overalls strides through the pneumatic doors.  “Greetings,” he says to the women.  “I am here to fix your transporter.”

“Oh,” one of the women replies.  “The captain is in the shower.  You’ll have to go and get special permission from her.”  ‘Now, that doesn’t make a lick of sense,’ McCoy muses.  Why would the tech need to go get special permission from the captain to facilitate a repair?  That would be the Chief Engineer’s domain.  Maybe they don’t have one on this particular ship.  And surely the captain would already be aware that the transporter is non-operational, but maybe she’s unaware just how damaged the unit is at this point.  And should she really be in the shower at a time like this?  Maybe so.  Captains do need to bathe.

In the next scene:  The tech glides into the captain’s quarters.  Unannounced.  'That doesn’t seem right, either.  You can’t walk right into the captain’s quarters without signaling, especially if you’re not the Chief Medical Officer or First Officer or Chief Engineer or Captain’s Yeoman.'  

The captain emerges from her bathroom--she’s blonde, big tits of course, wearing only a towel.  A towel.  To greet the tech.  Jesus.  “Hi,’ she says, lustfully.  “Bout time you came.”  

There’s now another large breasted brunette woman standing alongside the captain.  Also clad in only a towel.  “Meet my first officer.  She was here to use my shower.  Hers is broken.”  Is everything broken on this stupid ship?  And why does everybody sound so wooden, are they androids?  He must have missed something or blinked because now all of a sudden the three of them are in the captain’s bunk having wild, noisy sex.  What the--How in the hell did her and the first officer coming out of the shower suddenly segue into fucking?

McCoy scrunches up his face, scratching his forehead.  The door opens and the two original girls now enter. They watch the threesome on the captain’s bunk for a few moments before taking each others uniforms off, groping each others' breasts then joining in.   

He hears groaning in the theatre and the sounds of people around him jacking off. Slapping noises.  He coughs a little, uncomfortable.  He spots, out the corner of his eye, one guy giving another guy a blow job.  He might be a little jealous.

Finally the film ends with the same electronic, spacey music as was in the beginning.  Dammit, that was the stupidest, most--and dare he quote the hobgoblin-- illogical porn film ever.  The women and the man weren’t bad looking--but gawd, the acting and that lack of detail regarding starship operations:  appalling.   And it’s on real celluloid, to boot.  What a waste.  

Perhaps the next one will be better.  The title sounds promising:  “Doctor Cocks”.

As the title suggests, it takes place in a doctor’s office.  “Oh, Doctor Cocks,” another buxom blond, the patient in an exam room, breathes out.  “I have a pain right here.”

“You’re going to need a complete physical,” the doctor replies, whipping out a tri-corder and scanning the patient.  ‘That’s not how you use a tri-corder’ McCoy scoffs.  ‘That isn’t even the correct button.  Who the hell does the research for these shows, anyhow?’ 

However, the film starts getting a little interesting when the physician says: “I’m going to have to use a tongue depressor on you, so open wide.”  

Of course the blonde does as ordered, opening her mouth.  The onscreen physician opens up his pants and draws out his penis.  Apparently it is to serve as tongue depressor.  God, that thing is huge.  Erect.  Veiny.  Massive.  With a slight greenish tint.  Green?  That means the physician must be of Vulcanoid stock.  He hadn’t noticed any pointy ears on the actor--but the guy could have easily had cosmetic surgery.  Hmmm. Look at that cock.  McCoy licks his lips at the sight.  He adjusts his hips on the seat.  The physician on screen is sliding it very slowly into the patients mouth--the head disappearing-- then back and forth, in and out.  The patient sucks on it, deep-throating it.  She hums:  “Ummm”.  

Oh yeah.  McCoy had to agree with the woman.  It would feel so nice, taste so good-- that huge green cock fucking his mouth.  His tongue teasing the head, that dick hitting the back of his throat.  He feels his own prick jump at the very idea of it.  Feels himself getting tingly.  His organ begins filling up, hardens.  

His hand slides down his tunic, reaches his waistband.   He keeps his eyes glued to the screen--the ‘tongue depressor’ still sinking in and out that mouth-- as he slowly slides down his zipper.  He dips his hand into his fly.  At first he strokes himself, idly, only with a thumb on the outside of his underwear.  

Far back in his head McCoy cannot believe he is really doing this--he’s actually fixin’ to jack off in public in an ancient porno theatre--this has gotta be a new one.  He really shouldn’t do this, but shit--that is one meaty green dick onscreen thrusting into that patients mouth.  

He hears more moaning and some sucking somewhere and more skin slappage in the immediate vicinity.  He grunts a little at that--and now has his trousers undone, fingers circling his cock, under his shorts--god he’s gonna cum right inside them if he keeps this up--how long’s it been since he’s done that?

And then there’s a flutter in front of him, but he’s so worked up staring at the screen, touching himself that at first he either doesn’t notice it, or doesn’t want to.  Until he feels hands resting on his thighs.  Hot hands.  The warmth going right through his starfleet issue trousers.  McCoy glances down and gasps when he realizes who it is.

Spock.

It can’t be.  What the hell--his mind is playing tricks--it is kind of dark in here, or maybe whatever drug every other person in the room is smoking is making him hallucinate--it cannot be the First Officer of the USS Enterprise kneeling down in front of him.

“Spock?” he whispers, his eyes wide.

Spock puts his fingers to his lips.  “Shhh.”  The Vulcan leans over, pries McCoy’s fingers away, wraps his own hot hand around the base and proceeds to lick the glans.  

Oh Jesus, whoever it is really truly doing this to him, he ain’t turning down a blow job, not now, he’s so aroused by how absolutely squalid this is--anybody can watch this and the guy sitting next to him is doing exactly that and jerking off-- though he dearly hopes it IS Spock kneeling down in front of him rather than some random stranger with some random disease.  But it can’t be Spock.  It can’t be Spock who’s now swirling his green tongue around the head and stroking his cock expertly so that his foreskin alternately covers the head and retracts back.  It can’t be Spock deep-throating him, lips stretched wide, making him feel so goddamned good, looking so goddamned filthy.

The porn film now completely forgotten, McCoy is wrapped up in what is happening right in front of him.  Spock’s now letting McCoy fuck up into his mouth.  Soon that wet warmth is too much and he’s coming hard, trying not to cry out but he does anyway, spurting his seed deep into Spock’s throat.  The Vulcan swallows everything he has to give.

McCoy sighs.  He slides his softening member out of that mouth--every touch is now too sensitive.  He pushes himself back into his trousers.  Spock crouches on the floor waiting, his hands slide down McCoy’s thighs to his calves.

Rather than asking what he should be, enquiring something along the lines of: ‘What the fuck are you doing here and how the hell did you find me?’ He alternately shifts off the seat and pushes the Vulcan into it.  He kneels down on the sticky floor in front of the Vulcan, unfastens those uniform pants, slides down the starfleet issue underpants, takes that huge, greenish tinged, overheated organ into his own mouth.  Mmmm, looks just like the porno.  He laps at the glans, gives as good as he got and then some.  Swirls his tongue along the shaft.  Manages to wrest a soft moan from those lips.  He finally takes that thick cock deep into his throat and--

The lights go up.  He pulls his mouth off, very reluctantly with a soft pop.  “What--?”

“Everyone stay in your seats!  You are all under arrest.”

“Oh my God.  It’s a raid!”

4.

The City Jail.  They’ve been here for hours, waiting to be processed and released.  Luckily they’re cooling their heels in a sparsely populated cell, only numbering three:  McCoy, Spock and one other man.  

McCoy’s finally gotten over the shock and disbelief of the Vulcan actually blowing him in a sordid porno theatre.  And every time he asks the goddamned hobgoblin, “What the hell were you doing there?”  Spock merely shrugs at him.  “Dammit!  That’s not a good answer, Mr. Spock!”  

“Doctor,  you seem rather tense,” Spock replies, calmly.  “Would you like me to fellate you, once again?”

“What?  In jail?  Are you insane?  No!”

Spock gets up and kneels down in front of McCoy, “I believe that you do.”

McCoy doesn’t want to admit that the fact the other man in the cell, staring right at them, watching intently, is highly arousing.

3.

“Doctor McCoy.”

“Captain.”

“Commander Spock.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Explain.”

McCoy coughs his answer and Spock replies:  “I was engaging in an act of oral copulation at the Pussycat Theatre with the good doctor.”

“Yes, I know that.  And also you were going at it in the city jail.  They have you on video.”

“Affirmative.

“Yep, that’s right, Jim.”

“Care to tell your poor captain why?”

“I have no idea, Jim, it simply happened,” McCoy says.

“I see.  Well, you two have been remanded into my custody instead of facing a court trial.  Luckily for you two, you’re Starfleet officers.  So your shoreleave is canceled, of course and you are both on report.  I don’t think it’s necessary to go any further than that on this first offense, do you?”

“Thank you, Jim.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Dismissed.”

Spock heads out the door, it swooshes shut in his wake.  

“Not you, Bones.”

McCoy moves from standing at attention to parade rest.  “Yes, Jim?”

“You...uh... going to give Spock a complete physical?”

“Of course I am, Jim.  Thorough.  Grueling.”

“You know--this never would have happened had you not been at the Pussycat in the first place.  Sometimes, Bones, I don’t think I know you.”

“What, Jim?  Just because I wanted to watch a little porn?  I’m a normal human being.”

“True.  But, be a little more discreet next time, will you?  And find out what the hell is the matter with my first officer.  Dismissed.”

*

After a complete physical, McCoy discovered that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the Vulcan.  He smacks his hand on the monitor.  

“I could have told you that myself.”

“I wouldn’t have believed you.  In fact I’m still suspicious,” McCoy growls at Spock, perched on the biobed.  “Are you sure you didn’t ingest something dubious?  I don’t know...a strange plant or flower, or drug, or love potion, or sex pollen, or Deltan pheromones, or--”

“Nothing.”

“So you were behaving on your own volition?”

“Affirmative.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What about that...pon farr or whatever it is.”

“Negative.  You would have detected the signs.  I am well in the middle of my cycle.  And I am able to copulate any time I wish to.”

McCoy gulps at the intense stare from those dark orbs and finally tears himself away.  “Oh.  Well, alright.  Fine.  ‘Copulate’ sounds like something you’d say.  In the absence of any data, I guess I’m forced to believe you.”

“Good.  Would you like another blow job?”

McCoy coughs into his hand.  “You just called it a ‘blow job’...that’s not normal.  Are you sure you’re alright?  Did you hit your head somehow?”

“Negative.  Would you like one?”

“Spock, I’m on duty and anybody can waltz right on in here.”

Spock once again meets his eyes.  “Precisely.”

2

McCoy exits the lift,  entering the bridge.

Since most everyone was on shoreleave, there’s a skeleton crew present.   Mr. Sulu manned the helm, Mr. Leslie sat at Engineering and Spock sat at the Science/Library station.  But, at the moment, Sulu’s immersed in a Botany journal, the PADD in front of him at the helm and Leslie’s zoned out listening to some music.

McCoy ventures over to the Vulcan’s station.  He casually leans back against the panel, next to him.  “Evening, Mr. Spock.”

“Hello, Dr. McCoy.” 

McCoy continues to lean there, arms folded, saying nothing in particular.

Eventually Spock looks over at him, raising an eyebrow.  In an invitation.

McCoy scowls--working up his nerve, then finally kneels down in front of Spock.  He slowly, quietly unfastens Spock’s trousers, draws out the thick, hard, penis and slides it into his mouth.  He works at it, tonguing the shaft, stroking the base with his hand, licking the glans, the underside of the head, then shoving the stiff, thick organ down his throat.  

Soon the Vulcan silently comes into his mouth, filling it up with his seed.  

McCoy swallows every last drop.  

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, glares at the Vulcan, then stalks away and back into the lift.

1.

Another alleyway in downtown San Francisco.

“Spock,” McCoy whispers against the brick wall in the shadows.  Every once in a while a passerby walks past on the adjacent sidewalk.  “If Jim knows we beamed down here, we are toast.”

Spock’s pressed up against the doctor, with two fingers in McCoy’s rectum, sliding in and out, lubricating him.  “Yes, but that is part of the allure.”

“That we can get into big trouble for this?”

“Indeed.”  He pulls his fingers out, then gently pushes the blunt head of his cock inside.

“Ohhhh!” McCoy yelps.

“Shhh,” Spock says, into his neck.  He lets McCoy adjust to the invasion, then slowly slides the rest of the way in.

+1

Two weeks later. 

A difficult mission on Cea VII.  Engaged in a civil war: The Ortanians and the Celans.   There’s an ambush on a small Celanian outpost hospital.  Fifty dead.  Five doctors, three nurses, forty adult patients and two children.  

The children’s deaths hit McCoy the hardest.  They always do.  Both of the kids were the same age as Joanna.

McCoy, M’Benga and Chapel treat the survivors then help with clearing up the dead.

Finally, it’s time to beam back aboard ship.

McCoy gets de-conned, submits to the post-mission physical, then finally is allowed back to his quarters.

He showers away the dirt and the memories and the numbness, tilting his head forward in the water stream, standing under the warmth for long, long minutes.

Finally he gets out, towels off, dons a robe.  

He’s looking forward to falling face forward onto his bunk and passing out.

He opens the door to his bathroom and finds Spock reclining on his bunk, underneath the covers.

“No,” McCoy says.  “Out.  Get out.  I’m not in the mood for anything, besides sleeping.”

Instead of leaving, Spock beckons him over.  Holds out an arm.

McCoy hesitates a moment.

Finally, he gets into bed, under the covers and allows Spock to pull him into an embrace.  

McCoy dozes off in the warmth of his arms for a few moments.  He rouses himself briefly and places a chaste kiss on the Vulcan’s mouth.  “Thank you,” he whispers, barely audible.

Spock says nothing and simply holds on to him.

_______

fin