Experimental Therapy
It's time for more "sex makes everything better!" fic. And, heaven help me, I wrote Star Trek porn. Inform the media.
Title: Experimental Therapy
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Star Trek (nuTrek)
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov, Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 4,264
Spoilers: Uh… none really.
Warnings: Mirror!verse (so, people being mean to each other), drugs, dubcon, a little painplay
Disclaimer: Star Trek sure doesn’t belong to me.
A/N: Ok, so brighteyed_jill wrote this story called We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night for the startrekbigbang. It's a fabulous McCoy/Chekov angst fic, and I was one of her betas. At one point in the plot, I humorously suggested a meaner, mirror!verse turn for events to take. Eventually I just wrote it. So, if you end up reading her fic, mine more or less takes a left turn at part 2b. If you just want to read some mirror!verse McCoy/Chekov, click the link for the short version of what leads up to this story.
Summary: When Chekov is badly damaged, McCoy has to find a way to get him fit for duty, in any way possible.
[Short synopsis, Chekov was captured by Usite slavers (unbeknownst to the crew) a year ago while on an away mission. The Enterprise crew looked for him, but couldn't find him. At present, the crew was on a planet looking to stop a slaving ring. McCoy stumbles upon Chekov at a slave auction and buys him. The story begins after the slave auction when McCoy takes Chekov to a hotel room.]
McCoy shut the door to their room behind them, throwing the bolt, and quickly setting a portable alarm on the door. Turning back to Chekov, he almost stumbled over his kneeling form and repressed a curse. Damn Usite training. All that kneeling and bowing and scraping was endearing, if you liked that kind of thing, but it was astoundingly impractical for an Imperial officer. There were reasons slaves weren’t allowed on Imperial ships, mostly because they would have been too much of a temptation; a source of fighting and insubordination amongst the crew. Slaves couldn’t be expected to deal with the kinds of stresses inherent in a day on the ISS Enterprise.
The Usites had turned Chekov into a slave, it was plain as day, and that made McCoy furious. Those bastards were going to pay for this. Bad enough they try to undercut Imperial profits by trying to run their own slave routes, but to abduct whomever they felt like? Kirk would see them all die, screaming. McCoy had all the evidence he needed right here. An assault on an Imperial officer was an assault on the Empire.
Carefully, McCoy stepped around Chekov’s nearly prone form and sat on the bed. It’d been a long day, and he just wanted a few relevant answers from Chekov before they rested. He hadn’t tried to interrogate him until they’d gotten to the relative safety of the room; he couldn't risk being overheard by anyone. Simply adopting the role of a master was perfect camouflage to get them to safety. That hadn’t been his assignment on this sting, but McCoy knew the drill well enough; it was a favorite indulgence on shore leave for half the crew.
“Chekov, stand up, come here. The Captain’s in orbit, he’s going to get us both out of here once his mission’s done. We need all the evidence we can get so we can put the bastards who did this to you in the ground. Tell me the name of your last master,” McCoy demanded.
Chekov had always been a practical lad, he would have adapted however he could, once he realized the Enterprise hadn’t been able to find him when he’d been captured. That meant McCoy had to play along with his role until they could break Chekov of his conditioning. McCoy throttled down his anger at Chekov’s helpless state, and waited for the answer.
It never came.
Chekov only shook his head, cringing, and flung himself to his knees again.
“You won’t tell me?”
Chekov shook his head and trembled, shrugging his shoulders in helplessness.
“You can’t tell me?”
Chekov nodded, looking up with his eyes wet with tears. It almost trigged a rage in McCoy, a desire to methodically take somebody apart for what they’d done to him. Chekov cringing, Chekov crying, he never did that. Not when someone used an agonizer on him for a smart remark, not when he’d had to spend time in an agony booth for showing up a superior officer, nothing.
“Why can’t you tell me?” McCoy asked, trying to keep his temper under control.
Chekov looked up at him tentatively, and touched his throat. They’d taken his voice away. And since McCoy had done a scan for major impairment or damage before he’d taken possession, that meant the Usites had conditioned him out of speaking or… McCoy had a sudden memory from the briefing they’d gotten before the away party had hit planetside. It was part of the reason Spock was in on this mission, despite the fact Usites hated Vulcans. Telepathy.
“Those goddamn bastards!” McCoy roared. Chekov scrambled backwards on his hands and knees, and McCoy had to suppress a desire to hit Chekov for all his cringing. The penalties for using telepathy on an unwilling subject were harsh, but the Usites apparently had no shame when it came to trying to screw over the Empire. Death was too good for them.
“Chekov, come here.” McCoy beckoned him again once he’d gotten himself back under control. “I’m going to get you out of here, and then I’m going to fix you. The Captain is-.”
McCoy stopped himself when he looked at Chekov’s face and saw a curious blankness there. It wasn’t just a slave’s submissiveness, but a genuine confusion.
“Do you know who I am?” McCoy asked with a pit in his stomach. “My name? Tell the truth, I won’t punish you.”
Chekov slowly shook his head, trembling.
“Enterprise? Captain Kirk? The Empire?”
Each mention got another headshake, and an increase in the trembling. McCoy felt his pulse throb at his temple and a red haze settled over his vision. They hadn’t just taken Chekov’s voice, broken him, and modified his behavior, they’d taken his memories.
McCoy didn’t stop ranting for almost ten minutes straight.
When he’d run out of steam and breath, he finally punched the bed with his fist, not willing to risk any other injury to his hands, no matter how satisfying going out and disassembling the nearest Usite would make him feel. Chekov knelt, trembling and immobile, until McCoy was done. As soon as he fell silent, Chekov crawled forward and nudged his head against McCoy’s feet in an entreaty for forgiveness. Looking up at McCoy with his damp eyes, nuzzling against him like a cat, he was a walking invitation to impropriety. There was no doubt in McCoy’s mind what Chekov had been trained for.
Regarding Chekov’s thin body and halo of curls, McCoy came to a swift decision. He had to tell as few people as possible about Chekov’s condition. There was a certain level of solidarity amongst Empire officers, but not enough to keep anyone from taking advantage of a mute, submissive, amnesiac sex slave, over and over and over again until they’d used him up. He was going to have to take steps.
“Ok, listen,” McCoy said, when he’d finally regain the ability to speak without shouting. “Your name is Chekov, that’s what I’m going to call you. Go in the bathroom and clean yourself up completely.” He turned and rummaged through his bag until he’d found some clean clothing, far too big for Chekov, but at least they weren’t ragged slave clothes. “Put these on when you’re done and come back out here.”
McCoy flopped back on the bed when the bathroom door shut, and closed his eyes just for a moment, wrung out from the day’s escapades.
He woke to soothing warmth enveloping his thighs, from Chekov straddling him, leaning over him, hair damp and looking incredibly young in the too-large clothes. Softly, slowly, Chekov was pushing against him, teasing him into wakefulness in a way McCoy hadn’t felt since before the academy. Sighing, McCoy allowed it for long minutes, letting a rare faint smile crack his face, giving the slave a hint of a reward. The kid deserved it after McCoy had all but beaten him bloody for absolutely no fault of his own. They’d work on breaking his conditioning later, right now McCoy needed to keep Chekov calm, compliant, and obedient so he could get him to the Enterprise without any more damage.
McCoy sat up before Chekov could speed up any farther or start divesting himself of his new clothes; he didn’t want to be beamed up sporting a raging hard-on.
“That was good, kid. Come on, we need to get you fixed up.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“He’s useless to us like this, Bones,” Kirk said flatly.
McCoy set his jaw belligerently. Jim was annoyingly right. Yes, Chekov’s state had sent him into a fury that exceeded McCoy’s by a factor of five. Yes, what had been done to their former navigator and pilot clearly showed enough violations of Imperial regulations to justify immediate reprisal on the Usites. But it had left Chekov without any useful skills. The ability to be a perfect slave might be valued on one of the pleasure planets, but not on the Enterprise’s crew.
“That idiot Kelso is all but useless at the helm. Chekov was the best we ever had and you know it. All we have to do is break down those telepathic blocks and he’ll remember everything-.”
“Fine, get Spock in here to do it.”
“And have him implanting whatever suggestions he wants into the wreck the Usites left behind? I don’t trust Spock to have free reign inside anyone’s head, especially Chekov’s. He could re-write him to stab someone in the back before the next evaluations, when he wasn’t using him as his personal servant and sex-toy.”
“Like I expect anyone to not think that.”
“True, but the last thing anyone on this crew needs is a personal servant.”
“Chekov never liked Spock anyway. What about Sulu? They used to get along, could he do anything?” Kirk asked.
“With Chekov how he is now? That’d be like giving a canary to a cat. Sulu’s a barbarian. I’d personally rather go five rounds in an agony booth than spend at hour at that man’s non-existent mercy,” McCoy scoffed. Sulu could have had that scar of his fixed with ten minutes in Sickbay, but kept it as a personal badge of his preferences. Any civilized man used an agonizer rather than risk permanent damage, but Sulu was a throwback. It was part of what made him an excellent head of security, and a horrible choice to try to get anything out of Chekov except through torture.
Kirk looked thoughtful, and then narrowed his eyes at the expression on McCoy’s face.
“You have an idea of how to fix Chekov, don’t you?”
McCoy nodded tersely.
“I don’t want to know the details. You have a week, then we’re selling him to the next decent brothel.”
Rolling his eyes, McCoy beckoned Chekov from his seat in the corner and hustled him out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
McCoy had named this the “safe room,” usually just a padded cell where he let crewmen high on the latest and greatest recreational pharmaceuticals work out their aggression against walls rather than his medical staff. Walls were cheaper to repair than flesh. No one had the code but him, and that made it the idea place to stash Chekov while he tried his idea at therapy.
Any survivor of Imperial officer training had learned to accept knowledge from any source, at any cost. One of McCoy’s teachers had been a genius at biochemisty and neurochemistry, with brilliant insights in how to reverse certain types of brain trauma. He’d been killed for crimes against the Empire before McCoy was out of the academy, but it hadn’t diminished the importance of the man’s accomplishments.
Taking Chekov in the padded room and locking the door behind him, McCoy set down the case he’d taken from his high-security cabinets. He started talking as he began to load the hypospray, Chekov hanging onto every word as if his life depended on it.
“Telepathic blocks only work on some levels of your brain. We have to push your consciousness high enough to basically ‘see’ over them. Medically, if we flood your body with the right combinations of drugs and stimulation, your brain will respond with a flood of neurotransmitters that’ll break through the blocks. You’ll get your memories back. I want you to get your memories back, do you understand?”
Chekov couldn’t do anything other than nod. McCoy reflected it was actually nice to be able to administer medical treatment to a member of the crew without them trying to argue with him. The Enterprise crew was so competitive and fearful of showing weakness that they sometimes had to be tranked and physically dragged to Sickbay when they were injured or hurt. A press with the hypo, and Chekov began to slump to the floor, eyes dilating rapidly as the first rush of euphoria hit his system.
In smaller doses, the drugs McCoy had just used were popular at parties, and so he had to keep them under lock and key. But in higher doses, they altered consciousness, messed with perceptions, and could be used as hypnotics. And if the body could be inclined to produce extra endorphins while the drugs were in the system, the effects were heightened tremendously.
It was time to use the Usites’ own training against them.
“There ya go,” McCoy murmured, and brushed his knuckles against Chekov’s belly as he slowly pulled the too-large shirt over his head. He’d tried some of the drugs himself some years before, mostly out of sense of medical research, and he knew that if they’d made him come like a teenager just from accidentally brushing his shoulder, then any touch Chekov would-. Under McCoy’s hand, Chekov’s skinny body arched and tensed, eyes fluttering and a wet stain spreading on the front of his pants.
“Good boy,” McCoy said, quickly pulling the pants off too so he could get a better look at him. He had one chance to make this right, one clean shot at Chekov. Not just to get the Enterprise back their best pilot, but to have him at all. He’d wondered if he was the only one who’d never had him. Chekov had never been sick or badly injured, so he’d never had to convince McCoy to treat him well. Kirk, of course, he’d had everyone. It was his privilege and right as Captain. Spock, well, that was just common sense. Either get it out of the way, or find yourself cornered some day when you least expected it. Sulu, that was for security’s sake. No one wanted to find the lock on their door “accidentally” broken, or that their phaser “malfunctioned.”
But for McCoy, nothing. He’d never had a taste. Never had a reason to have Chekov need him. Until now. Looking down the length of Chekov’s body, McCoy could see the scars and scabs of barbaric treatment everywhere. Whips, chains, wire, fire, cold, every form of punishment had been represented on Chekov’s skin, far in excess of what any beautifully submissive slave like him should have.
McCoy continued to caress Chekov’s hip with one hand, and pulled a different tool out of his bag with the other. The light touch had Chekov squirming deliciously, and McCoy settled back so he could pull him into his lap. Anchoring him there with one wandering hand, McCoy fired up the dermal regenerator with the other.
“I’m going to fix you right up, Chekov. All you have to do is stay still. Do that for me,” he commanded, and applied the tool to Chekov’s scarred back. The faint, needling pain it caused would mingle with the pleasure forced from every single touch McCoy made across Chekov’s naked skin. Chekov stiffened once, and then curled himself around McCoy’s legs, rounding his back to the tool. Only faint tremors betrayed his agitation.
It was almost two hours later when McCoy was done, and by now Chekov’s erection, pressing heavily into his thigh, had to be a torment. McCoy ran his hand down the now-smooth back, and felt the tremors become more violent. Chekov had always had excellent control, and apparently the Usites hadn’t tried to block that. That made a wedge McCoy could try to exploit.
“Turn over,” he commanded, and watched Chekov’s throat work, hearing the faintest threat of a whimper come from him. The sound of his voice, however faint, was a triumph for McCoy. The therapy was starting to work. “Look at me.”
Chekov’s eyes were completely dark, dilated and unfocused, but there was still something in the set of them, the slight hooding of his eyes, that made him look hungry and maybe a bit dangerous. McCoy wondered if that was how he’d gotten all those scars.
“When I say, come,” McCoy said firmly, and slid his hand down Chekov’s belly. The intimate, vulnerable touch from skin over-sensitized with dugs sent Chekov into a beautiful tense arch, a louder moan spilling from between his lips. His cock was at rigid attention, flushed and weeping with precome, a lovely sight to appreciate. McCoy wrapped his hand around it, holding it firmly, feeling the hardness and tension crest to a peak as he pushed Chekov as far as he dared. “Now.”
A soft shout spilled past Chekov’s lips as his body spasmed over and over, encouraged by McCoy’s hands, pushing into his touch like he was preventing him from flying apart. Smirking in triumph, McCoy let Chekov down and left him to recover while he went on his rounds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every four hours, like clockwork, McCoy returned with a fresh hypospray and a new technique to try out. The second time he deliberately stroked over Chekov’s skin, touching and fondling every erogenous zone possible on the human body, and was rewarded by tiny mewls of pleasure that grew slowly louder in volume. This time when Chekov came, his shout reverberated around the tiny room.
The blocks were crumbling, slowly but surely.
The third time Chekov actually managed to look at McCoy with some sense in his eyes as the drugs took ahold of him. He managed to move under his own direction, parting his legs under pressure from McCoy’s hands, opening himself up wanton abandon. That Chekov had been a passionate sort, McCoy was certain, but he wasn’t sure yet if his behavior now stemmed from passion or pain-learned training. It didn’t matter yet, the result was the same, as McCoy slowly slicked up his fingers and slipped them inside Chekov’s ass one at a time.
He stroked him to the edge and back over and over again, trying to get Chekov to beg, to use words, whispering in his ear that all he had to say was “please.”
“Say you want it, come on, that’s all you have to do,” McCoy murmured, sliding and pressing his fingers on the most sensitive spot inside Chekov’s body, his other hand firm on the base of Chekov’s erection to stave off what would have been an inevitable climax otherwise.
The word was small, almost inaudible, but when McCoy had slipped a fourth finger inside and felt Chekov begin to push back, trying to ride his hands, a whispered, “Davai. Please, let me,” crossed his lips. It seemed to startle Chekov as much it elated McCoy.
“Louder. Talk to me,” McCoy demanded, stroking his hand firmly inside, making Chekov writhe. The drugs held him deep in their thrall, and his eyes were nothing but dark pools. He was inside his own head, higher and farther than McCoy had ever gone, straining to leap over the barrier that blocked him from speech and self.
“I-,” Chekov croaked, voice rusty from disuse. “I want to-. I want to, please. Need to come, please, for you, want to, for you!”
McCoy drank in the sense of power that gave him, and leaned over to seal his lips over Chekov’s, as if he could drink in those words, the symbol of his success. As the same time he loosened his grip on Chekov’s cock and stroked once, precipitating a full-throated scream into his mouth as Chekov’s body rocked and broke under him.
Another block, gone. Progress was being made. Time for the next step. McCoy pulled away with reluctance as Chekov went limp and boneless, taking something from his medical bag.
“Chekov, do you know what this is?” McCoy asked, disregarding the fact that Chekov was too fucked-out to be sensible right now. He wasn’t surprised when Chekov shook his head when he held out the small red-and-black agonizer. McCoy had keyed it to Chekov’s bio-patterns this afternoon.
“When you know what it is, tell me. Don’t try to use it yourself.” The agonizer would be a symbol that Chekov was well enough to serve again. That he’d come back to his full senses. A slave, even if he knew about it, would stay ostentatiously ignorant of its function. Any true Imperial officer would accept it as a symbol of pride and strength.
Pressing the hypospray to Chekov’s neck again, McCoy left the man to find his own answers for the night. A good eight-hour stint alone with the drugs in his system would either help him make a personal breakthrough… or just break him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next three days McCoy kept up the regimen of drugs and therapy, able to indulge in a dozen fantasies as he slowly pushed Chekov’s body to its limit. The endorphin levels had to be kept high as possible after the more intense dosages, and every slowly-returning memory justified everything McCoy was doing. After putting Chekov on his knees and letting him pleasure McCoy with the kind of technique that had almost put the doctor into a coma, McCoy had fingered him torturously slowly, quizzing him on every member of the crew until genuine comprehension had filled his face. McCoy didn’t give him relief until he’d babbled everything he could remember about every name given to him.
Another time, McCoy leisurely fucked him while drilling him on the helm controls, Chekov coming with a wail when he’d frantically started babbling minutiae of piloting and navigation that McCoy wasn’t anywhere near qualified to understand. Rougher treatment up against a wall had broken through to Chekov’s self-defense training, and McCoy counted himself lucky that the kid was still underweight or they would have broken limbs trying to subdue each other. He’d almost reflexively asked for the agonizer, but restrained himself. That wasn’t part of the therapy. Yet.
Regulations and tactics had come from a gentle rocking on McCoy’s lap, McCoy’s lips fastened to Chekov’s neck, leaving behind bruises he had to mend later. Battle discipline returned under a teasing stroking where McCoy had to hold Chekov down, lightly biting into the side of his jaw in a way calculated to test his control to the limit.
It was when McCoy had put Chekov on his back, though, that the final breakthrough happened. It was so easy to tease Chekov like this, to see his eyes regain a little more sense each time, but still having that sense of worship, of submission, that made this as addictive to McCoy as any drug he was putting into his patient’s system.
“Tell me what you remember,” McCoy commanded, entering slowly, easily, pushing Chekov’s legs back so that he was open and easy to access. This was usually the part where Chekov started to talk, babbling endlessly, the drugs making him desperate to come no matter how long or short it had been since his last time.
“I remember…” Chekov started, and his eyes opened and nearly speared McCoy through. They’d been dilated with lust so long that he’d almost forgotten they were blue. There was sense in there now, more sense than desperation, but an equal measure of desire. “I remember you didn’t sell me.”
McCoy didn’t even have time to blink at that before Chekov suddenly twisted, setting Bones on his back, landing on top with McCoy still buried deep inside him. Squeezing hard, Chekov raised and lowered himself at an absolutely brutal pace.
“You could’ve sold me for thousands, on any other planet,” he gasped. “Could have kept me for yourself and never tried to fix me. Could have passed me around here until I had nothing left. You could have done anything. You brought me back.”
McCoy barely had any breath to speak. “Enterprise needs you.”
Chekov tossed his head, his curls flying, and McCoy’s mouth went dry. “You did not do this out of duty, doctor!”
“No,” he whispered, hands clutching at Chekov’s hips to encourage his pace, bucking his hips into his crushing heat.
“Then tell me!” The insouciant command was purely Chekov.
“You-. Everyone else but me, damnit!” McCoy snarled, taking Chekov’s bobbing erection in one hand and stroking it with intimate skill.
“Now you have something I want,” Chekov said, eyes burning as he slowed his pace. Bending backwards, he plucked something from the floor. “Agonizer,” he said, and pressed it into McCoy’s other hand.
“What do you want?” McCoy asked, a lick of fear in his belly mingling with arousal. Chekov had been a very devious little bastard before, and apparently slavery hadn’t changed that.
“Get me out of this room. Back to duty. I’m going insane in here, doctor.”
Chekov slowed his pace further, and McCoy slowed his hand, both of them not wanting this to end.
“Need to make sure you’re ready,” McCoy said. “Need to know if you can handle the pressure.” He thrust up hard as he said that, and had to close his eyes as Chekov gripped him so tightly it hurt.
Eyes bright, Chekov tugged the agonizer and McCoy’s hand up.
“Make me ready,” he said, eyes glittering from the remains of the drugs.
McCoy slapped the agonizer to Chekov’s chest in a practiced motion. “For dereliction of duty,” he said sternly, and felt his body seize and come as the sparks and pain of the agonizer made Chekov nail a scream behind his teeth and tighten his entire body against the pain. When he pulled the agonizer away, all he had to do was stroke a few times, and Chekov was lost, spending and flopping against McCoy in exhaustion.
“You’re fit for duty now, officer,” McCoy said formally, holding Chekov firmly.
“But?” Chekov asked, pulling back enough for McCoy to see the mischief in his eyes.
McCoy took the opening. Everyone else wanting to reacquaint themselves with Chekov could take a number. “You’ll need periodic therapy. Report to Sickbay after your shift tomorrow.”
“As the Empire requires,” Chekov said, and barred his teeth a feral grin of triumph.
Title: Experimental Therapy
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Star Trek (nuTrek)
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov, Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 4,264
Spoilers: Uh… none really.
Warnings: Mirror!verse (so, people being mean to each other), drugs, dubcon, a little painplay
Disclaimer: Star Trek sure doesn’t belong to me.
A/N: Ok, so brighteyed_jill wrote this story called We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night for the startrekbigbang. It's a fabulous McCoy/Chekov angst fic, and I was one of her betas. At one point in the plot, I humorously suggested a meaner, mirror!verse turn for events to take. Eventually I just wrote it. So, if you end up reading her fic, mine more or less takes a left turn at part 2b. If you just want to read some mirror!verse McCoy/Chekov, click the link for the short version of what leads up to this story.
Summary: When Chekov is badly damaged, McCoy has to find a way to get him fit for duty, in any way possible.
[Short synopsis, Chekov was captured by Usite slavers (unbeknownst to the crew) a year ago while on an away mission. The Enterprise crew looked for him, but couldn't find him. At present, the crew was on a planet looking to stop a slaving ring. McCoy stumbles upon Chekov at a slave auction and buys him. The story begins after the slave auction when McCoy takes Chekov to a hotel room.]
McCoy shut the door to their room behind them, throwing the bolt, and quickly setting a portable alarm on the door. Turning back to Chekov, he almost stumbled over his kneeling form and repressed a curse. Damn Usite training. All that kneeling and bowing and scraping was endearing, if you liked that kind of thing, but it was astoundingly impractical for an Imperial officer. There were reasons slaves weren’t allowed on Imperial ships, mostly because they would have been too much of a temptation; a source of fighting and insubordination amongst the crew. Slaves couldn’t be expected to deal with the kinds of stresses inherent in a day on the ISS Enterprise.
The Usites had turned Chekov into a slave, it was plain as day, and that made McCoy furious. Those bastards were going to pay for this. Bad enough they try to undercut Imperial profits by trying to run their own slave routes, but to abduct whomever they felt like? Kirk would see them all die, screaming. McCoy had all the evidence he needed right here. An assault on an Imperial officer was an assault on the Empire.
Carefully, McCoy stepped around Chekov’s nearly prone form and sat on the bed. It’d been a long day, and he just wanted a few relevant answers from Chekov before they rested. He hadn’t tried to interrogate him until they’d gotten to the relative safety of the room; he couldn't risk being overheard by anyone. Simply adopting the role of a master was perfect camouflage to get them to safety. That hadn’t been his assignment on this sting, but McCoy knew the drill well enough; it was a favorite indulgence on shore leave for half the crew.
“Chekov, stand up, come here. The Captain’s in orbit, he’s going to get us both out of here once his mission’s done. We need all the evidence we can get so we can put the bastards who did this to you in the ground. Tell me the name of your last master,” McCoy demanded.
Chekov had always been a practical lad, he would have adapted however he could, once he realized the Enterprise hadn’t been able to find him when he’d been captured. That meant McCoy had to play along with his role until they could break Chekov of his conditioning. McCoy throttled down his anger at Chekov’s helpless state, and waited for the answer.
It never came.
Chekov only shook his head, cringing, and flung himself to his knees again.
“You won’t tell me?”
Chekov shook his head and trembled, shrugging his shoulders in helplessness.
“You can’t tell me?”
Chekov nodded, looking up with his eyes wet with tears. It almost trigged a rage in McCoy, a desire to methodically take somebody apart for what they’d done to him. Chekov cringing, Chekov crying, he never did that. Not when someone used an agonizer on him for a smart remark, not when he’d had to spend time in an agony booth for showing up a superior officer, nothing.
“Why can’t you tell me?” McCoy asked, trying to keep his temper under control.
Chekov looked up at him tentatively, and touched his throat. They’d taken his voice away. And since McCoy had done a scan for major impairment or damage before he’d taken possession, that meant the Usites had conditioned him out of speaking or… McCoy had a sudden memory from the briefing they’d gotten before the away party had hit planetside. It was part of the reason Spock was in on this mission, despite the fact Usites hated Vulcans. Telepathy.
“Those goddamn bastards!” McCoy roared. Chekov scrambled backwards on his hands and knees, and McCoy had to suppress a desire to hit Chekov for all his cringing. The penalties for using telepathy on an unwilling subject were harsh, but the Usites apparently had no shame when it came to trying to screw over the Empire. Death was too good for them.
“Chekov, come here.” McCoy beckoned him again once he’d gotten himself back under control. “I’m going to get you out of here, and then I’m going to fix you. The Captain is-.”
McCoy stopped himself when he looked at Chekov’s face and saw a curious blankness there. It wasn’t just a slave’s submissiveness, but a genuine confusion.
“Do you know who I am?” McCoy asked with a pit in his stomach. “My name? Tell the truth, I won’t punish you.”
Chekov slowly shook his head, trembling.
“Enterprise? Captain Kirk? The Empire?”
Each mention got another headshake, and an increase in the trembling. McCoy felt his pulse throb at his temple and a red haze settled over his vision. They hadn’t just taken Chekov’s voice, broken him, and modified his behavior, they’d taken his memories.
McCoy didn’t stop ranting for almost ten minutes straight.
When he’d run out of steam and breath, he finally punched the bed with his fist, not willing to risk any other injury to his hands, no matter how satisfying going out and disassembling the nearest Usite would make him feel. Chekov knelt, trembling and immobile, until McCoy was done. As soon as he fell silent, Chekov crawled forward and nudged his head against McCoy’s feet in an entreaty for forgiveness. Looking up at McCoy with his damp eyes, nuzzling against him like a cat, he was a walking invitation to impropriety. There was no doubt in McCoy’s mind what Chekov had been trained for.
Regarding Chekov’s thin body and halo of curls, McCoy came to a swift decision. He had to tell as few people as possible about Chekov’s condition. There was a certain level of solidarity amongst Empire officers, but not enough to keep anyone from taking advantage of a mute, submissive, amnesiac sex slave, over and over and over again until they’d used him up. He was going to have to take steps.
“Ok, listen,” McCoy said, when he’d finally regain the ability to speak without shouting. “Your name is Chekov, that’s what I’m going to call you. Go in the bathroom and clean yourself up completely.” He turned and rummaged through his bag until he’d found some clean clothing, far too big for Chekov, but at least they weren’t ragged slave clothes. “Put these on when you’re done and come back out here.”
McCoy flopped back on the bed when the bathroom door shut, and closed his eyes just for a moment, wrung out from the day’s escapades.
He woke to soothing warmth enveloping his thighs, from Chekov straddling him, leaning over him, hair damp and looking incredibly young in the too-large clothes. Softly, slowly, Chekov was pushing against him, teasing him into wakefulness in a way McCoy hadn’t felt since before the academy. Sighing, McCoy allowed it for long minutes, letting a rare faint smile crack his face, giving the slave a hint of a reward. The kid deserved it after McCoy had all but beaten him bloody for absolutely no fault of his own. They’d work on breaking his conditioning later, right now McCoy needed to keep Chekov calm, compliant, and obedient so he could get him to the Enterprise without any more damage.
McCoy sat up before Chekov could speed up any farther or start divesting himself of his new clothes; he didn’t want to be beamed up sporting a raging hard-on.
“That was good, kid. Come on, we need to get you fixed up.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“He’s useless to us like this, Bones,” Kirk said flatly.
McCoy set his jaw belligerently. Jim was annoyingly right. Yes, Chekov’s state had sent him into a fury that exceeded McCoy’s by a factor of five. Yes, what had been done to their former navigator and pilot clearly showed enough violations of Imperial regulations to justify immediate reprisal on the Usites. But it had left Chekov without any useful skills. The ability to be a perfect slave might be valued on one of the pleasure planets, but not on the Enterprise’s crew.
“That idiot Kelso is all but useless at the helm. Chekov was the best we ever had and you know it. All we have to do is break down those telepathic blocks and he’ll remember everything-.”
“Fine, get Spock in here to do it.”
“And have him implanting whatever suggestions he wants into the wreck the Usites left behind? I don’t trust Spock to have free reign inside anyone’s head, especially Chekov’s. He could re-write him to stab someone in the back before the next evaluations, when he wasn’t using him as his personal servant and sex-toy.”
“Like I expect anyone to not think that.”
“True, but the last thing anyone on this crew needs is a personal servant.”
“Chekov never liked Spock anyway. What about Sulu? They used to get along, could he do anything?” Kirk asked.
“With Chekov how he is now? That’d be like giving a canary to a cat. Sulu’s a barbarian. I’d personally rather go five rounds in an agony booth than spend at hour at that man’s non-existent mercy,” McCoy scoffed. Sulu could have had that scar of his fixed with ten minutes in Sickbay, but kept it as a personal badge of his preferences. Any civilized man used an agonizer rather than risk permanent damage, but Sulu was a throwback. It was part of what made him an excellent head of security, and a horrible choice to try to get anything out of Chekov except through torture.
Kirk looked thoughtful, and then narrowed his eyes at the expression on McCoy’s face.
“You have an idea of how to fix Chekov, don’t you?”
McCoy nodded tersely.
“I don’t want to know the details. You have a week, then we’re selling him to the next decent brothel.”
Rolling his eyes, McCoy beckoned Chekov from his seat in the corner and hustled him out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
McCoy had named this the “safe room,” usually just a padded cell where he let crewmen high on the latest and greatest recreational pharmaceuticals work out their aggression against walls rather than his medical staff. Walls were cheaper to repair than flesh. No one had the code but him, and that made it the idea place to stash Chekov while he tried his idea at therapy.
Any survivor of Imperial officer training had learned to accept knowledge from any source, at any cost. One of McCoy’s teachers had been a genius at biochemisty and neurochemistry, with brilliant insights in how to reverse certain types of brain trauma. He’d been killed for crimes against the Empire before McCoy was out of the academy, but it hadn’t diminished the importance of the man’s accomplishments.
Taking Chekov in the padded room and locking the door behind him, McCoy set down the case he’d taken from his high-security cabinets. He started talking as he began to load the hypospray, Chekov hanging onto every word as if his life depended on it.
“Telepathic blocks only work on some levels of your brain. We have to push your consciousness high enough to basically ‘see’ over them. Medically, if we flood your body with the right combinations of drugs and stimulation, your brain will respond with a flood of neurotransmitters that’ll break through the blocks. You’ll get your memories back. I want you to get your memories back, do you understand?”
Chekov couldn’t do anything other than nod. McCoy reflected it was actually nice to be able to administer medical treatment to a member of the crew without them trying to argue with him. The Enterprise crew was so competitive and fearful of showing weakness that they sometimes had to be tranked and physically dragged to Sickbay when they were injured or hurt. A press with the hypo, and Chekov began to slump to the floor, eyes dilating rapidly as the first rush of euphoria hit his system.
In smaller doses, the drugs McCoy had just used were popular at parties, and so he had to keep them under lock and key. But in higher doses, they altered consciousness, messed with perceptions, and could be used as hypnotics. And if the body could be inclined to produce extra endorphins while the drugs were in the system, the effects were heightened tremendously.
It was time to use the Usites’ own training against them.
“There ya go,” McCoy murmured, and brushed his knuckles against Chekov’s belly as he slowly pulled the too-large shirt over his head. He’d tried some of the drugs himself some years before, mostly out of sense of medical research, and he knew that if they’d made him come like a teenager just from accidentally brushing his shoulder, then any touch Chekov would-. Under McCoy’s hand, Chekov’s skinny body arched and tensed, eyes fluttering and a wet stain spreading on the front of his pants.
“Good boy,” McCoy said, quickly pulling the pants off too so he could get a better look at him. He had one chance to make this right, one clean shot at Chekov. Not just to get the Enterprise back their best pilot, but to have him at all. He’d wondered if he was the only one who’d never had him. Chekov had never been sick or badly injured, so he’d never had to convince McCoy to treat him well. Kirk, of course, he’d had everyone. It was his privilege and right as Captain. Spock, well, that was just common sense. Either get it out of the way, or find yourself cornered some day when you least expected it. Sulu, that was for security’s sake. No one wanted to find the lock on their door “accidentally” broken, or that their phaser “malfunctioned.”
But for McCoy, nothing. He’d never had a taste. Never had a reason to have Chekov need him. Until now. Looking down the length of Chekov’s body, McCoy could see the scars and scabs of barbaric treatment everywhere. Whips, chains, wire, fire, cold, every form of punishment had been represented on Chekov’s skin, far in excess of what any beautifully submissive slave like him should have.
McCoy continued to caress Chekov’s hip with one hand, and pulled a different tool out of his bag with the other. The light touch had Chekov squirming deliciously, and McCoy settled back so he could pull him into his lap. Anchoring him there with one wandering hand, McCoy fired up the dermal regenerator with the other.
“I’m going to fix you right up, Chekov. All you have to do is stay still. Do that for me,” he commanded, and applied the tool to Chekov’s scarred back. The faint, needling pain it caused would mingle with the pleasure forced from every single touch McCoy made across Chekov’s naked skin. Chekov stiffened once, and then curled himself around McCoy’s legs, rounding his back to the tool. Only faint tremors betrayed his agitation.
It was almost two hours later when McCoy was done, and by now Chekov’s erection, pressing heavily into his thigh, had to be a torment. McCoy ran his hand down the now-smooth back, and felt the tremors become more violent. Chekov had always had excellent control, and apparently the Usites hadn’t tried to block that. That made a wedge McCoy could try to exploit.
“Turn over,” he commanded, and watched Chekov’s throat work, hearing the faintest threat of a whimper come from him. The sound of his voice, however faint, was a triumph for McCoy. The therapy was starting to work. “Look at me.”
Chekov’s eyes were completely dark, dilated and unfocused, but there was still something in the set of them, the slight hooding of his eyes, that made him look hungry and maybe a bit dangerous. McCoy wondered if that was how he’d gotten all those scars.
“When I say, come,” McCoy said firmly, and slid his hand down Chekov’s belly. The intimate, vulnerable touch from skin over-sensitized with dugs sent Chekov into a beautiful tense arch, a louder moan spilling from between his lips. His cock was at rigid attention, flushed and weeping with precome, a lovely sight to appreciate. McCoy wrapped his hand around it, holding it firmly, feeling the hardness and tension crest to a peak as he pushed Chekov as far as he dared. “Now.”
A soft shout spilled past Chekov’s lips as his body spasmed over and over, encouraged by McCoy’s hands, pushing into his touch like he was preventing him from flying apart. Smirking in triumph, McCoy let Chekov down and left him to recover while he went on his rounds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every four hours, like clockwork, McCoy returned with a fresh hypospray and a new technique to try out. The second time he deliberately stroked over Chekov’s skin, touching and fondling every erogenous zone possible on the human body, and was rewarded by tiny mewls of pleasure that grew slowly louder in volume. This time when Chekov came, his shout reverberated around the tiny room.
The blocks were crumbling, slowly but surely.
The third time Chekov actually managed to look at McCoy with some sense in his eyes as the drugs took ahold of him. He managed to move under his own direction, parting his legs under pressure from McCoy’s hands, opening himself up wanton abandon. That Chekov had been a passionate sort, McCoy was certain, but he wasn’t sure yet if his behavior now stemmed from passion or pain-learned training. It didn’t matter yet, the result was the same, as McCoy slowly slicked up his fingers and slipped them inside Chekov’s ass one at a time.
He stroked him to the edge and back over and over again, trying to get Chekov to beg, to use words, whispering in his ear that all he had to say was “please.”
“Say you want it, come on, that’s all you have to do,” McCoy murmured, sliding and pressing his fingers on the most sensitive spot inside Chekov’s body, his other hand firm on the base of Chekov’s erection to stave off what would have been an inevitable climax otherwise.
The word was small, almost inaudible, but when McCoy had slipped a fourth finger inside and felt Chekov begin to push back, trying to ride his hands, a whispered, “Davai. Please, let me,” crossed his lips. It seemed to startle Chekov as much it elated McCoy.
“Louder. Talk to me,” McCoy demanded, stroking his hand firmly inside, making Chekov writhe. The drugs held him deep in their thrall, and his eyes were nothing but dark pools. He was inside his own head, higher and farther than McCoy had ever gone, straining to leap over the barrier that blocked him from speech and self.
“I-,” Chekov croaked, voice rusty from disuse. “I want to-. I want to, please. Need to come, please, for you, want to, for you!”
McCoy drank in the sense of power that gave him, and leaned over to seal his lips over Chekov’s, as if he could drink in those words, the symbol of his success. As the same time he loosened his grip on Chekov’s cock and stroked once, precipitating a full-throated scream into his mouth as Chekov’s body rocked and broke under him.
Another block, gone. Progress was being made. Time for the next step. McCoy pulled away with reluctance as Chekov went limp and boneless, taking something from his medical bag.
“Chekov, do you know what this is?” McCoy asked, disregarding the fact that Chekov was too fucked-out to be sensible right now. He wasn’t surprised when Chekov shook his head when he held out the small red-and-black agonizer. McCoy had keyed it to Chekov’s bio-patterns this afternoon.
“When you know what it is, tell me. Don’t try to use it yourself.” The agonizer would be a symbol that Chekov was well enough to serve again. That he’d come back to his full senses. A slave, even if he knew about it, would stay ostentatiously ignorant of its function. Any true Imperial officer would accept it as a symbol of pride and strength.
Pressing the hypospray to Chekov’s neck again, McCoy left the man to find his own answers for the night. A good eight-hour stint alone with the drugs in his system would either help him make a personal breakthrough… or just break him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next three days McCoy kept up the regimen of drugs and therapy, able to indulge in a dozen fantasies as he slowly pushed Chekov’s body to its limit. The endorphin levels had to be kept high as possible after the more intense dosages, and every slowly-returning memory justified everything McCoy was doing. After putting Chekov on his knees and letting him pleasure McCoy with the kind of technique that had almost put the doctor into a coma, McCoy had fingered him torturously slowly, quizzing him on every member of the crew until genuine comprehension had filled his face. McCoy didn’t give him relief until he’d babbled everything he could remember about every name given to him.
Another time, McCoy leisurely fucked him while drilling him on the helm controls, Chekov coming with a wail when he’d frantically started babbling minutiae of piloting and navigation that McCoy wasn’t anywhere near qualified to understand. Rougher treatment up against a wall had broken through to Chekov’s self-defense training, and McCoy counted himself lucky that the kid was still underweight or they would have broken limbs trying to subdue each other. He’d almost reflexively asked for the agonizer, but restrained himself. That wasn’t part of the therapy. Yet.
Regulations and tactics had come from a gentle rocking on McCoy’s lap, McCoy’s lips fastened to Chekov’s neck, leaving behind bruises he had to mend later. Battle discipline returned under a teasing stroking where McCoy had to hold Chekov down, lightly biting into the side of his jaw in a way calculated to test his control to the limit.
It was when McCoy had put Chekov on his back, though, that the final breakthrough happened. It was so easy to tease Chekov like this, to see his eyes regain a little more sense each time, but still having that sense of worship, of submission, that made this as addictive to McCoy as any drug he was putting into his patient’s system.
“Tell me what you remember,” McCoy commanded, entering slowly, easily, pushing Chekov’s legs back so that he was open and easy to access. This was usually the part where Chekov started to talk, babbling endlessly, the drugs making him desperate to come no matter how long or short it had been since his last time.
“I remember…” Chekov started, and his eyes opened and nearly speared McCoy through. They’d been dilated with lust so long that he’d almost forgotten they were blue. There was sense in there now, more sense than desperation, but an equal measure of desire. “I remember you didn’t sell me.”
McCoy didn’t even have time to blink at that before Chekov suddenly twisted, setting Bones on his back, landing on top with McCoy still buried deep inside him. Squeezing hard, Chekov raised and lowered himself at an absolutely brutal pace.
“You could’ve sold me for thousands, on any other planet,” he gasped. “Could have kept me for yourself and never tried to fix me. Could have passed me around here until I had nothing left. You could have done anything. You brought me back.”
McCoy barely had any breath to speak. “Enterprise needs you.”
Chekov tossed his head, his curls flying, and McCoy’s mouth went dry. “You did not do this out of duty, doctor!”
“No,” he whispered, hands clutching at Chekov’s hips to encourage his pace, bucking his hips into his crushing heat.
“Then tell me!” The insouciant command was purely Chekov.
“You-. Everyone else but me, damnit!” McCoy snarled, taking Chekov’s bobbing erection in one hand and stroking it with intimate skill.
“Now you have something I want,” Chekov said, eyes burning as he slowed his pace. Bending backwards, he plucked something from the floor. “Agonizer,” he said, and pressed it into McCoy’s other hand.
“What do you want?” McCoy asked, a lick of fear in his belly mingling with arousal. Chekov had been a very devious little bastard before, and apparently slavery hadn’t changed that.
“Get me out of this room. Back to duty. I’m going insane in here, doctor.”
Chekov slowed his pace further, and McCoy slowed his hand, both of them not wanting this to end.
“Need to make sure you’re ready,” McCoy said. “Need to know if you can handle the pressure.” He thrust up hard as he said that, and had to close his eyes as Chekov gripped him so tightly it hurt.
Eyes bright, Chekov tugged the agonizer and McCoy’s hand up.
“Make me ready,” he said, eyes glittering from the remains of the drugs.
McCoy slapped the agonizer to Chekov’s chest in a practiced motion. “For dereliction of duty,” he said sternly, and felt his body seize and come as the sparks and pain of the agonizer made Chekov nail a scream behind his teeth and tighten his entire body against the pain. When he pulled the agonizer away, all he had to do was stroke a few times, and Chekov was lost, spending and flopping against McCoy in exhaustion.
“You’re fit for duty now, officer,” McCoy said formally, holding Chekov firmly.
“But?” Chekov asked, pulling back enough for McCoy to see the mischief in his eyes.
McCoy took the opening. Everyone else wanting to reacquaint themselves with Chekov could take a number. “You’ll need periodic therapy. Report to Sickbay after your shift tomorrow.”
“As the Empire requires,” Chekov said, and barred his teeth a feral grin of triumph.