Fic: "Induced Drag Variables (Part I)," Kirk/Bones, NC-17
Title: Induced Drag Variables (Part I)
Author/Artist: alder_knight
Pairing(s): Kirk/Bones; Spock/Kirk forthcoming
Rating: Porn! Hard R? NC-17?
Summary: Kirk loses a bet with Uhura and has to spend a day in fancy drag. From the st_xi_kink prompt, "Kirk/Spock/Bones. For whatever reason, Kirk crossdresses and Bones finds it strangely attractive; Spock gets possessive and jealous about it and reminds Kirk who he belongs to. Bonus points for Spock not letting Kirk take off the skirt or eyeliner."
Notes/Warnings: Polished up from comment responses in the kink meme. This is the first part of probably three (but don't hold me to that). I had two kickass betas - thank you, guys! Let me know if you're cool with being identified for praise and lensflares and general spewing of gratitude.
Captain James Tiberius Kirk was a gambling man. He liked to take chances, defy the odds, and meet challenges head-on.
Most of the time, it worked out in his favor. His willingness to defy convention and take risks was what had earned him the dubious honor of youngest Starfleet captain in history. Fortune favors the bold, after all.
Occasionally, however, his rashness really came back to bite him in the ass.
In particular, it was almost always a mistake to gamble with Uhura.
Things had begun innocently enough. Uhura was a bit of a card shark, and liked to make steep wagers at the Enterprise crew’s occasional gamma shift poker games. While the rest of the table folded, Kirk tended to hang onto his cards and try to keep his face clear as he locked onto Uhura’s unreadable smirk and prepared to call her bluff. When he was wrong, he always paid for it. Uhura had a knack for keeping the stakes interesting.
Kirk hated losing. The frequency with which he was bested by Uhura only made him seek out opportunities to challenge her more often. Gradually, their wagers had expanded into other aspects of space-faring life.
Kirk had figured Scotty was a sure shot to win against Chekov in three-dimensional chess. The engineer had had little else to do but play innumerable games with Keenser while "exiled" on Delta Vega. It turned out, however, that the wunderkind had an ace up his sleeve in the form of six years of training under the Russian Grandmaster, and he easily defeated Scotty in minutes.
What had started out as a joking wager with Uhura regarding the outcome of the chess match had ended in a bet he really should have known better than to accept.
In addition to Kirk's disappointment at not getting his payoff from the bet - the glorious sight of Uhura in an Orion bellydance bedleh - he wound up having to spend a 24-hour period of their next shore leave dressed like a goddamn callgirl.
"You agreed, Captain, remember?" laughed Uhura, enjoying Kirk's evident misery. "Maybe you'll do your research next time instead of always blindly going with your gut."
"Going with my gut has saved the crew of this ship more than once!" Kirk pointed out, pouting. Uhura snickered wickedly and turned to leave the officers' mess hall.
"Sure," she said. "And now you'll have a pretty blouse to pin that medal of honor on."
Kirk fumed for about a half an hour, spent the first half of his shift pondering glumly, and by dinner had resigned himself to his fate.
"All right, Lieutenant, I concede. You got me," he said, taking a seat by her with his tray. "How's this gonna play out?"
Uhura grinned. "I'll drop a bag of clothes by your room on our third day of shore leave, after we’re done meeting with ambassadors and Federation reps. Official business should be over by then, at least until the departure ceremonies at the end of the week. Since our bet was for the loser to have to wear an outfit of the winner's choice for a 24-hour period, you've gotta promise to wear everything I put in the bag for the whole day."
Kirk fought the twitch of a smile that was threatening to overtake the corners of his mouth. Uhura's mischievous streak was undeniably kind of fun, though he'd have preferred it targeted on someone other than himself. "Everything?" he clarified. "Now come on. How do I know you're not going to throw anything kinky into that bag?"
"You don't," replied Uhura, still smiling triumphantly as she rose to walk away. "If you need help putting anything on, please don't hesitate to call anyone but me to give you a hand. I don't feel like having to help you into your lacy underthings."
"Lacy... wait, really?" Kirk's voice was a bit louder than he realized, and several adjacent crew members tried tactfully to look away. McCoy snorted, while Spock had the decency to flush a pale green at the tips of his dignified ears.
It was a mistake to gamble with Uhura, Kirk thought, but always an interesting mistake, at least.
After two days of making nice and rubbing elbows with stuffy diplomats and heads of Federation operations, Kirk was bored out of his mind and ready to blow off some steam. He briskly made his way to his temporary quarters, unfastening the itchy collar of his dress uniform, and punched in the keycode to slide open his door. He stepped inside, flung off his jacket, and made to flop onto his bed to close his eyes for a few minutes, but stopped short when he noticed the package sitting on the hideous duvet cover. In the center of his bed was a small, nondescript black suitcase. Warily, Kirk took hold of its handle and checked for a note. A tag labeled in efficient, curly handwriting read, "Enjoy being queen for a day!" followed by "xo" with no signature. A visual scan of the room indicated that nothing else had been moved. His forgotten promise to Uhura came flooding back and Kirk put one hand over his face as he sighed and sat down on the bed to open his dubious prize.
As he slid his thumbs across to flick open the latches on the case, a voice buzzed in at his door. "Jim? Are you in there?" called his CMO.
"Er, sure, Bones, come on in," Kirk replied, leaning towards the bedside control panel and hitting the button for the door.
McCoy strode in, looking almost as drained as Kirk felt, rubbing one hand through his hair, his dress jacket falling open. Kirk gazed at him a moment, and prompted, "What's up?"
"Hoped I could count on you to come out for drinks tonight, after two days of chit-chatting with the Federation's Least Lively. I wouldn't be surprised if half the officials in that room were on heavy sedatives."
Kirk stifled a grin. Straight-faced, he said, "Maybe this will help you come to appreciate my impulsiveness and creativity in leadership, eh?"
With a snort, McCoy retorted, "If shortsightedness and pigheaded determination are the alternative to what we've seen the last few days, then by all means, I am in favor. What's that you've got there, hm?" he asked, noticing the suitcase. "Plotting your escape already?"
"Honestly, would you blame me?" Kirk shifted the case in his lap. "Remember that chess game where Chekov trounced Scotty to Moscow and back?"
"The one where your secret plan to get Uhura in a stripper costume backfired in your face?"
"It was a cultural artifact of the Orion people," remarked Kirk detachedly. "Right, well, this case here contains my comeuppance."
McCoy raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Kirk suppressed annoyance at the apparent universality of this eyebrow language among his ship's crew. Sighing, he flipped open the latches on the case and raised the lid to look inside.
Kirk felt his heart stop.
As McCoy leaned around to look inside as well, he heard the doctor curse under his breath and sink down to sit beside him. They stared silently into the suitcase. "She really got you good," he said after a long moment.
Kirk tried not to panic. Vulcan, think Vulcan, he thought. I am in control of my emotions. Fear is the mind-killer. He picked up the heeled shoe laying on top of the pile of clothing, and whimpered.
McCoy sat wide-eyed and dumb as Kirk extracted each item from the case and laid it on the bed, conducting a full inventory. Knee-high patent leather fuck-me boots? Check. Thigh-high fishnet stockings? Check. Archaic-but-sexy-looking Earth garment evidently meant to hold up aforementioned stockings? Check. Black pleated miniskirt? Check. Glittery blue halter top? Check. Black lace bra and panty set? Check. In the bottom of the case was a gold-colored bag with a clasp, evidently some kind of purse, which contained an eyeliner pencil, mascara, hair pomade, and a tube of dark red lipstick. Kirk's breath hitched in his throat at the idea of Uhura thoughtfully selecting each item for him, and, somewhere buried in with his growing sense of dread, he felt vaguely turned on.
Mostly, though, he felt dread. "Bones," he said, mouth dry, "you gotta help me."
McCoy's voice cracked slightly as he began to reply. He cleared his throat. "Help you how, precisely? The bet was between you and Uhura, so I don't know how you expect me to get you out of it..."
"No," said Kirk, "that's not what I mean. I'll go through with it, it's just..." He gestured helplessly at the garments arrayed on the bedspread. "I don't know where to begin."
McCoy met his eyes then, bewildered. "You want me to help you... what, get dressed?"
Kirk considered the implications of his request, and then nodded.
McCoy grumbled, "As though I know the subtler ins-and-outs of dressing up like a dame," but he was already standing up and surveying Uhura's selections. He shot Kirk a sideways glare. "I expect you have more experience than I do with taking off a girl's clothes, if not with putting them back on."
Kirk said nothing. His look at McCoy was pleading.
Finally, McCoy rolled his eyes and stepped between Kirk and the bed. "Strip," he said. "Go on, get down to your skivvies so we can get this over with."
Kirk felt a rush of relief at no longer being alone in his predicament, and grinned. "Aye-aye, Doctor!" He pulled his undershirt over his head, discarded his shoes and socks, and began working on his pants.
As he shook his dress slacks off at the ankles and kicked them to a rumpled heap in the corner by his bed, Kirk addressed the back of McCoy's head: "Ready when you are."
Without turning around, McCoy bent an arm over behind his shoulder, dangling the mysterious, strappy, belt-like garment between his fingers. "This goes on first," he said.
Kirk took it, puzzled. "What the hell is this thing? I mean, I thought I'd seen every possible configuration of women's underwear, but apparently I missed a piece."
"It's a garter belt, Jim," responded McCoy tersely, busying himself with straightening the articles of clothing on the bed. "It holds up your stockings."
'If it's for stockings, shouldn't it go outside the panties, like regular tights?" Jim held it around his hands like a Cat's Cradle string, testing its elasticity. When McCoy didn't answer right away, Jim looked up and saw the back of his neck was coloring. "Bones?"
"The panties go on the outside," said McCoy through gritted teeth, "so that when you need to remove them -" Kirk coughed - "to use the bathroom, for example - you don't have to remove your stockings as well."
Kirk raised his eyebrows, impressed. "How the hell do you know that?" he asked. "I mean, I'm grateful for your expertise, but-"
"The ex-wife was a classy lady, okay?" McCoy snapped, turning to glare at Kirk. He scrutinized the younger man's face for signs of mocking, and, finding none, turned his attention to the garment in question. As he lowered his gaze, he became aware of Kirk's full nudity.
"Damn it, Jim, I said skivvies!" he cursed, turning abruptly away.
Kirk quirked his lips. "Uh, Bones... I would have, but I wasn't..." He gestured to his crumpled pants and socks, which lay in a heap absent of underwear. "I was commando today, Bones. Didn't mean to startle you."
"You’re not serious," said McCoy. "We were in fancy functions all day with ambassadors from all over the galaxy. You can’t be serious."
Kirk shrugged.
McCoy rubbed his temples, face flushed. "I'm too old for this bullshit," he muttered. "Alright, they would have come off eventually anyway. Now will you please try to keep your indecency to yourself while we get through this?"
Kirk stepped into the garter belt, pulling it up past his skivvy-free pelvis and around his waist. "I don't know what you're freaking out about, man," he said, determining which side of the belt was the front and which was the back. "It's not like you've never seen me naked before. You've had to strip me down and sew me back together more times than I can remember."
"This is different," spat McCoy. "Are you ready for your stockings?"
"Ready when you are," said Kirk.
The stockings were a marvel to Kirk. In practice, he'd spent more time tearing them off legs than carefully sliding them on, and his hands were clumsy at it. It didn't help that his experience with women apparently had a large, gaping hole where those of the "classy" persuasion were concerned. McCoy chanced a look over his shoulder at Kirk's progress and, exasperated, pulled up the chair from the desk in the corner.
"Bend your knee and put your foot up," he directed, stooping down in front of it. "You're going to tear them if you keep pulling at the elastic like that."
Surprised by McCoy's authoritative tone, Kirk obeyed. The doctor took hold of one of the stockings and scrunched the long tube into a short, stretchy length, which he eased with great care over Kirk's raised toes. Kirk held his breath. As he shifted from his heel to his toe and McCoy began sliding his hands around his ankle and up the back of his calf, Kirk tried to casually arrange his hands at his waist in a way that might cover up how unexpectedly arousing he was finding the procedure. McCoy straightened the seam on the back of the stocking and continued sliding past Kirk's knee and up around his thigh, callouses and nails grazing Kirk's skin with excruciating delicacy. Kirk squeezed his eyes shut.
After a moment, McCoy cleared his throat, and Kirk peered down to find the doctor regarding him curiously. Embarrassed, he coughed and switched feet, feeling the thick elastic strip around his thigh a constricting but welcome presence. McCoy repeated his ministrations on Kirk's other leg, as Kirk tried vainly to conceal his body's response to the agonizingly erotic procedure. As Kirk stepped off the chair and the second band of elastic snapped around his flank, he jerked involuntarily. The movement was slight, but perceptible. McCoy, kneeling before him with hands around his fishnetted upper leg, made eye contact, and Kirk shuddered in earnest. Removing his hands, McCoy slowly pulled off his dress jacket and half-folded it before tossing it on top of Kirk's clothes in the corner, eyes locked on Kirk's. He wet his lips and said haltingly, "Let me get the straps for you." Kirk watched as the doctor's skilled fingers snapped the side garter clasps into place, and he waited quietly while the ones over his ass followed.
"You're going to need to move your hands for me to get to the front straps," McCoy told him.
Not sure how to position himself, Kirk leaned against the backwards chair, hands behind him, grasping the chair's frame. The shift exposed him drastically, and Kirk felt extremely self-consciousness at the hardness of his naked cock, framed by black lace and tight elastic. He searched for the right words to laugh it off, mortified by what Bones must be thinking, but no words came, and McCoy simply snapped the two front clasps before leaning back towards the bed to pull the shoes down off of it.
Kirk raised a stockinged foot and allowed McCoy's fingers to guide it into one tall, pointed boot, stroking along the length of the leather. As the zipper slid shut, Kirk's eyes did, too, and he stifled a moan. The second boot followed. Kirk was fairly panting when McCoy finally leaned back to look at him. He gazed down at the doctor with half-closed lashes and a half-open mouth. "Th- thank you," he managed. McCoy made a deep sound in his throat.
"Damn it, Jim," he croaked, seemingly lost for words. There was sweat on the older man's brow. Kirk tried very hard to think about something else, anything else, but the rugged face poised less than two dozen centimeters from his cock, and began factoring quadratic equations in his head.
It took him a moment to realize McCoy was addressing him. "Red case in the top dresser drawer?" the doctor was asking. Kirk stared.
"Just a yes or no, Jim," said McCoy. Kirk nodded. McCoy extracted a small red case from the bureau and kneeled in front of Kirk again.
"May I?" he asked breathlessly, extracting a condom from the case and holding it between his face and Kirk's erection. Kirk's disbelieving eyes grew wider.
"Jesus, Bones, yes, fuck," he sputtered, and then the wrapper was open and the rubber was in Bones's mouth and he was sliding it down over the slicked length of Kirk's cock and Kirk lost the capacity for speech.
Kirk's knuckles turned white as he gripped the chair back and bucked his hips forward into the tantalizing suction of McCoy's mouth. He was too keyed up already; if he didn't show some discipline, he'd never last, but the blazing heat of the tongue wrapping itself around the underside of his cock was irresistible. He bit down hard on his lip as a whimper escaped him.
McCoy, it seemed, had done this before, an idea that Kirk discovered made the situation even hotter. The doctor's forefinger and thumb grasped Kirk's erection at the base while his lips wrapped tightly up by the head, sucking hard and rubbing his tongue along the underside. When McCoy changed tactics, dropping his jaw and swallowing in order to slide his throat down Kirk's cock until he could kiss his own hand, Kirk cried out something profane and reeled on his four-inch stiletto heels, tossing back his head. McCoy slowly pulled back, breathed deeply, and slid forward again, setting a rhythm that was slow, too slow for Kirk's desperation, but too perfect to disrupt. Kirk could feel every muscle contraction in McCoy's throat, as he swallowed and breathed and took Kirk in with abandon. The pace was agonizing for Kirk, who held on as long as he could before exhaling a sharp cry and shooting his hands forward from their grip on the chair to wrap themselves in McCoy's damp hair. He grabbed two tight fistfuls and started pulling the doctor's head forward more rapidly. McCoy's responding moan sent shockwaves through Kirk, and he locked their eyes to gauge McCoy's reaction as he pulled back and prepared to drive in again. McCoy gave him the subtlest of nods and his eyelids flickered closed. That affirmation, plus the sight of one of Starfleet's chief medical officers kneeling in front of him, wet lips wrapped around erection flanked by lace and fishnet and leather, was sufficient provocation for Kirk. He pulled hard on McCoy's hair, pushing his hips forward as far as possible, fucking the doctor's throat in frantic, driving strokes. His exhalations of exertion counterpointed McCoy's long, drawn-out moan around his cock, and before long Kirk was crying out in earnest, pelvis pressed to McCoy's face, cock spending in spasms deep inside the doctor's throat. He stood and shuddered, otherwise motionless, for a moment, and then released McCoy, who drew back and sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, rubbing his scalp dazedly.
Neither man said anything for a time, each preoccupied with the pressing need for more air. Kirk carefully peeled off his condom and made to dispose of it in the room's waste compactor. He had not banked on the difficulty of movement in his new footwear, however, and stumbled. Weak with exertion, he let his knees buckle and fell back into the relocated desk chair. Kirk let out a low chuckle, and turned to look at McCoy through half-lidded eyes.
"Son of a bitch," he panted, his voice low. "You're incredible. You're fucking incredible. Why have we never done that before?" He slid off the chair to the carpeted floor and crawled on his hands and knees over next to Bones. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
McCoy attempted to make a reply, but his voice came out like gravel, and he coughed. Kirk felt a pang of guilt. He leaned in, still on all fours, tilted his chin, and kissed Bones full on the mouth. McCoy sighed into the kiss, sounding satisfied. He broke it off after a few moments and leveled his gaze on Kirk. "How ungentlemanly of me to take advantage of a lady indisposed," he murmured. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me." He raised an eyebrow.
Kirk felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but it wasn't humiliation; it was something far more erotic. He suppressed the usual urge to make a sarcastic retort.
In a strained but soft voice, McCoy continued, "Think we can handle getting your panties on?"
Kirk laughed, and it sounded a little desperate to his ears. "After that, I think you and I can handle just about anything," he said.
To be continued!
Author/Artist: alder_knight
Pairing(s): Kirk/Bones; Spock/Kirk forthcoming
Rating: Porn! Hard R? NC-17?
Summary: Kirk loses a bet with Uhura and has to spend a day in fancy drag. From the st_xi_kink prompt, "Kirk/Spock/Bones. For whatever reason, Kirk crossdresses and Bones finds it strangely attractive; Spock gets possessive and jealous about it and reminds Kirk who he belongs to. Bonus points for Spock not letting Kirk take off the skirt or eyeliner."
Notes/Warnings: Polished up from comment responses in the kink meme. This is the first part of probably three (but don't hold me to that). I had two kickass betas - thank you, guys! Let me know if you're cool with being identified for praise and lensflares and general spewing of gratitude.
Captain James Tiberius Kirk was a gambling man. He liked to take chances, defy the odds, and meet challenges head-on.
Most of the time, it worked out in his favor. His willingness to defy convention and take risks was what had earned him the dubious honor of youngest Starfleet captain in history. Fortune favors the bold, after all.
Occasionally, however, his rashness really came back to bite him in the ass.
In particular, it was almost always a mistake to gamble with Uhura.
Things had begun innocently enough. Uhura was a bit of a card shark, and liked to make steep wagers at the Enterprise crew’s occasional gamma shift poker games. While the rest of the table folded, Kirk tended to hang onto his cards and try to keep his face clear as he locked onto Uhura’s unreadable smirk and prepared to call her bluff. When he was wrong, he always paid for it. Uhura had a knack for keeping the stakes interesting.
Kirk hated losing. The frequency with which he was bested by Uhura only made him seek out opportunities to challenge her more often. Gradually, their wagers had expanded into other aspects of space-faring life.
Kirk had figured Scotty was a sure shot to win against Chekov in three-dimensional chess. The engineer had had little else to do but play innumerable games with Keenser while "exiled" on Delta Vega. It turned out, however, that the wunderkind had an ace up his sleeve in the form of six years of training under the Russian Grandmaster, and he easily defeated Scotty in minutes.
What had started out as a joking wager with Uhura regarding the outcome of the chess match had ended in a bet he really should have known better than to accept.
In addition to Kirk's disappointment at not getting his payoff from the bet - the glorious sight of Uhura in an Orion bellydance bedleh - he wound up having to spend a 24-hour period of their next shore leave dressed like a goddamn callgirl.
"You agreed, Captain, remember?" laughed Uhura, enjoying Kirk's evident misery. "Maybe you'll do your research next time instead of always blindly going with your gut."
"Going with my gut has saved the crew of this ship more than once!" Kirk pointed out, pouting. Uhura snickered wickedly and turned to leave the officers' mess hall.
"Sure," she said. "And now you'll have a pretty blouse to pin that medal of honor on."
Kirk fumed for about a half an hour, spent the first half of his shift pondering glumly, and by dinner had resigned himself to his fate.
"All right, Lieutenant, I concede. You got me," he said, taking a seat by her with his tray. "How's this gonna play out?"
Uhura grinned. "I'll drop a bag of clothes by your room on our third day of shore leave, after we’re done meeting with ambassadors and Federation reps. Official business should be over by then, at least until the departure ceremonies at the end of the week. Since our bet was for the loser to have to wear an outfit of the winner's choice for a 24-hour period, you've gotta promise to wear everything I put in the bag for the whole day."
Kirk fought the twitch of a smile that was threatening to overtake the corners of his mouth. Uhura's mischievous streak was undeniably kind of fun, though he'd have preferred it targeted on someone other than himself. "Everything?" he clarified. "Now come on. How do I know you're not going to throw anything kinky into that bag?"
"You don't," replied Uhura, still smiling triumphantly as she rose to walk away. "If you need help putting anything on, please don't hesitate to call anyone but me to give you a hand. I don't feel like having to help you into your lacy underthings."
"Lacy... wait, really?" Kirk's voice was a bit louder than he realized, and several adjacent crew members tried tactfully to look away. McCoy snorted, while Spock had the decency to flush a pale green at the tips of his dignified ears.
It was a mistake to gamble with Uhura, Kirk thought, but always an interesting mistake, at least.
After two days of making nice and rubbing elbows with stuffy diplomats and heads of Federation operations, Kirk was bored out of his mind and ready to blow off some steam. He briskly made his way to his temporary quarters, unfastening the itchy collar of his dress uniform, and punched in the keycode to slide open his door. He stepped inside, flung off his jacket, and made to flop onto his bed to close his eyes for a few minutes, but stopped short when he noticed the package sitting on the hideous duvet cover. In the center of his bed was a small, nondescript black suitcase. Warily, Kirk took hold of its handle and checked for a note. A tag labeled in efficient, curly handwriting read, "Enjoy being queen for a day!" followed by "xo" with no signature. A visual scan of the room indicated that nothing else had been moved. His forgotten promise to Uhura came flooding back and Kirk put one hand over his face as he sighed and sat down on the bed to open his dubious prize.
As he slid his thumbs across to flick open the latches on the case, a voice buzzed in at his door. "Jim? Are you in there?" called his CMO.
"Er, sure, Bones, come on in," Kirk replied, leaning towards the bedside control panel and hitting the button for the door.
McCoy strode in, looking almost as drained as Kirk felt, rubbing one hand through his hair, his dress jacket falling open. Kirk gazed at him a moment, and prompted, "What's up?"
"Hoped I could count on you to come out for drinks tonight, after two days of chit-chatting with the Federation's Least Lively. I wouldn't be surprised if half the officials in that room were on heavy sedatives."
Kirk stifled a grin. Straight-faced, he said, "Maybe this will help you come to appreciate my impulsiveness and creativity in leadership, eh?"
With a snort, McCoy retorted, "If shortsightedness and pigheaded determination are the alternative to what we've seen the last few days, then by all means, I am in favor. What's that you've got there, hm?" he asked, noticing the suitcase. "Plotting your escape already?"
"Honestly, would you blame me?" Kirk shifted the case in his lap. "Remember that chess game where Chekov trounced Scotty to Moscow and back?"
"The one where your secret plan to get Uhura in a stripper costume backfired in your face?"
"It was a cultural artifact of the Orion people," remarked Kirk detachedly. "Right, well, this case here contains my comeuppance."
McCoy raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Kirk suppressed annoyance at the apparent universality of this eyebrow language among his ship's crew. Sighing, he flipped open the latches on the case and raised the lid to look inside.
Kirk felt his heart stop.
As McCoy leaned around to look inside as well, he heard the doctor curse under his breath and sink down to sit beside him. They stared silently into the suitcase. "She really got you good," he said after a long moment.
Kirk tried not to panic. Vulcan, think Vulcan, he thought. I am in control of my emotions. Fear is the mind-killer. He picked up the heeled shoe laying on top of the pile of clothing, and whimpered.
McCoy sat wide-eyed and dumb as Kirk extracted each item from the case and laid it on the bed, conducting a full inventory. Knee-high patent leather fuck-me boots? Check. Thigh-high fishnet stockings? Check. Archaic-but-sexy-looking Earth garment evidently meant to hold up aforementioned stockings? Check. Black pleated miniskirt? Check. Glittery blue halter top? Check. Black lace bra and panty set? Check. In the bottom of the case was a gold-colored bag with a clasp, evidently some kind of purse, which contained an eyeliner pencil, mascara, hair pomade, and a tube of dark red lipstick. Kirk's breath hitched in his throat at the idea of Uhura thoughtfully selecting each item for him, and, somewhere buried in with his growing sense of dread, he felt vaguely turned on.
Mostly, though, he felt dread. "Bones," he said, mouth dry, "you gotta help me."
McCoy's voice cracked slightly as he began to reply. He cleared his throat. "Help you how, precisely? The bet was between you and Uhura, so I don't know how you expect me to get you out of it..."
"No," said Kirk, "that's not what I mean. I'll go through with it, it's just..." He gestured helplessly at the garments arrayed on the bedspread. "I don't know where to begin."
McCoy met his eyes then, bewildered. "You want me to help you... what, get dressed?"
Kirk considered the implications of his request, and then nodded.
McCoy grumbled, "As though I know the subtler ins-and-outs of dressing up like a dame," but he was already standing up and surveying Uhura's selections. He shot Kirk a sideways glare. "I expect you have more experience than I do with taking off a girl's clothes, if not with putting them back on."
Kirk said nothing. His look at McCoy was pleading.
Finally, McCoy rolled his eyes and stepped between Kirk and the bed. "Strip," he said. "Go on, get down to your skivvies so we can get this over with."
Kirk felt a rush of relief at no longer being alone in his predicament, and grinned. "Aye-aye, Doctor!" He pulled his undershirt over his head, discarded his shoes and socks, and began working on his pants.
As he shook his dress slacks off at the ankles and kicked them to a rumpled heap in the corner by his bed, Kirk addressed the back of McCoy's head: "Ready when you are."
Without turning around, McCoy bent an arm over behind his shoulder, dangling the mysterious, strappy, belt-like garment between his fingers. "This goes on first," he said.
Kirk took it, puzzled. "What the hell is this thing? I mean, I thought I'd seen every possible configuration of women's underwear, but apparently I missed a piece."
"It's a garter belt, Jim," responded McCoy tersely, busying himself with straightening the articles of clothing on the bed. "It holds up your stockings."
'If it's for stockings, shouldn't it go outside the panties, like regular tights?" Jim held it around his hands like a Cat's Cradle string, testing its elasticity. When McCoy didn't answer right away, Jim looked up and saw the back of his neck was coloring. "Bones?"
"The panties go on the outside," said McCoy through gritted teeth, "so that when you need to remove them -" Kirk coughed - "to use the bathroom, for example - you don't have to remove your stockings as well."
Kirk raised his eyebrows, impressed. "How the hell do you know that?" he asked. "I mean, I'm grateful for your expertise, but-"
"The ex-wife was a classy lady, okay?" McCoy snapped, turning to glare at Kirk. He scrutinized the younger man's face for signs of mocking, and, finding none, turned his attention to the garment in question. As he lowered his gaze, he became aware of Kirk's full nudity.
"Damn it, Jim, I said skivvies!" he cursed, turning abruptly away.
Kirk quirked his lips. "Uh, Bones... I would have, but I wasn't..." He gestured to his crumpled pants and socks, which lay in a heap absent of underwear. "I was commando today, Bones. Didn't mean to startle you."
"You’re not serious," said McCoy. "We were in fancy functions all day with ambassadors from all over the galaxy. You can’t be serious."
Kirk shrugged.
McCoy rubbed his temples, face flushed. "I'm too old for this bullshit," he muttered. "Alright, they would have come off eventually anyway. Now will you please try to keep your indecency to yourself while we get through this?"
Kirk stepped into the garter belt, pulling it up past his skivvy-free pelvis and around his waist. "I don't know what you're freaking out about, man," he said, determining which side of the belt was the front and which was the back. "It's not like you've never seen me naked before. You've had to strip me down and sew me back together more times than I can remember."
"This is different," spat McCoy. "Are you ready for your stockings?"
"Ready when you are," said Kirk.
The stockings were a marvel to Kirk. In practice, he'd spent more time tearing them off legs than carefully sliding them on, and his hands were clumsy at it. It didn't help that his experience with women apparently had a large, gaping hole where those of the "classy" persuasion were concerned. McCoy chanced a look over his shoulder at Kirk's progress and, exasperated, pulled up the chair from the desk in the corner.
"Bend your knee and put your foot up," he directed, stooping down in front of it. "You're going to tear them if you keep pulling at the elastic like that."
Surprised by McCoy's authoritative tone, Kirk obeyed. The doctor took hold of one of the stockings and scrunched the long tube into a short, stretchy length, which he eased with great care over Kirk's raised toes. Kirk held his breath. As he shifted from his heel to his toe and McCoy began sliding his hands around his ankle and up the back of his calf, Kirk tried to casually arrange his hands at his waist in a way that might cover up how unexpectedly arousing he was finding the procedure. McCoy straightened the seam on the back of the stocking and continued sliding past Kirk's knee and up around his thigh, callouses and nails grazing Kirk's skin with excruciating delicacy. Kirk squeezed his eyes shut.
After a moment, McCoy cleared his throat, and Kirk peered down to find the doctor regarding him curiously. Embarrassed, he coughed and switched feet, feeling the thick elastic strip around his thigh a constricting but welcome presence. McCoy repeated his ministrations on Kirk's other leg, as Kirk tried vainly to conceal his body's response to the agonizingly erotic procedure. As Kirk stepped off the chair and the second band of elastic snapped around his flank, he jerked involuntarily. The movement was slight, but perceptible. McCoy, kneeling before him with hands around his fishnetted upper leg, made eye contact, and Kirk shuddered in earnest. Removing his hands, McCoy slowly pulled off his dress jacket and half-folded it before tossing it on top of Kirk's clothes in the corner, eyes locked on Kirk's. He wet his lips and said haltingly, "Let me get the straps for you." Kirk watched as the doctor's skilled fingers snapped the side garter clasps into place, and he waited quietly while the ones over his ass followed.
"You're going to need to move your hands for me to get to the front straps," McCoy told him.
Not sure how to position himself, Kirk leaned against the backwards chair, hands behind him, grasping the chair's frame. The shift exposed him drastically, and Kirk felt extremely self-consciousness at the hardness of his naked cock, framed by black lace and tight elastic. He searched for the right words to laugh it off, mortified by what Bones must be thinking, but no words came, and McCoy simply snapped the two front clasps before leaning back towards the bed to pull the shoes down off of it.
Kirk raised a stockinged foot and allowed McCoy's fingers to guide it into one tall, pointed boot, stroking along the length of the leather. As the zipper slid shut, Kirk's eyes did, too, and he stifled a moan. The second boot followed. Kirk was fairly panting when McCoy finally leaned back to look at him. He gazed down at the doctor with half-closed lashes and a half-open mouth. "Th- thank you," he managed. McCoy made a deep sound in his throat.
"Damn it, Jim," he croaked, seemingly lost for words. There was sweat on the older man's brow. Kirk tried very hard to think about something else, anything else, but the rugged face poised less than two dozen centimeters from his cock, and began factoring quadratic equations in his head.
It took him a moment to realize McCoy was addressing him. "Red case in the top dresser drawer?" the doctor was asking. Kirk stared.
"Just a yes or no, Jim," said McCoy. Kirk nodded. McCoy extracted a small red case from the bureau and kneeled in front of Kirk again.
"May I?" he asked breathlessly, extracting a condom from the case and holding it between his face and Kirk's erection. Kirk's disbelieving eyes grew wider.
"Jesus, Bones, yes, fuck," he sputtered, and then the wrapper was open and the rubber was in Bones's mouth and he was sliding it down over the slicked length of Kirk's cock and Kirk lost the capacity for speech.
Kirk's knuckles turned white as he gripped the chair back and bucked his hips forward into the tantalizing suction of McCoy's mouth. He was too keyed up already; if he didn't show some discipline, he'd never last, but the blazing heat of the tongue wrapping itself around the underside of his cock was irresistible. He bit down hard on his lip as a whimper escaped him.
McCoy, it seemed, had done this before, an idea that Kirk discovered made the situation even hotter. The doctor's forefinger and thumb grasped Kirk's erection at the base while his lips wrapped tightly up by the head, sucking hard and rubbing his tongue along the underside. When McCoy changed tactics, dropping his jaw and swallowing in order to slide his throat down Kirk's cock until he could kiss his own hand, Kirk cried out something profane and reeled on his four-inch stiletto heels, tossing back his head. McCoy slowly pulled back, breathed deeply, and slid forward again, setting a rhythm that was slow, too slow for Kirk's desperation, but too perfect to disrupt. Kirk could feel every muscle contraction in McCoy's throat, as he swallowed and breathed and took Kirk in with abandon. The pace was agonizing for Kirk, who held on as long as he could before exhaling a sharp cry and shooting his hands forward from their grip on the chair to wrap themselves in McCoy's damp hair. He grabbed two tight fistfuls and started pulling the doctor's head forward more rapidly. McCoy's responding moan sent shockwaves through Kirk, and he locked their eyes to gauge McCoy's reaction as he pulled back and prepared to drive in again. McCoy gave him the subtlest of nods and his eyelids flickered closed. That affirmation, plus the sight of one of Starfleet's chief medical officers kneeling in front of him, wet lips wrapped around erection flanked by lace and fishnet and leather, was sufficient provocation for Kirk. He pulled hard on McCoy's hair, pushing his hips forward as far as possible, fucking the doctor's throat in frantic, driving strokes. His exhalations of exertion counterpointed McCoy's long, drawn-out moan around his cock, and before long Kirk was crying out in earnest, pelvis pressed to McCoy's face, cock spending in spasms deep inside the doctor's throat. He stood and shuddered, otherwise motionless, for a moment, and then released McCoy, who drew back and sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, rubbing his scalp dazedly.
Neither man said anything for a time, each preoccupied with the pressing need for more air. Kirk carefully peeled off his condom and made to dispose of it in the room's waste compactor. He had not banked on the difficulty of movement in his new footwear, however, and stumbled. Weak with exertion, he let his knees buckle and fell back into the relocated desk chair. Kirk let out a low chuckle, and turned to look at McCoy through half-lidded eyes.
"Son of a bitch," he panted, his voice low. "You're incredible. You're fucking incredible. Why have we never done that before?" He slid off the chair to the carpeted floor and crawled on his hands and knees over next to Bones. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
McCoy attempted to make a reply, but his voice came out like gravel, and he coughed. Kirk felt a pang of guilt. He leaned in, still on all fours, tilted his chin, and kissed Bones full on the mouth. McCoy sighed into the kiss, sounding satisfied. He broke it off after a few moments and leveled his gaze on Kirk. "How ungentlemanly of me to take advantage of a lady indisposed," he murmured. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me." He raised an eyebrow.
Kirk felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but it wasn't humiliation; it was something far more erotic. He suppressed the usual urge to make a sarcastic retort.
In a strained but soft voice, McCoy continued, "Think we can handle getting your panties on?"
Kirk laughed, and it sounded a little desperate to his ears. "After that, I think you and I can handle just about anything," he said.
To be continued!