Although they skipped lightly over the hills and valleys, his fingers moved with care and purposefulness. Sometimes they rapidly retraced their path, drawing as much provocative sensuality as possible out of each point of contact before moving on. With these fingers, and with dilated pupils, he studied the minute imperfections of the skin surface as he went, noting the natural lines, the changes in texture. He made each disparate surface a new experiment, using a feather-light touch to excite.

Then, unable to achieve the desired result, he changed tactics. Now he probed with one finger, pushing against the taut flesh, those small but powerful muscles. Still he was rewarded with neither movement or noise. Defeated, he sat up and gazed at Spock, who was stretched unassumingly on the bed.

Still grasping Spock's foot in his hand, McCoy said, "Are you sure you're not ticklish anywhere?"

Spock explained patiently, "Vulcans place a high value on control of the physical self, no less than control of one's emotional state. It has long been considered in poor taste, or uncivilized, to be ticklish, and at this point such a weakness may likely have also become genetically aberrant." McCoy leaned back, making a show of being unhappy to hear this, and Spock attempted to console him. "To me, this condition is desirable. It enables me to suppress fatigue, physical pain, and hunger, which improves my performance as a Starfleet officer."

Staring off into the corner, listening impatiently, McCoy continued to idly play with Spock's toes. "But, can't you just…turn it off for a while? Just let go, and let yourself be tickled?"

Spock glared. "If this has become a forum for suggesting modifications of ingrained behavior, then I have a few requests to make of you…"

"Never mind," McCoy said with a sigh. "You're no fun. Where's your human half tonight, anyway?"

Spock slowly withdrew his foot from McCoy's grip, not to evade the touch but to lure McCoy into lolling on the bed beside him. "I do not mean to upset you," he said.

"You're not," McCoy said unconvincingly. Then, suddenly, he continued, "You know what upsets me; when we were in the transporter room today to greet the new recruits. The second that botanist stepped off the pad, she took one look at you and started to drool."

Spock ignored the gruesome figure of speech. "You are jealous because other humans desire me."

"No, that's not it. What I want to know is, why do they fall all over you in droves, but no one ever looks twice at me?"

"Perhaps they are indeed attracted to you, but they do not dare approach you because they know that they would have to fight me for you."

McCoy kind of liked that idea. He didn't really care about those girls and their affections. In fact, it was getting to the point where McCoy couldn't get turned on if he could not smell Spock's musk. He only brought it up because Spock doing his impersonation of a brick wall was making him cranky. But the conjecture Spock had about the girls treating him coolly set his imagination running. He thought of a passionate, demonstrative Spock. "See, now that's…Why couldn't you be like that? I mean, not like that, fighting people. But more expressive? Just simple stuff. I'd like to hear you say things, like 'That was amazing' or 'You make me so happy.' I mean say them because you're really feeling them."

Perhaps surprisingly, Spock did not have a mental tally of the number of times he'd explained his point of view to McCoy. But he was certain it was a number large enough to have made the facts clear. He searched for one more new way to explain it, one that would put the issue to rest. "If I were to truly unleash my emotions, as you seem to want me to do," Spock said, "I would tear you apart."

McCoy smiled the nervous smile of one who is not sure they understood what was just said to them. "Do you mean physically, or mentally?"

"Yes."

McCoy shivered. "Well, that's too bad, I guess." He sounded resigned, but inside he still had hope. He would never give up his rather optimistic notion that he could draw Spock out. "I wish you could follow your human heart, rather than just your Vulcan heart."

"Though you are fond of ridiculing the ways in which our anatomical structures differ, I assure you that I possess only one heart."

"Well…" McCoy finally laid himself down on his belly alongside Spock, who remained on his back. It was a narrow fit. "Is it split in half? A human half and a Vulcan half? Or are the two sides mingled?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I will die before you do, and then you can extract it and determine for yourself."

"Don't say things like that! You know that's not what I meant."

"I understand what you meant. You are trying to determine if I am hiding an aspect of myself from you, and if I am, how you might convince me to reveal it. You must trust me; I am not hiding any more from you than I must."

Out of instinct, he supposed, McCoy put his head down so that it rested on Spock's sternum. But after a few seconds, when he realized it had not produced the desired effect, he moved so that his ear was pressed awkwardly against Spock's side, and listened to the heartbeat there. It was rapid and light, and McCoy was disappointed that it could not soothe him at all. Instead, he lifted his head and gazed up at Spock.

After a long minute of gazing returning McCoy's examining stare, Spock said, "Your blue eyes. I have always found them to be quite illogical."

McCoy rolled those illogical blue eyes and turned away, as if to deny Spock the sight of them. On Earth, blue eyes were exceedingly rare. They had been bred out after three centuries of high global mobility and miscegenation. Spock found the disappearance of blue eyes the most logical thing about them. Though dark eyes provided the most protection from the sun's harsh light, the gene for light eyes had long propagated itself in northern Europe, with no good reason. Even in the regions of Earth which saw the least sun, human beings still needed protection from its brightness.

"I'll have you know," McCoy huffed, still turned away, "that some people find blue eyes very attractive." And this was true. Some blue-eyed Terrans were very proud, and had resolved not to marry anyone with brown eyes, for fear of losing what they considered to be the family line's most precious gene.

"I said they were illogical. I did not say they were not attractive."

McCoy turned back to face Spock, and smiled. His mouth and Spock's were so close now, McCoy couldn't help but try for a kiss. There was no reason for him to hope, but he did anyway: perhaps this time Spock would be able to respond to him in a human way. When their lips touched, McCoy got that funny feeling under his ribcage, like something exciting was about to happen. Perhaps a bit overenthusiastically, he plunged his tongue into Spock's mouth, seeking the taste of him, and enjoying, for a brief moment, the eroticism of his own actions. Alas, for all their touch-telepathy, Vulcans lacked muco-cutaneous conjunction: The mucous membranes in their mouths, nipples, and genitals were not linked together, as they are in the human race, and kissing produced no sympathetic erotic response. And kissing an unresponsive Vulcan was just about the most depressing thing McCoy had ever tried. And tried. And tried.

When McCoy freed his mouth, Spock asked, "Is it really so important, to kiss me?"

McCoy closed his eyes and grinned dreamily. "Spock, kissing is the greatest feeling in the world!" He may have been exaggerating. "If you do it right, you feel a kiss all over your body. You feel it all the way down to your toes, and in your belly, everywhere." Spock understood that when McCoy said "everywhere" in that tone, he was alluding to the genital region. "Sometimes a kiss can feel better than sex, because a kiss is all about what you want to do, and your imagination runs wild with anticipation."

Spock's mouth twitched. "My imagination," he began, but then was silent. McCoy continued to look into his eyes, until it became embarrassing for him, to lie so still and gaze so intently. He looked down at the length of both their bodies. He always got a little thrill, seeing the difference in their skin tones. It turned him on to be reminded how pale and pink his own body was. Spock, too, was fascinated by this physiological difference; he enjoyed most the parts of McCoy's body that were not only pink, but which became pinker when given proper stimulation. Often enough, he could deliver this stimulation with his own body, but it was just as gratifying to do it from a distance; it seemed that whenever he made a comment which directly concerned McCoy's sexual prowess, McCoy's face would turn bright red. This was typically accompanied by a particular kind of laugh, which betrayed his embarrassment. Although Spock's tastes ran toward the tactile, he was not above simple visual stimulation, and he appreciated these indicators of embarrassment, mingled as they were with vulnerability and affection.

He also appreciated what he was seeing now: one of those pale, pink hands stroking all around every skin surface it could reach.

In his time as a Starfleet physician, McCoy had encountered creatures who possessed personal electrical conduction; creatures who had organs that contained ion channels and electroplaques, stacked "plates" that produced an electrical charge. The process was not unlike the electrical pulses produced by a battery, and McCoy had once put his hands on an extraterrestrial patient only to have ten volts of electricity shot into his system. Ten volts was mild, for a human adult, barely enough to cause sustained muscular contraction, but McCoy distinctly remembered how the current had traveled up his arm. Touching Spock did not feel quite like that. It was more like, the current, though much milder, was bypassing his arm and skipping straight to his brain stem. He'd felt it before, felt it every time he and Spock had ever touched, but it was so much stronger now, and the psychological effect became more and more like the physical effect of an electric current: being unable to let go.

Anywhere he touched Spock made him feel that pleasant buzz, but very near his hand there was a stiff cock, twitching in an obvious ploy to attract attention to itself. It seemed to be straining for McCoy's touch, and McCoy was a compassionate man, so he reached for it.

Only in the complete silence of the room might a human have detected the change in Spock's breathing. His limbs remained solemn and still. But McCoy knew the effect he was having on Spock; he could feel the electric charge increase, from two volts to four, perhaps. He gave Spock slow squeezes and pulls; he felt no need to rush, and Spock was not the sort to hurry him along. Spock's foreskin was petal-thin; McCoy watched the way it slid over a vein on the underside of the cock, clinging to and revealing the shape of the vein, and he wondered if the foreskin was so thin as to actually be transparent, and swooped in for a close look. Right now, it was gathered under the crown; McCoy played with it and pushed it up, so it slipped over the head, then gently, ever so gently, pinched the foreskin away, just a fraction. There was a tiny moist sound as he separated the thin sheath from the head. His conclusion was that it was translucent, but not transparent.

It was about that time that McCoy noticed how close this erect, pulsing cock was to his own mouth. Spock could, no doubt, feel his breath on it. He had never favored Spock with oral attention before.

McCoy swiveled his head to look at Spock. "Do you want me to?" he asked, as though they'd been discussing it already. "Put it in my mouth?"

Spock gazed at him, and blinked once, slowly. "I am certain that I would enjoy it," he said, then added, "so long as you did."

McCoy looked once more at the stiff cock in his hand. It was suddenly intimidating to him, particularly at this low angle of sight. It looked like more than he could comfortably put in his mouth. McCoy was not sure why he had made the offer.

"You know, Spock," he said carefully, "sometimes…I mean, for humans… sometimes it's not about feeling good yourself, it's about making the other person feel good. If I do this, it would be about you. It doesn't matter whether I…" He trailed off. He felt awful, accepting every variety of pleasure Spock offered him, then balking at performing the simplest of acts himself. He would not have hesitated, except that he knew that Spock would feel what he felt, and if he didn't like it, Spock might be insulted, so far as Vulcans were able to feel insulted.

"Leonard," Spock said softly, "If you do not want to do it…"

The patronizingly gentle tone of Spock's voice made McCoy feel a little insulted, himself. "Shut up!" he growled, filled with new resolve. "I'm gonna do it, and I'm gonna enjoy it!" And with that, he licked his lips, grasped Spock's erection just under the crown, and gave the head a wet kiss.

Immediately, Spock reached for McCoy's other hand. McCoy's mind was a jumble, as though he were trying frantically to solve a logic puzzle. Which, in a way, he was: Spock's pleasure was not coming so much from McCoy's mouth, as it was being transmitted through his hand in Spock's. McCoy needed to enjoy what he was doing, but how could he enjoy what he was doing if he did not know that it was not directly giving Spock pleasure? McCoy decided that in order to close this current, his only option was to force Spock to accept some pure tactile pleasure. He would find the most sensitive parts of that cock and tongue them for all he was worth.

When he found a little bundle of nerve endings near the head, it made Spock inhale sharply, and McCoy was immediately pleased with himself. Spock felt that satisfaction and responded with a little noise. When McCoy heard it, he figured he now had the tactile thing down to a science, and licked, sucked, and nibbled enthusiastically, and Spock responded to that enthusiasm on a psychic level. McCoy had sabotaged his own plan. But it was acceptable sort of failure.

"Leonard." McCoy could swear he detected a hint of dreaminess in Spock's voice. "I am enjoying this." Hearing those words, McCoy was reminded of his first fantasy about Spock, how he climaxed thinking about Spock uttering the tiniest sigh. Spock's confession just now was, by his own personal standards, an unbelievable expression of wantonness and erotic abandon. McCoy regretted only that between the two of them, there was no free hand that could reach his own cock, which was neglected and now aching from the sound of Spock's voice.

It was, to a certain extent, McCoy's touches that made Spock come, but more than that it was McCoy being so damned pleased with himself at exciting his lover. He had become aroused to feel Spock moving under him, to hear Spock's little moans. Here was a way he could kiss a Vulcan that would not go unappreciated. And it didn't hurt that he was unable to resist rubbing his own throbbing erection against the bedcovers.

Having at last provoked Spock to ejaculate, McCoy was too thrilled by his accomplishment to be bothered by the bitter, salty fluid that flooded his mouth. He swallowed it down, letting only a drop escape out of the corner of his lips as he slowly pulled away. Perhaps out of fastidiousness, Spock caught the drop with his finger, then pressed the finger to McCoy's mouth, urging him to lick it clean. McCoy opened up, giving a little whimper as he accepted the finger. Something about taking Spock's fingers in his mouth was more erotic than taking his cock.

McCoy sat up, his hand still in Spock's grip. What he had just done was new and strange, and he wished for a moment to calm down, to center himself, but Spock yanked him down and wrapped both arms around him. As fantastic a lover as he was, no one could accuse Spock of being too gentle. Even his cuddling was fierce.

"Considering your lack of experience," Spock said, "your proficiency is remarkable."

"Wonderful," McCoy rasped, trying to breathe. "I'm glad you feel that way." He looked down to see that Spock still had an erection. It glistened wetly, and twitched in time with his heartbeat, which had slowed in the wake of his orgasm. That turned out to be fun after all, McCoy thought, but will I have to do it again?

"Spock---" McCoy began, still looking down.

Spock must have misunderstood McCoy's anxiety. Intending to be reassuring, he said, "I will satisfy you with it soon."

McCoy opened his mouth to say something else, but he was interrupted by the intercom. "All hands, this is the captain."

McCoy swore furiously, expecting that within seconds he and Spock would need to get dressed and go on duty. Spock remained silent. He knew that there was an eighty-seven-point-two probability that this message was routine and would not require them to take any action.

"Our subspace transmitter suffered structural damage during the ion storm. Engineering estimates that it will take three hours to repair. There will be some bursts of static and other noises of interference. Off-duty personnel are advised to disconnect all devices from their personal subspace transmission ports for the duration of the repair and subsequent testing. On-duty personnel, maintain status and listen for anomalies. Kirk out."

Thrilled that the message was not an announcement of Yellow Alert status, McCoy extricated himself from Spock's arms and hopped out of bed, happily unplugging his comnet station's link to the subspace antenna. (They usually made love in McCoy's bunk, because between them, only Spock had the discipline to extricate himself and return to his own quarters afterwards.)

"That makes me think of something I read once," he said, settling back into bed. As he cuddled up again, his cock, somewhat softened after the distraction, left a wet streak of pre-come where it brushed Spock's hip. "When you studied Terran history, did you learn about the commercial development of subspace transmission in the twenty-second century?"

Spock answered so promptly, it was as if he'd been sitting there with the knowledge, waiting to be asked. "The commercial sector was the last to adopt subspace communication on Earth. For years after its development, subspace was utilized mainly by national governments and universities. The medium was so new, and the instruments so fragile and unreliable, it was not considered a viable investment until the technology was further developed."

McCoy grinned a mile wide. "I've waited years to say this: You," he pointed gleefully, "are wrong! Commerce didn't wait. They were the ones that developed the technology. That part of history has been suppressed, though. You can read about it if you know where to look. I don't remember the man's name, but he was an entrepreneur, and once Earth made first contact he was interested in selling his wares to other worlds, and even more so, he was interested in importing comparable products from those other worlds. He pirated two of the four subspace transmitters on Earth to carry out his plan, and he made a fortune." McCoy paused for dramatic effect. "He was a pornographer! Turns out Earthlings couldn't get enough extraterrestrial erotica. As soon as it was discovered how much money could be made, investors sank billions into development of faster-than-light communication." McCoy searched Spock's face, but found no indication of surprise. "Of course, they don't put all that in the history files, because no one wants the galaxy to think that Terrans are just a bunch of perverts." McCoy paused to have a thought. "I wonder," he continued, "if we imported any Vulcan pornography back then."

"That is extremely unlikely," Spock said.

"Why? Do you think Terrans would find Vulcan pornography distasteful? Because Terrans actually are a lot of perverts, you know. Oh wait, let me guess: there is no Vulcan pornography."

"Vulcan erotica does exist," Spock said, "but it is very difficult to find."

"Why?"

"For the same reason it is difficult to find fish-flavored toothpaste on Earth: there is no demand for it."

"Have you seen any?"

"I have. In a museum in Shi'Kahr. It was a book."

"What was it like?" McCoy snuggled closer, elated at the prospect of hearing a delightfully dirty story. The saltwater taste of Spock was still in his mouth, and he was feeling delightfully dirty himself.

"At the time, I did not understand it. The physiology and mechanics were clear enough, but having only known the Vulcan ways of logic and self-discipline, it was beyond my comprehension why someone would write and illustrate, for public consumption, the details of an act whose beauty lay in its being shared between two individuals. I was told it was composed by a member of a rebel school of philosophy."

"So, at the time you didn't understand it? That means later, you did?"

"After I came to Earth and spent time with Terrans, I discovered that pornography was more freely distributed, and I had more opportunities to learn about it."

"Did you, now." McCoy was smirking.

"Of course, I still believed in the superiority of the Vulcan way of life. But as a scientist I was curious."

"Oh, I don't doubt it. So, was your curiosity…satisfied?"

McCoy must have thought he was being terribly subtle and clever in his attempt to draw Spock out, get him to talk about his inner sexual life. To Spock it was clumsy but endearing. He would say as much as he could, then stop. "I found that watching video erotica only served to strengthen the disciplines in which I had been trained. When confronted with erotic imagery, my years of mental training caused my mind to repress, out of habit, any physiological reactions."

"You mean you couldn't even enjoy a good dirty movie?"

"With your assistance, I have overcome many of those habitual responses."

"So you have." McCoy smiled at this accomplishment, then waited in silence for a minute, for an elaboration which turned out not to be forthcoming.

"So? Tell me more. Surely the Terran erotica put some thoughts in your mind."

"I do not wish to reveal those things, on the grounds that they may misrepresent me." Spock wanted McCoy to understand that he was not trying to be difficult. He was simply unable to elaborate - at least, to the extent that he was usually able to elaborate on a subject - because he still did not completely understand all the things that his mind and body did. He did not know why he desired McCoy's touch. It was unlikely that anyone would ever describe Spock as covetous, and indeed, until recently he desired only two things: knowledge and peace. Now Spock desired this new, strange thing, and McCoy wanted a lusciously detailed description; being sentient, he could not be satisfied with the mere existence of it. But Spock was not ready to give him what he wanted.

"Okay," McCoy conceded. "You don't have to give me every detail. Can you just tell me…is there something that these fleeting thoughts and fantasies had in common?"

Spock turned to look into McCoy's eyes, hoping that a meaningful stare and a curt response would close the conversation. "They all pale in comparison to you."

As if it were the last act of a desperate man, a flattered but frustrated McCoy climbed on top of Spock, stretching himself out so that they were touching from shoulder to thigh. "Spock," he moaned, "if you don't tell me what turns you on, how am I supposed to know what I should do?"

Inside, Spock was reeling from the sensory input McCoy was giving him. "You're doing it right now," he whispered.

"Yeah?" McCoy was quite flushed now; his eyes were wide. "When I'm touching you like this, can you feel what I feel?"

"Yes."

"Can you feel how I ache for you?"

"Yes."

The oil was on the nightstand, a discreet capsule which seemed to disappear into the background until it was needed. McCoy reached for it. The slightest jostling made the contents undulate suggestively inside, until McCoy held it very still, carefully removing the stopper. A little of the oil went a long way, but still he applied it liberally to Spock, then repositioned himself on his knees to initiate the act.

He slid the still-hard cock over the little opening in his body, but his anticipation was so heavy, he just couldn't give in right away. Instead, he pushed its slipperiness over his perineum, up and down, teasing the densely-packed nerve endings there. Even after that, he was still not quite ready, so he scooted back a fraction so that his cock and Spock's were now aligned. He held both in one hand and gently thrust back and forth, then laid low over Spock and with the lubrication that remained, created a slick spot between their bellies in which to rub. Now he was feeling the need, the need that was stronger than the pleasant pangs of anticipation. He had to open the bottle again, to get Spock nice and slick once more. He finally positioned himself and relaxed his quadriceps, along with some other muscles, so that Spock could penetrate him.

Spock was not tremendously endowed, he was not much bigger than McCoy, but when McCoy focused on Spock being inside him, opening him in a way that no one had done before, it felt enormous. McCoy rocked up and down a little, and he pictured the solid shaft, flushed to an olive shade, moving in and out of him. He stopped the rhythmic movement and instead concentrated on getting all of it inside him. He settled back down, relaxing as best he could, tilting his pelvis and filling himself inch by inch, until he could feel the taut balls rubbing against his rump. He squirmed with delight at his accomplishment, then looked down at Spock's expression, and was overcome with embarrassment. Spock appeared to have read each of McCoy's thoughts, and worse, the damned Vulcan seemed to find it all terribly amusing. McCoy looked up and away, and self-consciously resumed the rocking rhythm he had established earlier.

His excitement was building, but slowly, to the point of being maddening. McCoy twisted and grunted in frustration. "You're not hitting the sweet spot," he whined. Spock sat up to wrap his arms around McCoy and roll them both over, but McCoy pushed him back down. "It's okay, I can finish like this. Just…oh!"

Spock, not in the mood to hear McCoy complain any more, made another, more forceful grab at him, turning him onto his back. The change in position almost caused Spock to slip out, but not quite; he was agile enough to prevent it. Spock dug in firmly to the missionary position, reaching behind him to grab McCoy's thighs and spread them wider. This way, he was able to thrust more efficiently, angling himself so that he was pushing right up against McCoy's prostate. He put his weight on one arm so that he could reach down and make a fist around McCoy's cock. Even amidst all the physical and emotional chaos, Spock could distinctly feel it pulsing. He did not need to move the hand at all; with each thrust, McCoy's body was propelled forward, pushing his cock through Spock's tight fist. This sort of stimulation he could not endure for long, and soon Spock was rewarded with McCoy's shrill, predictably-metered cries of pleasure, book-ended by disbelieving groans.

When he had been on top, McCoy had been under the delusion that he could control the situation. Now he realized that he was entirely at Spock's mercy. Spock had the upper hand in strength, speed, and finesse, and McCoy suspected that he readily took advantage of it, to handle McCoy any way he wished. The idea excited him, even after he climaxed. He continued to imagine that it would now be even easier for Spock to have his way entirely. The thought his lover using his relaxed, unresisting body was so delicious, McCoy became aroused again.

Spock had been ready to climax, but when he sensed that McCoy had re-entered the plateau phase of arousal, he corralled his impulses and altered his course. He could hold back a few minutes longer in order to help McCoy achieve orgasm a second time. Spock mused that he was entirely at this human's mercy, in these matters. He would go to great lengths to please McCoy, and he suspected that McCoy knew that, and took advantage of it. This pleased Spock. He appreciated the challenge, for it was as much an intellectual exercise as it was physical.

And it was agreeable to hear his lover crying out, now: "Oh God, I can feel it. I'm gonna come again. I can feel it. Oh!" Having a second orgasm was hard work for McCoy, and his body thrashed and heaved, finding the pleasure under the raw tenderness of the first climax, seeking out the little spark. Spock held him close, feeling his entire body, inside and out, shuddering violently. He held McCoy tightly, as if trying to keep him still, until the thrashing and animal-noises subsided. Every tense, coiled muscle relaxed, and the hard cock between their bellies spent itself a second time, and became a soft, vulnerable, tender thing once more. Spock wrung one more shiver out of McCoy by gently tugging on one earlobe with his teeth. He continued to move in and out of McCoy's body, but with very slow, short strokes. For thirty-eight seconds, he was transfixed by McCoy's carotid artery, which pulsed powerfully and hypnotically. After that, he looked down to watch the sex-flush as it vanished from McCoy's chest. Re-positioning himself, he said, "I will finish now." McCoy nodded; his eyes were closed.

McCoy was so relaxed, so open and vulnerable, Spock could easily have initiated a meld before McCoy could stop him. But such a blatant breach of ethics was beyond Spock. Instead, he fantasized about placing his fingers on McCoy's temples, pushing himself into McCoy's mind, how it would feel, that first burst of emotion and chaos. The thought of the human's mind laying itself completely open to him, exposing its tangled intricacies, provided him with a much more powerful orgasm than he would have had otherwise.

Spock did not understand why ejaculating inside McCoy's body was such a delight and comfort to him, beyond the basic physical sensation of orgasm. He did have a theory, though the evidence was tenuous: It was not uncommon for McCoy to slow down their foreplay when it became too intense, telling Spock, "I don't want to come until you're inside me." Also, when approaching orgasm himself, he would beg Spock to climax simultaneously, while inside him. This seemed a superfluous request; the discontinuity involved in removing himself to ejaculate would surely jar them both out of their natural pleasure cycles and mitigate the ecstasy of orgasm. Nevertheless, McCoy harbored this desire, and though he would articulate it on some occasions, Spock's theory was that, ever since the first time they made love, McCoy, by merely wishing for it, had transmitted the desire, by touch, to Spock. And Spock never disappointed him, in this respect.

Beneath him, McCoy arched his back, ran his hands over his own body, wriggled with delight at the good feelings coursing through him. "Oh," he groaned, "Spock, what have you done to me? I feel like, every cell of my body has been made love to. I can feel every brain cell tingling. How do you make it feel this way?"

Spock held his tongue, in case McCoy was being rhetorical, but later, when they lay close together, still and quiet, McCoy asked again: "I've never felt so close to someone after sex. How do you do it?"

Spock searched for the right words. "The instant that orgasm seizes our bodies, our egos…blink. The conscious mind dilates, allowing the intangible energies of the cosmos to pass through."

McCoy considered this awhile in silence. Spock was right. He could feel it sort of the way Spock described it. It was energy: it could not be quieted. You might try to contain it, but it could only be expressed, dispersed. Forty-five years of his life had gone by and only now Spock was introducing him to it, this dark energy that pulsated at the heart of the universe.

"Spock. What would happen if we were to bond?"

"Just as our minds are now never completely open to one another, after we bond they would never be completely closed."

McCoy thought of this happening to him, and then his deep satisfaction was mixed with fear. He wanted Spock to be inside him all the time, but he was terrified.