Sunday, August 10, 2014

I.S.S. (Imaginative Self Service)

I.S.S. (Imaginative Self Service)

*Story contains M/M fantasy and sexual scenes*

There's a whoosh of air when a section of the wall slides aside and a passageway from here to there appears as if from out of nowhere. Air regulates from one place to the next and he steps through the opening with that calm, cool, detached aura that he always manages to carry with him. Silver graces each temple, a light frown deepens encroaching lines and he leans over a monitor to get a sense of development. "William," he says, his voice clipped and stern, "I was told you needed to see me for a very urgent matter?"

Oh, my, yes. Urgent. Urgent indeed.

"Captain," I say …

Wait, is that the right term? Do they have captains? Ah well, captain is close enough.

We've been boarded on this station for going on eleven weeks now. I can deal with the water jets and wet wipes in lieu of showers, I can manage with the bagged food, but if I have to wait even another moment for what I've managed to sequester him in this room for, I have no doubt that I will lose my mind completely. Time to boldly go…

"Damn it, Jim," a voice says from out of the blue. "I'm a doctor, not an engineer."

I glare at the intruding character that came out of nowhere until he leaves the room with a shrug and another huff of air. So much noise: pressurised modules, external trusses, solar arrays and other components all working to keep life sustained and machinery in motion; everything driving along with the constant whir of fans, blips on monitors and trills of communication devices. And all I want to focus on is him.

Let's just say it's time to step up our biology experiments, sir.

"Captain, I … "

I what? How does this work in the movies? Why can't I make my goddamn brains cooperate with me in the least?

I catch his eye, let my lips fall open and cock an eyebrow. "I need to show you something."

"Perhaps you do," he agrees, pursing his lips a bit, glaring down at the monitor before releasing a series of furious taps on the keyboard below it. To our right the passageway suddenly responds with a harsh click and the light above it switches from green to red. Locked. I turn my eyes back to him and our gazes catch just as firmly. "And perhaps a good time for this little show would be now."

He straightens, dark blue t-shirt stretching sinfully over pectorals that could be rocks, and clasps both bath hands behind his back before he begins to advance. "There is really only one question remaining isn't there, crewman?" His footsteps pad over carpeting, a muted telltale of his advance …

Definitely not buying that you could hear the footsteps, dumb ass. And carpeting? Really?

Growl and grit teeth, ignore … Focus.

"Why aren't you naked?"

That gets my body rising immediately. His voice in that low growl, his expression perfect. I should tell him how long I've wanted him, how many times I've thought about him; instead I just reach for the elastic waistband of my pants and shove them down my hips. They fall …

They most certainly do not.

I have to walk myself out of the fabric and while I step out, reach for and secure them by shoving them into a drawer, he watches. He points at my shirt and I struggle myself out of it as well. You get used to the cooler environment. Of course, one isn't usually standing buck naked in it. He waits until I'm waiting, shivering, before lowering himself to the seating unit in the console. "You'll have to swallow it," he says.

That's freaking fine by me.

He's perfectly hard and smells like hospital soap but I don't care because I'm finally on my knees in front of this man that I've wanted for way too long and even though the floor is hard …


… and even though the carpeting is rough on my knees the moment is too perfect. Wet suction resounds over the hard, sound-bouncing surfaces of machinery and walls but though his rubber soles occasionally grate over the rug, he makes no sound of his own. He's in complete control of himself—a king among men—and watching him, watch me; feeling his body twitch and respond in my mouth even as his face remains passive, makes me hard as hell.

"Touch it," he says. He doesn't need to tell me he means my own. I can tell by the way he's rocking his hips that he prefers my throat to my palm. No, it's me he wants to see getting touched. It's my cock he wants to see leaking over my knuckles.

That's what breaks him. That's what finally makes him moan: when I release him for a moment to grab myself, when we both look down and a single, thick run of cum dribbles from my body. "Up," he growls. "Up and over. Now."

I don't need to be told twice. Slick fingers are deep inside me even before my mind has a chance to reorient itself. His fingers are rough and long, as experienced as he is, and there's not enough oxygen in the air to support my lungs as he learns the way I feel from the inside. My legs shake, my cock throbs, and I go back to stroking myself while he plays. Then his fingers are gone and he's nudging against me.

I get two slow thrusts to get used to him and that's it. I'm not complaining. Not even when he leans over my back, steadies himself against me and groans out a, "Tell me you want to feel it." He doesn't give me time to do it though. He drives into me.

I choke on my reply and I feel him hesitate. The thought makes me insane with panic. "Don't you dare," I pant. "Don't you stop. I do. I want to feel it. I want to feel all of it. Fuck me, Captain. Fuck me hard."

He definitely likes the reaction. I grip the ledge of the tiny viewing pane, pushing back into him as he shoves himself into me, not sure if the stars in my eyes are real or imagined. Naked skin beats against naked skin, I'm making sounds that even I don't understand, and his fingertips are so deep into my skin I can feel his nails marking me.

Captain, it's gonna blow!

I shout, lost in it; feeling every pulse and shudder. My cock gasps shot after shot of warm, wet relief over my abdomen, my fingers still in the depths of my body. I open my eyes, breathless and sweating, and blink until I can see again.

The couch squeals its protest as I shift my weight and reach for the shirt I'd abandoned on the fading carpet of my apartment. In front of me, Roddenberry's crew are laughing through the final moments of scripted humour. Beside me, an open, but long-since forgotten printout I'd been reviewing for my new boss. My new boss: he of the never-to-come smile and the silvered temples; he of the experienced dry wit and the voice that sounds so firmly commanding and somehow so damn soothing at the same time.

Ah well, back to reality. 

The End

Copyright © 2013 AF Henley

No comments:

Post a Comment