by K.V. Wylie

I feel it coming back again,
Like a roll of thunder chasing the wind,
Forces pulling from the centre of the earth again,
I can feel it.

"Lightning Crashes" by Live

Spock heard the light, almost non-existent step of the acolytes passing by the door of his chamber. They were not concerned with him. He was no longer an oddity, having undergone four wrenching seasons of the study of Kolinahr.His thoughts had been invaded, opened, exposed, his subconsciousness laid out in a panting, jellied lump.

He had endured where full-Vulcans had not, but to have pride about it would have been inappropriate.

He had come to Mount Seleya hoping to split himself, to shear off the human part. The Masters had quickly squashed that. Kolinahr was mastery. Vulcan, human - these terms were irrelevant. Unnecessary. Inadequate.

The first stage of mastery was observation. He meditated and observed the spinning contortions of his thoughts.

Next came acceptance. What is, is.

He'd argued then. Had Surak not said to cast out all passion onto the sands? How could he accept passion? It had to go.

The Masters chided him. Do not force modern meanings of words onto ancient scrolls. To cast out does not mean to sever.

He spent two intervals examining anew his motives for entering the study. It was then he realized why the Masters had been reluctant to take him. It was not that his human blood made him unworthy. It was the opposite. His human blood made him more worthy. If he subdued it, he would surpass the Masters themselves. None of them had had to deal with such violent DNA.

Acceptance was hard. He hadn't achieved it yet. When he struggled for too long, the Masters were forgiving. Move to the next stage, they said. Return to this later. It will wait.

So he made a rather human list.

Observation - done.

Acceptance - working on it.

True Seeing - working on it, but doing better than with Acceptance.

Judgement - rather, relinquishing it. The true judgement of what is good or not good is beyond minds that have not let go of their katras. Done. He hoped.

Self Released - Ego gone. No.

Serenity - tied in with Acceptance. That would be a difficult one.

Mastery - the goal.

Spock reviewed his list. Each category had many sub-categories. In reality, it should have looked more like a flow chart than a shopping list, with arrows leading either down or sideways, but it served.

He closed his eyes and meditated once more on acceptance. He'd been warned that he was unprepared for all he would need to live with. Lately, that had become unavoidably true.

His body wanted something.

It was not Plak Tow. That had already become a thing of his past. But he was restless.

Ironic, he thought. He'd lived on a ship with humans who were reputed to be sexually depraved, but it had not affected him. Here he lived with the devoted, yet the devoted were the ones who, by osmosis, made him yearn. It was not unknown for a Master to take an acolyte into his or her chambers, as long as the acolyte was of the same gender. Though not spoken of, it seemed almost…Spock thought for a moment…normal.
The normal
course of things, called Bi-do, the Beautiful Way. The acolyte was submissive, in all respects. Spock, as a student (though not naturally submissive due to his family line), had been approached four times.

He'd turned down the offers. He'd finally been approached with the prevailing rumour. Did he still have an attachment to his former captain? Such attachments were not in keeping with the study of Kolinahr.

The Master who came to him when things were at their worst was a gentle, ancient man lacking the severity of the priestesses. The words that came out of his mouth, spoken so calmly, quite unnerved Spock.

He took a careful seat on the edge of Spock's stone bed. Then he studied Spock for several minutes before saying, "The Vulcan heart is not stone."

Spock bowed his head in acquiescence. He thought at first that this was a fifth offer. He was mentally preparing his rejection speech.

"I have studied thee. I thought first that thee craved the golden one called Kirk, but thy grievous actions are more than those I can attribute to close regard."

"Actions?" Spock asked, startled.

"Thee walks as though missing one of thy limbs. Who does thee think of late in the night when darkness covers thy room? Tell me."

Most Masters requested an opening of thoughts, a mind meld, but this one just asked, simply, directly, and strangely courteously.

"I had a companion in Starfleet. We were not brothers," Spock said, using the old word that meant lover. "He was very human. He fought me." He stopped, unable to find the right description.

"He kept thee from loneliness," the old Master surmised. "This unprepossessing human. What aspect is there in him?"

Spock looked at the floor in shame. "Look into the blue eyes and find the dagger mind, sharp with logic and bedevilment, like the crude sheath that covers the brilliant sword."

"Let thy mind dwell on this and thee will fail Kolinahr."

Spock twitched. Surely not, he thought. Surely it's not that bad. The Master's quiet words had landed on him like hot embers.

"Thee are losing the refinements and spending too much time alone," the Master said kindly. "Thee will not accept Bi-do. Is relief not at thine own hand?"

Spock was unprepared for what sounded like a schoolyard joke. He fell back on a textbook answer. "Our ancestors cast out their animal passions on these sands and embraced logic."

"Logic demands recognition of what exists. Logic does not deny. When Surak spoke of casting out animal passions, he was speaking of male seed. If passion is a hindrance to thee, cast it out."

Unprepared for such an upending of the philosophy, Spock was stunned into silence.

The Master withdrew a small pouch and stub of wood from his robe and laid them on Spock's bed. "Petals from the blossom of the Dauphine bush and part of seedling branch. The effect is both joy and torture." Then he stood. "For the Vulcan heart," he added and left.

Spock did not move from his meditation stone. He knew of the Dauphine bush, a fragrant, fragile plant that grew only near the tops of mountains. In legend, its fruit prolonged life and its branches used to make amulets to ward off evil. The petals…but here Spock paused even in the sanctity of his own thoughts.

At last he picked up the pouch. A delicate, flowery aroma reached him before he opened the sachet and spilled the peach-coloured petals into his palm.

The blossoms, it was said, put men into trances.

He glanced through his one, small window. The sky was deepening into dark green and black. Suddenly, he wanted to be outside

Drawing on a light robe, he left his room. Only a few people were in the hallways. No one paid attention to him for he could have legitimate business to attend to. Choosing a side door, he slipped outside.

The sand this high up Mount Seleya was cool and rough. It crunched under his sandals. A breeze picked it up as grit and blew it into his face. Spock glanced around, trying to find in the darkness a specific formation in the rock wall, a small recess made either from a collapse or an earthquake. He had discovered it during his first season, but had not been back to it since.

The moons were rising by the time he found the recess. He slipped in, grasping the cold, granite walls in order to guide himself. He rounded a sharp outcropping and came upon an inner chamber, and then paused, caught by what he saw.

Moonlight reflecting on the obsidian in the rock had turned the walls smoky red. The wind outside cried hauntingly through the chamber, taunting his ears and making him feel as if he was moving even though he stood still. It was a violent place, lurking with demons, as profane and wild as a floor in hell.

Spock shrugged off his robe and sandals. Then, crushing the petals in his palms, he raised them to his nose, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.

Behind his eyelids, blue swirled like rages of corneas battling each other. Dauphine perfume filled his mouth and lungs, a pungent, clotting cloud of scent that dropped him to his knees.

He rubbed his palms over his chest, mixing the cloying petals with his sweat. Then he reached down, stroking over his abdomen, his thighs, and then between them to where his genitalia drooped heavily.

A memory surfaced in the murky swamp of Spock's thoughts. He was in his quarters, feverish and laying in bed, the doctor standing beside him, lightly touching his arm, blue eyes wrinkled in concern. Spock wanted to grab those fingers and crush them against his mouth. He remembered looking down at the innocent bulge in the doctor's black trousers and being shocked at himself.

With his fingertips, Spock touched his foreskin. The slight contact elicited a delicious itch. He ran one finger underneath the covering, rubbing the hidden crown of his penis.

Abruptly, he pulled his hand away, ashamed, but in the unconscious following gesture of bringing his hands up over his face, he was once more assailed by the smell of the Dauphine perfume. Mixed with it was an earthier aroma, an intimate male smell.

The odour reminded him of being in the cell on the world where the S.S. Beagle had been lost. He and the doctor had been in the arena, sweating under hot lights, ordered to fight, and imprisoned afterwards. The underground cells were icy and he and the doctor had shared a cot, shivering in the draft, their arms around each other, uneasy and silent from the contact and their earlier conversation. The doctor had finally fallen asleep, his back curled against Spock's chest, but Spock had stayed alert, watchful, listening to the echoes of footsteps from the guards and the drip of water down the walls.

The doctor was restless and Spock wondered afterwards if he'd encouraged the fidgety movements that shifted the doctor's buttocks against his groin. Though nauseous with cold, Spock erected. He did not deflect further fidgets that allowed the protrusion in his pants to nestle in the cleft of the doctor's backside. After they'd returned to the ship and Spock was alone in his cabin, he'd completed the orgasm while holding the doctor's unwashed shirt against his nose.

He could feel his cock thickening. He looked down and saw fluid glistening at the tip. Embarrassed, bitter, yet hungry, he touched himself again, bringing his forefinger up over the small opening in the tip. Despite the lubrication, he sucked in a breath at the sensitivity that was almost painful. He felt a throb of blood in his shaft as his penis began to harden.

Using two hands, he gently tugged at his cock. Did the doctor touch himself? Those nights on the ship, had he sometimes rubbed and pulled at his genitals until he'd reached a climax? Spock had thought of him during his own lonely manipulations, foreskin skinned back and a towel over the head of his cock as he violently pumped himself, wanting to achieve orgasm quickly, deluding himself that it was merely a physical release and nothing of any importance.

But he touched himself too often. Spock would be on the bridge and know by the chronometer that the doctor would be off-shift. The doctor would be in the turbo-lift, then in his quarters. The minutes would tick by and Spock would have played the entire scene of the doctor undressing, showering, getting into bed and then moving one hand down between his thighs.

Spock would get so hard he couldn't rise from his chair.

He let go of his penis to squeeze his nipples. A nip of pain sparked from his chest to his groin and he sucked in a breath as a well of fluid dropped pleasurably from the end of his penis to splatter on the sand below. As if in response to the pain, the wind howled through the red chamber. He shivered to the roots of his scalp.

Shifting moonlight glistened on the wet hair over his chest. Did the doctor have hair there? Spock had imagined black hair in the groove between red, protruding nipples and a sweep of hair running down over the doctor's stomach. Spock imagined the doctor lying prone and vulnerable as Spock straddled him. Imagined bending down and letting the coarse hairs scratch his lips as he kissed the salty, human skin. He would be tender even as he ached to--

Spock jerked his head up. "What would you do?" taunted a little voice, but was it coming from inside his head or from the walls around him?

"Let me be," he begged, his voice tired and strained. He couldn't fight it. He was on his knees, his penis aching, his head spinning, stones under his legs puncturing him like a thousand pieces of broken glass.

Gathering some of the lubrication, Spock ran a palm down to the root of his cock. He held himself tightly, feeling the throb through his balls and an answering contraction in his anus. On the ship, he'd sometimes touched himself there too, eyes closed, pretending it was the doctor's hand instead of his own. Exploring the puckered opening before slipping a finger inside. Stretching it. Readying it. Spock would kneel, spreading his legs as he buried his face in the pillow, two fingers now plunging in and out while in his head the doctor's cock buggered him.

In his fantasies, the doctor was so overcome that he jerked frenziedly, crying out, unaware if he was ripping Spock to pieces in his lust.

Had he been that way with Natira? Had he touched her, gotten erect, lain with her and entered her? Had he thrust until his cock filled and shot seed deep within her? There had been enough time.

Spock suddenly realized that he was wanking himself hard. He felt an urge to urinate and knew he was close. He let go and leaned forward, panting, as fluid seeped over his cockhead and down his shaft.

The glans was deep green and angrily flared. With the lightest touch possible, Spock traced the ridge and explored the small opening in the tip. He stroked the underside of his shaft, that incredible spot under the head and then down the shaft. He rubbed up and down and then side to side until his urethra tingled. He wanted relief. He wanted to push the head of his cock between the doctor's buttocks. He wanted to rub his swollen dick against the doctor's, feel the friction of their shafts sliding up and down, lie on top of him, holding him pinned while he bucked and groaned and shot ejaculate everywhere.

It was then that he noticed the small branch from the Dauphine bush, lying neglected beside the empty pouch. It was about six inches long and arced. The wood gleamed. It had been polished and the rough bark removed.

Spock flushed as he realized the intention behind it, but curiosity overcame him. He played it around his glans, coating the end of the branch in pre-cum. Then, moving his legs apart and bracing himself with one hand on the ground in front of him, he put the branch against his sphincter. His anus squeezed at the touch, and then opened slightly, the nerves in the puckered lips responding to the pressure.

He moved the branch teasingly against the opening until his body seemed to be pushing back on its own accord.

With a quick movement, he popped the knob of the wood into his sphincter. A loud groan filled the air. Delirious, Spock didn't realize at first that the noise had come from him. Then he cried again, a sound of agony. He could think of nothing but wanting to come. It pounded through him, jumping through his stomach, throbbing down his penis, itching fiercely like a deep bite under the skin.

He arched up and took hold of himself again, but his glans was too sensitive. He grasped the base of his cock as he drove the branch back and forth in his bowels.

Teeth clenched, he hissed in misery and delight. He was almost there. His movements became erratic as he bucked, nearly pitching forward, the prickle of orgasm so close he could taste the copper of it on his tongue. Then, finally, when his hands were numbing from the effort and his knees were slick with blood, he stiffened and came. A wave of pleasure filled him and disgorged through his urethra in an eruption of seed. Another wave followed, pulsing, ejaculate flying to the ground in front of him as his raw screams filled the air.

When his climax began to ease, he slid forward onto the gravel and tried to catch his breath. A few more dribbles of come oozed out. Then he stilled.

He drifted into a mad sleep, figures dancing in front of his eyes in time with the demon howls in the wind, and he was able to struggle back to wakefulness only when the cold became too intense on his bare skin. Sitting up was painful. Spock felt raw, as if he'd been turned inside out. Gravel and blood lay in the bruises on his legs and the front of his body was smeared with the ejaculate he'd lain in.

He struggled into his robe, but when he couldn't get his arms into the clammy sleeves, he picked up a piece of sharp shale and cut the sleeves off. He put the branch and spent petals into the pouch, stood, and kicked sand over the mess on the ground.

Then, with an old man's gait, he walked slowly out of the red chamber.

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