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Christine lay on her belly gasping like a beached fish, ungainly limbs flopping as slender lubed fingers slipped gracefully down her lower back and into her cleft. They coated it fully and now pressed gentle circles against the tight hole. It was humiliating to be here, knowing she'd prepared to be here, knowing that when the tip of one delicate finger entered in, even barely a half-centimeter, it would feel… urghhhaah They should call it the back door because it was like opening the back door on a hot summer day, letting in a cool breeze. It was the fucking backdoor to her clit.
Christine was not new to being fucked; she’d had cocks and straps of all shapes and sizes inside her, but right now, her body was sensitized in a way it never was, every part of her focused on one heady feeling, building its way to the kind of orgasm that made past experiences feel as exciting as eating a cheese sandwich. She pressed her face into the pillow and whimpered as her lover traced light circles on her skin and then pressed deeper into her, circling that one tip of her finger, then sliding it in deeper, crooking it, and starting a movement that made Christine’s insides all turn to electric jello.
The second finger made Christine moan, shifting and lifting her hips to get it more easily inside her. Now she felt like a slut, like a girl in a porn video, the lube between the drenched fingers clinging to each other, to her ass, her tight hole so relaxed that she felt like she was melting. She only arched and flexed around the penetration to feel the presence of the fingers inside her, and to make them stretch her even more.
“Roll over and I will insert a third.”
The struggle was real—only get two fingers, or show her lover her ruined, tear-stained face. But her ass won the fight, and now she was struggling onto her back, lifting her hips onto the foam wedge—some kind of meditation block?-- and pulling her knees back to her ears. The composed, observant look on her lover’s face made her drench herself with shame. And then there were three fingers pressing slowly into her ass, so incremental it made her want to scream, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a ragged gasp.
“I think I am ready to fuck you,” T’Pring murmured. “Which orifice do you want it in? Your preference.”
Christine sucked in air, not sure she could speak. But she managed it, begging, begging . “My ass. Please. Please fuck my ass.”
Where T'Pring stood at the end of the bed, Christine could see that she’d strapped on the liquid metal dildo over her tight, Betazoid leather pants. It was long, curved, not too wide, very heavy and very, very cold. Christine pressed her hands over her face, trying not to hyperventilate at the sight, but her ass was empty, and she needed it, it would feel so good. So good . Better than any cock she’d had in her pussy. Those had all been fine, friendly, comfortable things. Dicks were like happy little dogs, always perking up at her touch, ready to please her, ready for her to please them. But this metal snake didn’t care about her. All it wanted from her was for her to buckle around it, to take it, to be overwhelmed by it—by her, by it’s wielder.
Then the slick cold tip pressed against her sphincter and Christine let out a sigh, relaxing as fully as she could with her knees up near her ears, and letting the beautiful smooth length of the dildo enter inside of her.
T’Pring rested against the edge of the bed and gazed down at her, just a fraction of a smirk in the corner of her lips, like Christine's wrecked and begging state was a strategic victory. She shifted her hips just a twitch and her brow furrowed at the pleasure she saw wash over Christine’s face. “Not quite,” she murmured, mostly to herself. Then she started to shift herself back and Christine’s lip wobbled.
“No, it’s good, it’s good.”
T’Pring shook her head, pushing Christine up the bed so she could kneel behind her. She settled her hips more firmly into Christine’s ass. “If I am doing this correctly, you should not be able to talk.”
She took hold of her legs—currently up and half flexed—and pressed both to one side, until her bent knees rested on her left side, though her back was still flat on the mattress, hips lifted on the block. The pressure of her legs folding shifted the dildo into a spot that it shouldn’t have been able to go. It pressed somewhere inside her, lighting her up, like it had found her vagus nerve directly, and Christine whimpered and pressed her hands to her face and squirmed, because it was too much, it felt like too much.
T’Pring didn’t fuck her. She just watched her face, and then, every few moments she would take hold of her hips and shift herself just slightly, finding that perfect spot again, until Christine was crying, because it was too much, so much , to feel this good . Then, finally , when she wasn't sure she could bear another shift, T’Pring started to move, to fuck her, very shallow and slow, but pulsing, pushing, jarring, until Christine was coming. Her ass clenched so tight on that metal dildo it slooshed into liquid and then reformed inside her. Her body shuddered, she broke out into a full sweat, and her cunt flooded around T’Pring’s fingers, nestled comfortably there. She was a soppy, sloppy mess, breathless and worn out.
It probably should have been humiliating, coming apart like this in front of someone—someone still in leather pants and a nicely cut black silk blouse, one strand of hair falling across her cheek the only sign she’d been having sex for the past hour. But Christine was too blissed out to be humiliated. The contrast just left a stir of erotic submission in her stomach. T’Pring had never for a moment thought she might not like anal sex. Coming from it didn’t make her extra slutty or dirty, it just made T’Pring confidently smug.
Confidently smug T’Pring was so sexy.
T’Pring drew slowly out of her, leaving Christine a limp heap. She stepped out of the harness, carefully placed the strap into the cleaner, and seated herself beside her, teasing the sweat-stuck hairs coiled on her neck. “You are unaccountably sticky,” T’Pring murmured. She sounded a little amused while she said it—an observation, not just meaningless dirty talk. “Humans are all sweat, mucus, arousal, cum. The erotics of a damp sponge.”
Christine’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment, but she also couldn’t help laughing. Laughing meant her muscles tightened, which meant her ass ached, and then she was wet again, a comfortable, simmering arousal. She looped her arm around T’Pring’s waist and dragged her down onto the bed, moving on top of her then flopping down to snuggled against her and breathe in that jasmine desert scent of sweatless Vulcan skin.
“Are you trying dirty talk? Is that what you’ve been researching lately? Because I think you’re being a little literal, though I'm going to quote the last bit at everyone I meet. Humans: as erotic as a damp sponge.”
“That is not what I said,” T’Pring grumbled, but she didn’t struggle free from the embrace, even though Christine was definitely being all sweaty on her very nice silk shirt. “I was just making an observation. For humans—wetness is a sign of eroticism, and yet moist things are also deeply repellent.”
“Well, damp might be horny, but it also grows bacteria. Sexy requires context.”
T’Pring considered this. “Fair. It does limit the metaphorical potential.”
“You don’t need more of a metaphorical potential for moist . Also--” Christine slid her hand up under T'Pring's shirt, moving over soft skin, and then pulled herself down over her knees, into child's pose, and pressed her wet mouth to T'Pring's belly. She unfastened the top of the leather pants and nosed her way down among the fronds. “I know, for a fact, Vulcans get wet.”
Then, she managed (after some difficulty) to fully finagle T’Pring out of those leather trousers, and verify the proposition. With T’Pring’s legs tight around her shoulders, her heels digging into her back, every quick gulp of air Christine took was desert jasmine and hidden oasial grove. Her jaw ached, her mouth stung with the queer (now familiar) salt-sweet taste of prash, but the shaky, desperate sounds said close , and Christine never gave up on anything halfway.
She was also competitive, and reportedly Spock had been very tentative at oral, probing only with the tip of his tongue. (Christine was kind of impressed T'Pring had gotten him to go down at all, as she’d never been able to.) She'd get her tongue halfway to the cervix if necessary, but it was the sinking in, using the blade of her tongue to meld with fronds and tendrils, to cross hill and valley, that made T’Pring shudder and clutch at her hair and drive her hips deeper into Christine’s face. It was funny, because Christine had always considered herself great at blowjobs, but she didn’t love them, not the way she loved having a woman’s center open to her, the way it could feel like stepping inside, lips, tongue, even her nose, her chin dripping, fingers too. She didn’t think she was great at oral, but … actually, no, evidence suggested she definitely was.
They lay together, T’Pring pressing her nose against her skin, then drawing away as if enjoying the tackiness of it. “I could switch you,” she murmured.
Christine got even wetter at the thought. Then she groaned. “I have a conference tomorrow. I have to sit and look dignified for eight hours.”
“You would enjoy it,” T’Pring murmured. “Squirming on the hard seats, remembering me in every centimeter of your ass.”
“ Fuck ,” Christine shuddered. “Okay, oh my god, you are so fucking good at talking dirty, I rescind my previous criticism.”
“Was that--” T’Pring arched a quizzical eyebrow. “I was just making an observation.”
“Make this observation.” Christine caught her hand and moved it to her liquid core. T’Pring’s fingers crooked into her, and then she felt her smile against her skin.
“I see. Wanton as usual.”
Christine couldn’t help the giggles at T’Pring’s entirely dry tone, then caught her eye and doubled over in laughter again. She loved it when T’Pring teased her. Who would have thought, a year ago, that Spock’s ex-fiancée would make fun of her in bed?
Then there were lazy kisses and an even more lazy move towards another strap, Christine hooking up and sliding in, thick, ridged and spiney—in the Vulcan style—hips pulsing even as their mouths moved, the lok unbearably sensitive to the clinging tendrils and the press of T’Pring's inner walls. Even without a switch, T’Pring’s hand found and reddened Christine’s ass as they fucked, squeezing and soothing, then striking again, until Christine was too aroused and started jerking her hips hard, pounding T’Pring like a mad dog into the mattress. Then she felt T'Pring's clutch at her head, her shoulders, that release of heady scent, the crack in her voice, the moan, and relief.
Exhausted, the thought of tracking down her hotel room long gone, Christine released herself from the strap, then lay beside her bedmate, nose-to-nose, draping a sleep-heavy arm over her waist. T’Pring traced her fingertip across Christine’s lips. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”
“Yes.” Then Christine froze. “Fuck. No, Tblin asked me to dinner with him and his wife. They always want to drink from six until two.”
T’Pring’s mouth just flexed a tiny bit, as if she was sorry about it, and also found the prospect of drinking 6-2 hilarious, and shook her head. “Next time then.”
“You could come?”
T’Pring leaned into her and hmmed against her neck. “I have recitation until 8. Next time.”
“Okay.” The hum pushed away the worry that had started to build, and Christine felt her eyes aching to close. “You should come out with me sometime though. My friends would like you.”
Even without seeing her face, Christine could feel her doubt. She propped herself up on her elbow and gave T’Pring a squinty sort of look. “You don’t believe me?”
T’Pring turned her head away. “You know I am not so … unfiltered outside. You’re— I don’t know. It is easy to say filthy, inappropriate things to you. And I do not have a third way. It’s either principles of Surak or kneel and spread your thighs for me.”
Christine’s hips jerked a little bit against her. “You’re so sexy.”
This received a skeptical glare in response. “I am really not. I have begun to suspect that there is something psychologically wrong with you that makes you find the things I say appealing.”
Christine laughed. “No therapist would convict, not when you’re telling jokes like that.”
“Not a joke.”
“Terrible joke.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because we have the same atrocious sense of humor."
T’Pring raised herself up on her arm to stare down at her face, eyebrows highly skeptical. “Definite mental problems.”
“I’m not the one in bed with the damp human my fiancée left me for. I’m in bed with a sexy Vulcan. And you should come out with my friends.”
T’Pring scrunched her nose. “I would rather not. People find me off-putting and unpleasant when I have no intimacy with them. Especially humans. Spock always said--”
In a sudden assault, Christine rolled on top of her, pinning her wrists and trying to exude fierce honesty through her skin, even though she was about negative 2 on the touch-telepathy-abilities scale. Spock knew fuck-all about women, especially back when he’d been dating T’Pring. “My friends would like you,” she repeated.
For one startling moment, a flush of worry and aching loneliness came through the palms of her hands. T’Pring was usually so naturally guarded that the telepathy was a one-way street, and Christine jerked back in surprise.
But then the feelings closed off again, and T’Pring’s expression turned gently wry. She let her eyelids droop into a lazy, seductive gaze. “Well, if they already put up with you .”
Christine let her grip soften. The moment of raw emotion lingered in her. But if T’Pring didn’t want to talk, Christine knew better than to push. Instead, she leaned down and kissed her. The kiss got a little dirty, comfortably, curiously laminal, but they were both oversensitized from the sex, and Christine thought she might actually cry if anything touched her vulva for at least eight hours, so it shifted into something lazy instead of sexy. Then they just rested against each other, lingering in the simple warm intimacy of another person’s presence.
They never slept cuddled up or anything relationshippy like that, but they’d passed out together often enough. T’Pring slept on her side, tidy with her hands folded up by her head, and Christine sprawled out on her face, like she’d hit the floor from on high in an ancient cartoon. In the morning, there would be coffee and breakfast and very-needed showers. Christine no longer bothered checking into her hotel when she arrived. She just brought her overnight bag with her.
In the morning, when Christine was showered and dressed, she tangled herself around T’Pring at the door, enjoying her loose pajama trousers, and her hair in its mussed and simple sleep-braid, (Christine had a breakfast interview, and had to head out at a godawfully early time). With her hands cheekily on her ass, she pushed one last time. “We’ll start out at the hotel restaurant if you change your mind.”
T’Pring smiled in a way that made it clear it was a no, then eyed her thin button-down shirt and frowned. “That is all you’re wearing? It is cold on Betazed this early in the morning. Do you not even have a sweater?”
Christine had not, in fact, brought a sweater (she didn’t wear sweaters), and her ratty traveling hoodie would not make an appearance at the conference hotel. T’Pring found one, slightly oversized for her narrow frame, but good for lazing around and reading in. She waved away Christine's protests and pulled it on over her head with a light scold, “You will catch cold if you go out like that. Now be good and let me make sure you are tidy.” It fit nicely, and T'Pring gave a brisk nod of approval. Christine blushed to the ears at the ‘be good’ and T’Pring let her lashes fall in a way that made it very clear that had been the intent of saying it. The sweater was soft blue with a knit Vulcan motif and wasn’t fashionable at all—she doubted T’Pring would ever wear something so unstylish out of the house—but it looked professional, and Christine was glad of it when she stepped out and the bitter wind bit at her ears.
At the conference, Christine faintly regretted not letting T’Pring switch her, so she’d be distracted during the boring lectures. What did distract her was the scent coming up from the sweater—T’Pring and theris leaf tea and musky Vulcan soaps. She kept burying her nose in it and going mmm.
She kept laughing at herself too, because it had been some filthy, kinky, amazing sex last night, but what made her squirm wasn’t the memory of getting fucked or even the light bruises on her ass, but the way T’Pring had brusquely pulled the sweater on over her head, ignored her protests that she didn’t need it, checked it to make sure it fit right, and sent her on her way. Maybe it was an excuse to see her again before she left Betazed? ‘Next time,’ like T’Pring had said seemed so far away.
#
“I hear you skipped the icebreaker last night,” Tblin said with a sly waggle of his antennae as he passed her a glass of something golden and smoky, which she accepted gratefully. "Ven came in on the same shuttle as you, and then you disappeared. Have fun?" His wife, Lyessa, gave him a small bat on the arm, but looked up at Christine with just as much open-eared interest.
Christine hesitated, and then was bewildered by her own hesitation. She’d always talked about her hookups, made jokes and bragged, but tonight she didn’t really want to talk about the sex like it was something done and dusted, just another trophy to be slipped into the back pocket of her jeans. Instead she just smiled, sipped mysteriously on the Betazoid brandy, and snuggled slightly deeper into the sweater.
“I enjoyed myself,” she said. That was true enough.
Tblin gave her a curious look, as if he was reading something into that comment, but Christine had no idea what it could be.
They’d finished the appetizers and gotten a second round of drinks, talking about the courses Tblin was teaching, Lyessa’s new installation project, and Christine’s troubles with her lab, when someone approached their table. Christine glanced up, expecting a colleague or a waiter. But it wasn't either. It was T’Pring, a satchel slung casually over one shoulder, black jeans and a quilted Vulcan cropped coat over a silky scoop-necked shirt. Her hair was in a long braid coiled into a crown on the top of her head. She looked at Christine with a faintly wary expression, but then her eyes dropped to the sweater that Christine hadn’t taken off, though it definitely wasn’t cold in the bar, and she offered a tiny smile. “My recitation let out early. I thought I would stop by to see if your invitation was still open.”
Christine was unable to stop the grin from lighting up her face. “Yeah,” she said. “Of course it is.”
She scooted to the side to make sure T’Pring had enough room to sit without touching her in public, and grinned up at Tblin and his wife who… probably thought she’d screwed a graduate student. To be fair, she had, but it didn’t count, since they’d known each other for ages . “Tblin, Lyessa, this is my friend T’Pring. You’ll like her. She does really cool things with like, aesthetic philosophy—Lyessa’s an artist, you guys should talk. Tblin’s a boring geneticist like me. And T’Pring’s a local. Ran into her at the best bar here at last year's AiUG—you were here, right? Shit, you were at the bar that night. Anyways--” Christine grinned at T’Pring who was giving her a look like she was possibly a lit fuse, speeding along towards who knew what sort of explosion. “--what are you drinking? Pace yourself. We usually hit at least three bars after this one, and then the student dumpster restaurant for waffles.”
“It’s a tradition,” Tblin said.
T’Pring blinked between them all, clearly deeply uncertain about her choice to join them. “Well, I cannot interfere with tradition ,” she said. Then she glanced sidelong at Christine. “You know what I like.”
Christine did . That made her unexpectedly pleased with herself. She flagged down the waiter and ordered a Green Spire and a lyrak cider for herself (the mind-altering substance in those only worked on Betazoids, and she thought it was a good idea to slow down—she needed to be fully alert to make sure T’Pring was having a good time).
“How do you know Christine?” Lyessa asked, politely welcoming as always.
T’Pring gave Christine a wry little glance. “About ten years ago, she seduced my fiancé.”
Christine sputtered wildly. “That is not--”
Lyessa and Tblin were laughing. “Of course she did. That’s our Christine.”
Christine scrunched her nose, red faced and awkward.
But it had broken the ice. Now they were asking T’Pring what she was studying and what she thought of the Betazed U Galactic Philosophy department, and if she knew K’ven or Poloris, and T’Pring accepted her Green Spire with a Vulcan hint of a smile, and then, obviously, they were talking about the separation between the generative and the erotic , and Lyessa was showing T’Pring some of her installations, and talking about yonic symbolism, and Christine knew it would be fine.
How could it not be? T’Pring was great. Smart and funny and so so hot. Of course her friends would love her. After all, Christine did.
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