Oct 222009
 

Title: Cinnamon and Sugar
Fandom: ST XI
Characters: Spock
Rating: E
Warnings: Wanking, alien peen, self-injury
Notes: This was supposed to be funny. OP asked for Spock + aphrodisiac. I … uh … yeah. This went some darkly kinky places.


From this prompt:
This can be crack or not, I just want some lulz at Spock’s expense. (I do love him honestly…)

Cinnamon or chocolate is a Vulcan aphrodisiac. The replicators on the Enterprise malfunction, and everything has cinnamon/chocolate on/in it! Have fun with it.

Aaaand GO!


Spock stood in front of the replicator, arguing with the computer about the contents of the glass in his hand.

"Computer, what is the chemical composition of water?"

"H2O," chimed a pleasant female voice.

"Computer, what is the chemical composition of the content of this glass?"

"H2O and C9H8O."

"Computer, describe the contents of this glass."

"The glass contains water."

Spock raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at the replicator. "Water and what?"

"The glass contains water."

Apparently, it didn’t matter what he ordered. Even the water contained cinnamic aldehyde, but that was acceptable, because the problem appeared to be confined to the food replicators. The bathroom sink was still safe. But, he had been unable to eat for the preceding two days, and his control was beginning to wear thin. Human frailty came through so much more clearly in the absence of food or sleep.

Come now, his mind whispered, temptingly, it’s just an aphrodisiac. You’ll be a little lusty, but you’ll have the control to suppress that, if you’ve eaten…

Spock wasn’t actually certain that was true, but the painful emptiness in his stomach tended to indicate that eating was the preferred option, at this point. With a sigh, he returned the water to the replicator, and ordered a bowl of lentil soup. That, at least, would be both bearable to the taste, when full of cinnamon, and most likely to contain the greater part of his nutritional requirements.

The soup went down relatively easily, and a bit flushed, but otherwise well, Spock headed to the bridge, to finish his shift.

At T+ 15 minutes, he caught himself caressing the buttons on the science console, because they felt good, against his fingertips.

At T+ 45 minutes, he began to chew on the inside of his lip as he rubbed the tips of his fingers together, fascinated by the rush of warm sensation that poured through him, at each moment of contact.

At T+ 1:30, the real trouble began. The constant stimulation of his fingertips had started a chain reaction, and his penis began to unsheathe, the lubricant it exuded easing the path across the inside of his standard issue undergarments. His wrists tensed at the sensation, and he struggled to think of things that were not only non-sexual, but patently disgusting or terribly painful.

He thought about being attacked by the le’matya, when he was a child. He thought about the time the captain threw up on him, after getting far too drunk at some political function. He thought about Dr. McCoy, in the nude, and that almost worked, but only for a moment.

At T+ 2:00, he missed a command, and Kirk turned to check on him.

"Spock? Are you all right?" The captain sounded mildly concerned.

"I apologise, captain. I seem to have eaten something that disagrees with me. My attention is not fully where it should be. I apologise. It will not happen again."

Kirk couldn’t ignore the flushed face and obviously bitten lips of his first officer — especially not combined with the latter’s glassy-eyed look. "You’re not looking well, at all, Mr. Spock. Take the rest of the afternoon off, and let me know when you’re feeling better."

Spock opened his mouth to disagree, but his jaw snapped shut, audibly, as his fingers trailed across the science console, and he froze, for a long moment, eyes closed, jaw locked. "Yes, captain. I think I will. Thank you."


Returning to his quarters, Spock could feel the lubricant trickling down his leg. The purpose of the Vulcan male’s self-lubricating property was to prevent damage to the organ in question, while engaged in extended use of it. As such, his body could produce as much of it as his standard-issue undergarments could wick away. Every time he moved, the saturated cloth drizzled more of the greasy liquid onto him, and he could feel it beginning to soak through the cloth at the top of his boots, by the time he reached his door.

He would be requisitioning proper Vulcan undergarments, in the future, to avoid severely dehydrating himself, should such a thing happen again. Star Fleet’s regulation clothing was designed to wick water away from the skin, to prevent rashes, in most humanoids. Since Vulcans did not sweat, it wasn’t a relevant concern, but this new development certainly was.

And Mr. Scott had reported that the replicator difficulties could not be fixed without the kind of diagnostic one could only get at a starbase. The nearest base was still four days out. Four days of this maddening sensation.

He stripped quickly out of his clothes, raising the ambient humidity in the room just a bit, to avoid losing any more water than was necessary. He was, he reflected, a shame to the Vulcan race, standing in the middle of his room, nude and flushed with uncontainable arousal, painfully hard and desperate for any touch. Disgusted, he sank into the meditation posture, and attempted to clear his mind, to suppress the urgings of his flesh.

An hour passed, the only sounds those of his breathing and the squeak of his teeth grinding together. At last, his fingers moved, without his express permission, dipping down through the warm lubricant, to caress the swollen flesh, beneath. Every muscle in his body tensed, expectantly, and a thin sound slipped from his lips, as he tried, and failed, to curl forward. He could feel the chill begin in his lower back, as his body temperature reached that critical point, and the vascular cooling system started working overtime to keep the seminal organs functional.

He was, in two words, in hell.

His hand slid slowly and cautiously through the lubricant, fingertips swirling against the hot, tight skin below. It was so good — so incredibly good. He could feel the rush coming up from his fingers like a meteor shower breaking against the inside of his skin, pops and flashes of sharp, hot sensation. The voice of his conscience and Vulcan pride faded out in the rush of blood that dimmed his hearing, as yet more of it rushed to his excruciatingly swollen penis, making it grow larger and tightening the skin, yet farther. Vulcan biology was not meant to handle this sort of abuse, he thought, in passing, as he realised that the tearing pain he felt was from the edges of the slit from which his penis extended stretching beyond what they were meant to.

It was exquisite. The pain so sharp, the pleasure so lush… His hand worked faster — up and down, up and down — one finger swirling against the stretched and spread edges of the hole at the tip. His head tipped back, and a low, deep moan spilled out of his open throat.

But, it wasn’t enough. None of it was enough. His hips bucked, and his hand stuttered in its motion, skipping fingers off the slick surface of his skin. In a way, it almost felt like drowning — an inability to draw enough breath, a choking haze of desire that would not clear, an inability to push himself over the edge that he sensed lurked so close.

He needed more — but more what? This was not a terribly Vulcan position in which he found himself, although he had no doubt certain Orion pornographers would love to get video of a Vulcan in just this position, and his limited experience could only suggest a few things, none of which seemed at all appropriate. Tighter, harder, more, NOW, his body insisted, and he struggled to comply, fingers tightening around the swollen, slick flesh.

With a thin, tight sound of despair, he fell back, catching himself with his other hand. His … other … hand. The fingertips lit up as they brushed the thin carpet, and he laid back, bringing that hand to his mouth, sucking the fingers and thrusting them into his mouth as he thrust his penis through his other fist.

This was good. This was better. He arched and writhed, nipping and licking at his fingers, grinding them, gently, between his teeth. His pulse was all he could hear, and just beneath his skin, his blood raced, like rushing cool water — a completely illogical sensation.

He squeezed tighter, thrust harder, but still it wasn’t enough. His back arched, and his hips rolled. His mouth flew open to release a frustrated groan. Still not enough.

His spit-slicked fingertips traced down his body, looking for some other bright point of sensation. Nipples were quickly disregarded as distracting and unfulfilling, and the hand continued down. There would be something. There would be, or he would go wholly and irretrievably mad.

And then, he found it. Fingers dipped between his legs, tracing the thickened edges of the slit that housed his aching penis. As he clenched at the base of that jutting organ in frustration, one fingertip slipped inside, to be caught between the underside of his penis, where it continued into his body, and the bottom of the slit. The sudden heat and pressure against his fingertip scrambled his perception of reality, entirely. As the warnings about tearing and infection that every Vulcan male could recite rattled through his battered brain, he rammed in two more fingers, to join the first. He could feel every beat of his heart reflected back on itself — to and from his fingers, to and from his penis, to and from the damaged edge of the slit.

This was it. This was what he needed. This was more — so much more. So good. So hot…

He could hear the scream as the semen poured out of him, pulsing past his fingertips, past the abused rim at the top of his penis, down across his knuckles, and up across his chest and face. He could hear the scream, but it took until it stopped for him to realise it had come from his own throat.


He lay on the floor, breathless and stunned, cradling and gently stroking his richly abused genitals. This, he decided, would never do. Pulling his fingers carefully from his body, he reached out and fished the communicator from his discarded pants, and called the bridge.

"Captain, I will not be returning to duty until after the replicators are repaired. It appears that cinnamon has a violent effect on Vulcan physiology, and it is not safe for me to be on duty, at this time."

"Understood. Do I need to send Dr. McCoy to check you out? Maybe give you something for it?"

"No. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances are any members of the crew to attempt to interact with me during this time. The results could be disastrous."

"You understand I’ll need a complete report, when all this is over."

"Captain, when all this is over, you shall have one, and not a moment before. Spock out."

Four more days. If he ate only once per day, then he would experience this only once per day. Four more times, he would do this. He curled up into a ball and wondered if he’d be able to walk at all, when it was all over.