*****************
As Malcolm walked back to the bridge, he looked again out the port window at the great meandering constellations.
Odd that there were so many star systems and they never met. Much like people, really.
Wouldn't be bad to be a little more like the stars, actually.
The problem with intimacy was that, when people found out what you were up to, they might . . . take exception to it; they might even berate you mercilessly like an angry father.
But even so one couldn't help wondering.
Rather like window shopping.
Captain Archer? What were Captain Archer's dreams? Possibly something marine, some water polo thing. Men flailing around in the water hoping to touch each other. Just a big good-natured lad.
Trip and Travis. Perhaps the old jiggedyjig with some alien females and then home to Mother.
Hoshi. She probably still wanted him. He shuddered. Predatory, that's all she was, predatory. She'd conquer him and then run off. A vicious, hysterical, praying mantis of a girl.
Dr. Phlox. Well, Heaven only knew. That was probably one for the record books.
Then there was T'Pol.
What did she want on those starlit nights?
Or the starlit days for that matter?
An enigma wrapped in a riddle, she was. Seventy years old. Small wonder that, despite her great beauty, there was a certain used quality. Which was fine with Malcolm, but one had to wonder why she always seemed a bit haunted. And it was all guff about the emotionless Vulcans; T'Pol sometimes gave the impression of nothing but restrained power, as if she were the soul of a tiger inside the skin of a Vulcan.
He noticed � well, that was the first day on the bridge, right? � he had noticed where the fastening on her suit was.
The fastening on her soul: what would it take to undo that?
He watch the stars spinning in their sober orbits for a moment.
And what about that every-seven-years business? Could one actually put any credence in it?
He'd said it once and he'd say it again, frightening.
Seven years of T'Pol's darkest emotions and lusts building. He knew what he himself went through every day; suppose there were seven years of that.
And the captain, drawn, haggard, eyes glazed over, said to Malcolm, "It's your turn."
"Sir, what about Commander Tucker?"
"Trip's in sickbay."
"Captain, can Dr. Phlox not help?"
"He's preparing a sedative hypospray, but Vulcan physiology is tricky. They are more alien than we could have imagined." Captain Archer's eyes were helpless, looking inward, staring at nothing.
"And Travis?"
"We're doing it by rank." The captain rubbed a large hand across his face. "The Vulcan high command won't respond. I suspect this is something they don't talk about." He looked at Malcolm. "Subcommander T'Pol needs you, Malcolm, and that's that."
**************
Malcolm walked into her dark ozone-scented quarters.
And writhing on to her bed was Subcommander T'Pol, pale and naked, covered with sweat, and she kept saying one guttural syllable over and over again.
What was she saying? Was she saying *more*?
"Subcommander?"
She groaned again: that syllable.
And Malcolm pulled his shirt off.
She gave him a look, direct and feral.
"I'm here, darling, here for you."
She only growled.
And opened those long fragrant legs.
Malcolm gasped; her beauty was compelling. Disgusting. Disorienting. Then he took his pack up from the floor and drew out a length of rope.
"This is just for your own good," he whispered. "Just for a little equilibrium," and he tied her slippery hands to the bed, but, when he leaned over to take her left foot, naked and curvy and desirable as her body, she kicked blindly out at him.
However, Malcolm was quicker and caught her leg in mid-kick. "Clever girl, but not clever enough." And, grabbing her hands, he untied them and rolled her over on her stomach; then he retied her hands to the bed and, with an elaborate set of knots and twistings, pinned her legs under her so that she was lying there helpless and open, face down on the bed.
Then he took off the rest of his clothes.
"I want you to be peaceful, darling," and he placed himself inside her; now she was nothing but ass for him, and he felt as if he were pumping into the heart of blood and he kept pushing against her and whispering to her as one would to a wild animal.
There was no question of his coming, of her coming; this wasn't sex, it was more real than sex (not that there wasn't a certain excitement over taking her after the captain and Trip had worked themselves to exhaustion prodding their own big club-like cocks again and again into her too-willing flesh.)
She was bruised and the whole room smelled of her desires but she was still beautiful and innocent; the feelings she had were in her blood and not her soul, and after a while, Malcolm felt as if he'd been inside her forever, as if they were inflaming each other, feeding each other's quiet fire.
And as he moved, he whispered, it's me, Malcolm, remember this, darling, remember this.
-finis-