The Enterprise Parasite

That is, Spock did not respond right away. He complied with his captain's wishes, picking up the pace until it was as brutal a fucking as fucking could get. He and McCoy staggered their timing to get the best reaction from Kirk: uncontrollable shuddering and groaning, and sharp gasps when a thrust was particularly deep. Kirk's hair stuck to his sweat-slicked brow, his eyes were losing their focus, his face was reddening, and his tentacle-bound body was streaked with the pale white of dried cum.

Taking all this in, Spock chose his words carefully.

"I believe that would be unwise to pursue, sir," he said, sliding his eyes away from Kirk's lust-filled expression. "Even though I am half Human, I still do not have a...mmm...sexual drive to match yours. I fear that such an arrangement would be detrimental—"

Kirk shook his head. Breathing hard, he strained against the tentacles binding his wrists and brought his arms down across Spock's shoulders, interlacing his fingers to cradle Spock's head. As McCoy pounded away, Kirk gently nudged Spock back into eye contact.

"We're both—uh!—smart people," said Kirk, ignoring Spock's raised eyebrow. "We can...figure something out. And, and there's, oh, Bones!"

"Sir," Spock said, interrupting himself with tantalizing nips at Kirk's neck and ears, "Did you intend to end your sentence in that manner?"

Trembling as the tentacles around his ankles pulled his legs wide once more, Kirk nodded. Raising his other eyebrow, Spock slowed to consider this; the contrast in speeds drew out a stuttering groan from Kirk, and McCoy returned his hand to his captain's cock.

Inferring that Kirk was beyond words, Spock took advantage of their almost impossible proximity to open up a mind-link. The rush of emotions and sensations he got nearly overwhelmed him. Stretching—hands everywhere—closeness—warmth—love for Bones—love, no, an incredible passion, for Spock—fear beneath it all. If he concentrated, he could pick up traces of McCoy's thoughts beneath the parasite's oppression, their relative calmness providing a soothing backdrop to the tumult of Kirk's mind.

Sensing that McCoy reciprocated Kirk's affection—it was of the variety that grows out of permanent friendship, taking years to develop yet ultimately provides the most pure and simple comfort—but had not yet fully admitted to it, Spock began to understand how, with some nudging, such an arrangement would work. A little more mental probing made it conclusive: the one-upmanship the doctor frequently engaged him in was born out of a fondness that bordered on romantic interest.

It seems that the captain's—no, Jim's—suggestion, he mused, Is eminently logical.

However, even as he allowed himself to revel in the feeling of his ridged dick rubbing against McCoy's slippery-smooth one and tugging against Kirk's rim, Spock knew that his captain was in no state to be making decisions of such importance. Best to wait until all this was over (and everybody was fully recovered), and then consult with Kirk regarding the sincerity of his proposals.

Judging by the ever-lessening power of the parasite's mental dominance, the alien was weakening—and not a moment too soon. Even Spock's stamina was fading, and McCoy had begun having difficulties keeping his footing long ago. None of this meant anything to Kirk, though, about to pass out again from his endless climaxes.

Just as Spock lost his grip on Kirk in the midst of a final, drawn-out orgasm, McCoy's tentacle stilled and withered, loosing a gush of cum from his insides as it fell lifelessly away. Arms tight around Kirk, McCoy buckled to his knees and dragged his captain down with him, face buried in the crook of Kirk's neck.

Spock, still standing for now, managed to recover more of his Vulcan control as the parasite faltered. This new-found clarity of mind allowed him to reach around and yank out the knobbed tentacle still in him, but the shock of something that large being wrenched away was too much. He collapsed on top of Kirk and McCoy, the built-up alien semen inside him oozing out of his asshole in spurts.

As they lay in a tangled heap of sweaty skin and cum-stained hair, the parasite—all its resources and energy expended—keened and withdrew its many tentacles. With each high-pitched wail the alien shrank in on itself, the strength of its pheromones dissipating and its body drying up, until all that remained was a handful of dust.

Held protectively by McCoy's wiry arms and hot face cooled by Spock's breath on his cheek, Kirk was lulled to sleep by the even breathing of the two men he loved.

His last thought before drifting off was, I must remember this.

---

Spock was the first to wake. Disengaging himself with some difficulty, he got stiffly to his feet. After a moment of rubbing the aches out of his joints, he did a quick survey of the situation: the bridge was in serious need of repair, as were the lift doors and probably other areas of the ship. This would require the quick recovery of the main crew, which meant that he needed to rouse McCoy and Kirk.

McCoy was easy enough—his mind seemed a bit hazy, but a succinct explanation from Spock of what was needed was sufficient to get him moving. Once McCoy was safely on his way (first to get dressed, then to sickbay), Spock turned to Kirk.

As tenderly as his Vulcan restraint would allow, he touched his captain's shoulder.

Kirk squirmed, muttered, and finally sat up, eyes still shut. After the space of a few moments, he slowly opened his eyes and looked at his first officer, expression blank.

"What...happened, Spock?"