more ST porn
Title: Man of My Dreams
Author: baehj2915
Pairing: K/S, dream!bottom!Spock
Rating: NC-17, masturbation and explicit wet dreams
Disclaimer: Know nothing, own nothing, I don’t mean anything by this, etc., etc. ST XI.
Summary/Warnings: Jim emits things from his subconscious nocturnally.
Well, it was a dream. I think I knew that as it was happening. Sort of that dream un-reality that you know for sure is off, but think might be real, despite there being, like, gigantic caterpillars having tea with your Aunt Irma or whatever. You know, when you’re aware of the illusions around you and you might be able to make it stop if only you could find the edges of it. Pull it down. Wake yourself up.
But I supposed there was some merit to staying asleep.
I didn’t know who I was, but it wasn’t me. Wasn’t the Jim Kirk I was familiar with, but me. I guessed. And he wasn’t really himself. To see Spock being Spock in the situation my brain had put him in would be laughable. But he was still there.
And he was mine.
A slave, I guess. After I had woken up, wanked off, and looked around with conscious eyes, I’d realized I’d made a slave-Spock into my fantasy fuck. And really, I felt terrible. I didn’t have any secret kinks about controlling people, forcing them, owning them, or even tying them up. Though that last one was occasionally tons of fun. But really, I enjoyed sex when the people I got up to it with were enjoying themselves. I even liked to be dominated every once and a while. So, really a slave-master thing was surprising.
And it being Spock, a willful Vulcan, a Commander, physically and psychologically imposing, and utterly repressed, as the wonton, gilded sex slave of my dreams was even more surprising.
I didn’t really remember that much. I remembered him being brought to me. A short leash against a golden collar. The sharp edges of his eyebrows. Ornate pointed jewelry shielding his curved, pointed ears. His narrow shoulders tapered to even narrower hips. The expanse in between was smooth, bare and pale skin, taut over suppressed and deceptive Vulcan muscles. Olivine nipples. A metal brace wrapped thin around his slim, soft waist. Signifying property. Expensive, pretty property. And his long, lean legs were wrapped in black calf-length pants, with gold trim.
Pretty specific for something I’d obviously never seen him wear. I think I was transferring from some trashy dimestore erotic novel I read when I was twelve. Seraglio’s Deltan Harem or The Reluctant, but Willing Love Slave to the Impatient, yet Wealthy Sheik or something that communicated those unsurprising themes. Something I thought was illicit before I knew what sex really was.
His long arms were not at his traditional place of rest, behind his back, but outstretched to me.
He went to his knees, sliding them apart on the floor. His arms fell to the floor, bowing, his pert ass pushed up in the air. There was a heavy echo of the air. He was bowing to me. In front of me. His thighs stretched out on the slick, cold floor.
It was only then I realized I was holding the chain leash.
I pulled him toward me. He rose easily, ethereally. Nothing moving and all moving. No breathing or real color or scent or sensation. It was a dream.
I pulled off the tie of his pants and they fell away. A perfectly throbbing, dripping erection was right where I expected it to be. Apparently my dream had no time for possible differences or ill-defined guesses in the alien biology.
I grabbed a hold of it, another leash, and was plunged into a world of sheets. Slave-Spock was writhing on top of me, already impaled on my own pulsating cock. I could see him. I could still hold the leash to his collar. His long legs splayed over my hips, the soft insides of his thighs exposed to me, his erection bobbing against his stomach, leaking wet traces of semen on his belly, as he rocked and bounced on top of me.
His eyes burned. His mouth opened wide, gasping air, breathing hot heavy pants for me. I tugged on the collar. His hand, his long, deft fingers sifted through the hairs on my stomach, following them up to my chest.
I could hear his panting, but not feel the heat of his breath. I could see his back arched, trying to get himself deeper on my dick, but not feel his strain. I could hear his moaning, but not feel the echo of the sound. I could see his straining penis, but not feel it between my hands.
My mouth was dry for the want of his sweat.
And I woke up abruptly, humping my mattress, my hands gripping sheets and my face pressed into my pillow, trying to tongue the fibrous cover.
I spat it out uncomfortably and groaned with disappointment. Only conscious enough to know that if I got out of bed or turned on a light I’d loose my erection and want to kill things, I reached over to my nightstand lamely to retrieve yank gel. And the nearest piece of floor fabric, not caring what it was. I rolled on my back and pulled my underwear to my ankles. Without concern for mess, I pushed out a wet sounding amount of lotion on my fingers and grabbed my dick with resolve.
The fact that the strength of my own hand, kneading my meat back and forth made me gasp back and forth, made me very sad. I didn’t like celibacy. Five months of no tail was undoing five years of careless indulgence that hadn’t made me happy, but had damn well made me more than sated. The steady, increasing rhythm of my stroking focused my developing consciousness on the fact that I was definitely masturbating to the image of my First Officer as an exposed harem slave, riding my dick with a desire to be fucked I’d obviously never seen evidence for.
I came thinking of his narrow little ass filled with my engorged Captaincy.
I wondered Starfleet had any regulations about ejaculating into your uniform because that’s what I was pretty sure I’d just done. Then I wondered for a paranoid minute if Spock would somehow know when I wore the shirt again.
I had had dreams with Spock in them before. But you know, normal, chaste Spock, acting like Spock, remarking on my ill-designed plans and my illogical maneuvers. Only one was remarkable, in that it was kind of weird. I was clothed, trying to fuck a naked chick, who might have been Andorian-goddamn did I have a thing for that powder blue skin and fuzzy white puff of hair. Except I couldn’t because Spock was telling me all the ways in which I was doing it wrong. Then he took over and people started clapping, cause, apparently, there were people. And it just seemed so typical that he was good at absolutely fucking everything. Even in my dreams.
I didn’t think about it for the next couple days. Meaning, of course, I was actively trying not to think about slave-Spock. Definitely not when I was alone and even more not trying to when Spock was in my eye-line. So, you know, effectively failing to not think about it, but still, definitely, not thinking about it.
That was until I had another dream a few nights later. This time I knew full well it was a dream while it was happening. It wasn’t anything so outlandish as a bejeweled Spock living to service my sexual needs. This time it was the Bridge. Everything was normal. We were traveling at warp four. Sulu and Chekhov were giving me updates. Uhura was contacting another ship with passive information. Spock was bent over his gravimetric screen.
But I couldn’t stop staring at the spread of poly-flax-cotton blend over his luscious little ass. The taut lift of the hem over his boots. The rise of the blue shirt as his shoulders leaned down to the panel. And watching him bend over innocuously in the course of his standard day felt a hundred times dirtier than the slave dream.
I was pulled to him by my groin, unable to stop putting the bulging erection in my own standard issue slacks flush with the lean of his ass cheeks. I pulled his hips down firmly against me. He made a small noise of acceptance and his head lowered closer to his observation table. I just rubbed into his firm, spreading cheeks, the friction of our regulation poly-blends becoming uncommonly and swiftly too hot to tolerate. I reached up his slim waist, unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants to his thighs.
I took my own trousers down, ignoring an update from Sulu. I kicked his legs apart with a sharp wrap from the toes of my boots. And I slid into him with dream-like ease.
This time it was much more aggressive. I was pounding him into the edge of his observation unit. And I heard the wrap of his legs against the console, but nothing moved. His fingers gripped futilely at buttons and consoles. Stilted, panting groans were coming from his throat. I leaned into his back, almost losing my footing trying to get into him harder and faster. I couldn’t go deep enough. It was like I wanted to get my whole body inside of him.
Everyone was watching me. All their eyes staring coldly and openly at my engrossed railing of the First Officer.
My hips seemed to be pounding at him forever, but there was no give to his flesh. The ticking of the clock just got louder and louder. Louder than the slap of skin. Except I could still hear Spock moan, and his fingers slipping over the flat console, looking for something to grab onto. I reached up over his back to grab his shoulder. It was solid. And the throbbing in my dick was solid.
The Bridge started to sway and an alarm sounded. We were being fired on.
Part of me wanted to turn back and look at the screen, but part of me just wanted to creep deeper inside Spock. There was so much more to go. But the sides of Bridge were being dented in like aluminum. Bright lights were going off in my periphery.
“Captain,” his lips breathed heavy and wet against his grav-screen. His legs opened wider and he pushed against my hips. “Growl, Captain.”
I did.
“Push, Captain, push.”
I did. I braced my palm against his back and shoved him flat down. Klaxons blared and explosive heat and noise fired around us as we suffered more attack from outside the ship. I just kept rutting into Spock’s ass with full concentration. Like there was nothing else, but I was missing the mark. He should’ve been fucked into soft, wet nothingness, but nothing was happening. It was going to go on forever, I was sure.
With a guttural hiss he barked, “Captain!”
I woke with a gasping start. My comm was buzzing and a yeoman was yelling through it.
“Captain! It’s time to get up.” She pounded on the door.
I breathed out heavily and looked around. It was dark. I was confused. My head felt like it weighed about a thousand pounds. I vaguely remembered supposing to wake up early for a vid conference with the Admiral staff. I felt soft and wet and grabbed my crotch. My load was completely blown in my underwear.
“Damn it.”
:D
JLB
Author: baehj2915
Pairing: K/S, dream!bottom!Spock
Rating: NC-17, masturbation and explicit wet dreams
Disclaimer: Know nothing, own nothing, I don’t mean anything by this, etc., etc. ST XI.
Summary/Warnings: Jim emits things from his subconscious nocturnally.
Well, it was a dream. I think I knew that as it was happening. Sort of that dream un-reality that you know for sure is off, but think might be real, despite there being, like, gigantic caterpillars having tea with your Aunt Irma or whatever. You know, when you’re aware of the illusions around you and you might be able to make it stop if only you could find the edges of it. Pull it down. Wake yourself up.
But I supposed there was some merit to staying asleep.
I didn’t know who I was, but it wasn’t me. Wasn’t the Jim Kirk I was familiar with, but me. I guessed. And he wasn’t really himself. To see Spock being Spock in the situation my brain had put him in would be laughable. But he was still there.
And he was mine.
A slave, I guess. After I had woken up, wanked off, and looked around with conscious eyes, I’d realized I’d made a slave-Spock into my fantasy fuck. And really, I felt terrible. I didn’t have any secret kinks about controlling people, forcing them, owning them, or even tying them up. Though that last one was occasionally tons of fun. But really, I enjoyed sex when the people I got up to it with were enjoying themselves. I even liked to be dominated every once and a while. So, really a slave-master thing was surprising.
And it being Spock, a willful Vulcan, a Commander, physically and psychologically imposing, and utterly repressed, as the wonton, gilded sex slave of my dreams was even more surprising.
I didn’t really remember that much. I remembered him being brought to me. A short leash against a golden collar. The sharp edges of his eyebrows. Ornate pointed jewelry shielding his curved, pointed ears. His narrow shoulders tapered to even narrower hips. The expanse in between was smooth, bare and pale skin, taut over suppressed and deceptive Vulcan muscles. Olivine nipples. A metal brace wrapped thin around his slim, soft waist. Signifying property. Expensive, pretty property. And his long, lean legs were wrapped in black calf-length pants, with gold trim.
Pretty specific for something I’d obviously never seen him wear. I think I was transferring from some trashy dimestore erotic novel I read when I was twelve. Seraglio’s Deltan Harem or The Reluctant, but Willing Love Slave to the Impatient, yet Wealthy Sheik or something that communicated those unsurprising themes. Something I thought was illicit before I knew what sex really was.
His long arms were not at his traditional place of rest, behind his back, but outstretched to me.
He went to his knees, sliding them apart on the floor. His arms fell to the floor, bowing, his pert ass pushed up in the air. There was a heavy echo of the air. He was bowing to me. In front of me. His thighs stretched out on the slick, cold floor.
It was only then I realized I was holding the chain leash.
I pulled him toward me. He rose easily, ethereally. Nothing moving and all moving. No breathing or real color or scent or sensation. It was a dream.
I pulled off the tie of his pants and they fell away. A perfectly throbbing, dripping erection was right where I expected it to be. Apparently my dream had no time for possible differences or ill-defined guesses in the alien biology.
I grabbed a hold of it, another leash, and was plunged into a world of sheets. Slave-Spock was writhing on top of me, already impaled on my own pulsating cock. I could see him. I could still hold the leash to his collar. His long legs splayed over my hips, the soft insides of his thighs exposed to me, his erection bobbing against his stomach, leaking wet traces of semen on his belly, as he rocked and bounced on top of me.
His eyes burned. His mouth opened wide, gasping air, breathing hot heavy pants for me. I tugged on the collar. His hand, his long, deft fingers sifted through the hairs on my stomach, following them up to my chest.
I could hear his panting, but not feel the heat of his breath. I could see his back arched, trying to get himself deeper on my dick, but not feel his strain. I could hear his moaning, but not feel the echo of the sound. I could see his straining penis, but not feel it between my hands.
My mouth was dry for the want of his sweat.
And I woke up abruptly, humping my mattress, my hands gripping sheets and my face pressed into my pillow, trying to tongue the fibrous cover.
I spat it out uncomfortably and groaned with disappointment. Only conscious enough to know that if I got out of bed or turned on a light I’d loose my erection and want to kill things, I reached over to my nightstand lamely to retrieve yank gel. And the nearest piece of floor fabric, not caring what it was. I rolled on my back and pulled my underwear to my ankles. Without concern for mess, I pushed out a wet sounding amount of lotion on my fingers and grabbed my dick with resolve.
The fact that the strength of my own hand, kneading my meat back and forth made me gasp back and forth, made me very sad. I didn’t like celibacy. Five months of no tail was undoing five years of careless indulgence that hadn’t made me happy, but had damn well made me more than sated. The steady, increasing rhythm of my stroking focused my developing consciousness on the fact that I was definitely masturbating to the image of my First Officer as an exposed harem slave, riding my dick with a desire to be fucked I’d obviously never seen evidence for.
I came thinking of his narrow little ass filled with my engorged Captaincy.
I wondered Starfleet had any regulations about ejaculating into your uniform because that’s what I was pretty sure I’d just done. Then I wondered for a paranoid minute if Spock would somehow know when I wore the shirt again.
I had had dreams with Spock in them before. But you know, normal, chaste Spock, acting like Spock, remarking on my ill-designed plans and my illogical maneuvers. Only one was remarkable, in that it was kind of weird. I was clothed, trying to fuck a naked chick, who might have been Andorian-goddamn did I have a thing for that powder blue skin and fuzzy white puff of hair. Except I couldn’t because Spock was telling me all the ways in which I was doing it wrong. Then he took over and people started clapping, cause, apparently, there were people. And it just seemed so typical that he was good at absolutely fucking everything. Even in my dreams.
I didn’t think about it for the next couple days. Meaning, of course, I was actively trying not to think about slave-Spock. Definitely not when I was alone and even more not trying to when Spock was in my eye-line. So, you know, effectively failing to not think about it, but still, definitely, not thinking about it.
That was until I had another dream a few nights later. This time I knew full well it was a dream while it was happening. It wasn’t anything so outlandish as a bejeweled Spock living to service my sexual needs. This time it was the Bridge. Everything was normal. We were traveling at warp four. Sulu and Chekhov were giving me updates. Uhura was contacting another ship with passive information. Spock was bent over his gravimetric screen.
But I couldn’t stop staring at the spread of poly-flax-cotton blend over his luscious little ass. The taut lift of the hem over his boots. The rise of the blue shirt as his shoulders leaned down to the panel. And watching him bend over innocuously in the course of his standard day felt a hundred times dirtier than the slave dream.
I was pulled to him by my groin, unable to stop putting the bulging erection in my own standard issue slacks flush with the lean of his ass cheeks. I pulled his hips down firmly against me. He made a small noise of acceptance and his head lowered closer to his observation table. I just rubbed into his firm, spreading cheeks, the friction of our regulation poly-blends becoming uncommonly and swiftly too hot to tolerate. I reached up his slim waist, unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants to his thighs.
I took my own trousers down, ignoring an update from Sulu. I kicked his legs apart with a sharp wrap from the toes of my boots. And I slid into him with dream-like ease.
This time it was much more aggressive. I was pounding him into the edge of his observation unit. And I heard the wrap of his legs against the console, but nothing moved. His fingers gripped futilely at buttons and consoles. Stilted, panting groans were coming from his throat. I leaned into his back, almost losing my footing trying to get into him harder and faster. I couldn’t go deep enough. It was like I wanted to get my whole body inside of him.
Everyone was watching me. All their eyes staring coldly and openly at my engrossed railing of the First Officer.
My hips seemed to be pounding at him forever, but there was no give to his flesh. The ticking of the clock just got louder and louder. Louder than the slap of skin. Except I could still hear Spock moan, and his fingers slipping over the flat console, looking for something to grab onto. I reached up over his back to grab his shoulder. It was solid. And the throbbing in my dick was solid.
The Bridge started to sway and an alarm sounded. We were being fired on.
Part of me wanted to turn back and look at the screen, but part of me just wanted to creep deeper inside Spock. There was so much more to go. But the sides of Bridge were being dented in like aluminum. Bright lights were going off in my periphery.
“Captain,” his lips breathed heavy and wet against his grav-screen. His legs opened wider and he pushed against my hips. “Growl, Captain.”
I did.
“Push, Captain, push.”
I did. I braced my palm against his back and shoved him flat down. Klaxons blared and explosive heat and noise fired around us as we suffered more attack from outside the ship. I just kept rutting into Spock’s ass with full concentration. Like there was nothing else, but I was missing the mark. He should’ve been fucked into soft, wet nothingness, but nothing was happening. It was going to go on forever, I was sure.
With a guttural hiss he barked, “Captain!”
I woke with a gasping start. My comm was buzzing and a yeoman was yelling through it.
“Captain! It’s time to get up.” She pounded on the door.
I breathed out heavily and looked around. It was dark. I was confused. My head felt like it weighed about a thousand pounds. I vaguely remembered supposing to wake up early for a vid conference with the Admiral staff. I felt soft and wet and grabbed my crotch. My load was completely blown in my underwear.
“Damn it.”
:D
JLB