Chapter Text
Sarek is unusually peckish.
It begins at morn meal, when he eats a second portion of plomeek broth and saffir bread, whereas such indulgences were for his wife and daughter, who required a greater nutritional intake as humans. Around midday, he feels a lingering tenderness throughout his pectoral muscles. Sarek ignores it, attributing his condition to yesterday’s Suss Mahna training with his servant B’aht. He attempts to suppress his discomfort, but by eve-time, every inch of muscle seers with nagging pain.
“Are you well?” Amanda asks when Sarek retires to bed far earlier than usual. “The Federation has been working you rather hard, lately…” He does not answer her right away, choosing to flop onto their marital bed in a prone position, which, surprisingly, alleviates some of the soreness he feels. But to her point, Sarek had attended no less than six separate negotiations this month, easily traveling hundreds of thousands of light years throughout several different systems, and with all of his waking hours solely devoted to drafting treaties in lieu of meditating.
“Your assumption may be correct, Beloved,” he finally replies. Thankfully, sleep comes quickly as he rests his head on his pillow and Sarek finally finds refuge in unconsciousness… That is until a sharp, searing pain like a lirpa’s blade slices across his abdomen, causing him to wake with a gasp. Instinctively, his hands grasp at his stomach but they come away clean.
“D-Darling?” Amanda’s sleep-laden voice croaks in the dark. He feels her hand envelope his bicep, giving it a gentle squeeze. “What’s wrong?” Before Sarek can answer her, their bedroom door slowly creaks open as Ahn, their loyal servant, enters. Even in the dark, he can see worry writ beneath her stony expression.
“Apologies. Michael calls for Lady Amanda,” she announces. Without hesitation, his wife flies from the bed, following Ahn from the room. And Sarek is not too far behind them. However, each step causes more pain. Another shockwave causes him to falter, however he presses onward and soon outpaces both women. As Sarek takes hold of Michael's door handle, Ahn grasps his shoulder…
“Stay here, sir,” she dares to order him, pulling him away.
“Ahn, I-”
“No, she is right,” Amanda agrees. “Michael needs her mother now. Trust me.” A quick a ozh’etsa brings minimal comfort, but before he can protest further, his wife slips past him to enter, with Ahn right behind her. Normally, he would have obeyed. However, when Sarek scents blood the moment that the door opens - a heady, metallic scent of iron that burns his nostrils - he catches the edge of the door, and yanks it open.
He ignores his servant’s reproving look and strides into the room: Michael and Amanda are nowhere to be seen, but Sarek spies a troubling crimson patch stretching from the middle of his daughter’s bed to its edge.
“Sir, you were asked to remain outside,” sighs Ahn. Before he can chastise her for her insolence, the sound of the sonic shower roaring to life in the distance. And then, the pain and panic he feels begins to ebb. Transfixed, Sarek moves to stand before the washroom, but he stops short of opening it, as something draws his attention downward, and finds a tiny bloodied footprint illuminated from the light emanating from beneath the door.
“Sir, are you well…?” he hears her calling to him.
“What has happened to my daughter?” Sarek asks as his mind struggles to make order from the chaos, as Ahn begins to pull up the bloodied sheets.
~~~
Her holographic dome dissipates and takes T’Plana Hath’s “History of Logic '' with it as the eve-bells start to chime. Per their usual efficiency, her peers immediately file out from their respective pods, but Michael has only begun to gather her things. She listen to the methodical shuffling of their boots as they march, their tones becoming hushed as they pass by her:
“I hear good things about Professors T’Mihn and T’Partha…”
“And Professor D’Vel…?”
“Your information is inaccurate. He is head of the V.E.G. for years now. However, they say his protege, Professor Soton is very attentive and-”
“Do not linger, Pupil Burnham,” Instructor Perren calls out to her in his obnoxious Shattar-bird-like squawking that drowns out the surrounding gossip. A quick glance around the room informs Michael that she is not the only one still lingering, as Hanesh and T’Via whisper about something near the former’s pod.
“Yes, sir,” Michael grumbles, angrily stuffing her PADD into its protective case. She will allow either of those niraks to spoil her mood: Tonight was a special night. Amanda promised her pizza topped with the portobello mushrooms and green bell peppers from their garden as an early graduation gift and for Michael’s acceptance into the VSA. Sure, they had to use a mixture of quattil and tugno’t cheese (like mixing cow and sheep’s milk cheese), but the thought of eating something other than plomeek, saffir, and m’lu almost made her smile.
As she swings her satchel across her shoulders, something falls from the front flap and flutters downward to rest at her feet. It is a red envelope with her name written across it in neat scrawl. Her satchel’s strap creaks softly in her grasp as she glares down at it. Perhaps it was another hate-filled note about her unappealing human ears or a Shon-ha’lock-inspired love confession meant for a deserving classmate. Deciding on the most logical course of action, she snatches it from the ground and crams it into her learning pod's waste receptacle, where it logically belongs. Her problem solved, Michael turns to leave, but she immediately collides into a mass of gray fabric. A pair of strong but gentle hands catch her by the shoulders, steadying her as flails to keep herself from tumbling backward into her pit.
“Apologies, Burnham.”
The sound of her name in that dulcet baritone sends quivers throughout her body. Slowly, Michael looks up and sees Aloran - towering, broad-shouldered, perfectly symmetrical Aloran, staring down at her with those dark olive eyes flecked with gold. Idly, she compares them to the equally alluring and dangerous d’mallu plant, drawing her to him like its ensnared prey, and cannot help but appreciate how the rich brown curls of his Vulcanian bob frame them so perfectly too.
It was no great stretch of logic to see why sixty-four point two percent of her peers wanted to be with him or under him. She can see the curves of his biceps beneath the sleeves of his sweeping robes and briefly wonders what it would be like to be enveloped by them. The very thought of being held against that muscular chest, cultivated from years of Kareel-ifla defensive training, sends a rush of electricity down her spine and through her groin.
A perfectly natural reaction, is it not? Because, how many nights did Michael spend quietly mewling into her pillows, stroking the inner walls with her fingers, teasing her swollen clitoris to the thought of those lips and how soft they might feel pressed against her—
“Burnham?” Aloran’s voice yanks her back from a spiral of increasingly lustful thoughts.
“How may I assist you?” she finally responds, expression cool despite the heat still building between her legs. With a slight twitch of his gorgeous lips, Aloran strides past her and into her pit, where he fishes the invitation from the waste receptacle.
“This is for you,” he declares, his soft favinit-like scent permeating her senses when he leans in close and deftly tucks it into her robe pocket. As he starts to pull away, his hand accidentally grazes against hers. Instantly, like the venom of a pandree’s bite, Michael’s mind goes pleasantly, suddenly numb. A light sensation fills her body, causing her to close the distance between them. To her delight, Aloran seems receptive as bends low enough so that she can feel the tip of his nose brushing against her own.
And then, it is gone - disintegrating around like her pod’s holo-dome. Michael starts, blinking owlishly as their connection vanishes. Without a word, Aloran walks off, leaving a breathless Michael to watch him go. Her cheeks burning, she finally wills herself to run out into the main courtyard where she finds her brothers waiting.
“You are eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds late,” Spock grouses when she is near. “We are now late for training.” His comments earn Michael several curious stares from their peers as a few start whispering but she ignores them. After all, what else can they say about the S’Chn T’Gai’s greatest shames: a bastard v’tosh ka’tur, a well-trained human pet, and a hybrid abomination. She glances at Sybok who leans against a nearby pillar, smirking all the while like a le’matya with a ch’kariya’s tail between its fangs. In his usual fashion, he is without his outer robes, his collar open and hanging from his shoulders as if he is a desert hermit.
“Brothers,” she greets them. Immediately, Spock sighs and stalks off towards the transport lot.
“I thought you were at the Academy today, Sy-kam,” Michael asks as the two of them start to follow their younger brother. “Did you not have examinations?”
“All done, Mickey,” he explains, and had they not been in public, she would have wrinkled her nose at her unappealing pet name. Sybok gestures, pressing two of his fingers against his lips. “But I had to resupply.”
“Gal-en-du’un is a strictly controlled substance,” she hisses.
“Not all of us fear Sarek, my sister,” he teases her in reply.
“Or laws…” Spock grumbles from up ahead.
Reaching their destination, they file into Sybok’s transport, with Spock isolating himself in the rearmost seat. Once Michael is sure that their little brother is fully engrossed with his PADD, she pulls the envelope from her pocket.
“Do you know what this is?” she asks Sybok. He cuts the corners of his eyes at it while pressing buttons to active the launching sequence. But, to her horror, he begins to laugh. In a panic, she stuffs it back inside her robe pocket and casts a nervous look over her shoulder at Spock. Thankfully, he continues to scowl at something on his device instead of at his annoying siblings.
“Oh, you are in for a wonderful treat,” Sybok purrs, waggling his bushy brows. “You’ve been invited to an important cultural milestone.”
“...and what is that exactly?” she half-whispers.
“You’re smart, girl,” he teases. “Figure it out.”
As they soar over Shikahr towards home, his singular question consumes her. Even as Michael bites into a heavenly slice of pizza, even though the final volume of Vulcan Love Slave arrived in the post, even as she discovered that Spock had failed to make good on his threat to delete her recorded Kareel-ifla matches from their family viewing-console, all Michael could think about was Aloran’s invitation burning a metaphorical hole in her uniform pocket. So, after end meal, she excuses herself from the clean-up and retreats to her room.
“Computer…” Michael orders, closing the door behind her. “Privacy Setting, Level 10.”
“Request completed,” the A.I. monotonously announces as Michael runs into her closet.
“Lights on,” she orders. Targeting several shoe boxes, she uncovers her secret stash: an additional PADD, a pair of sutor-lok that Amanda gifted her during a trip to Earth, her now complete set of Vulcan Love Slave, and a few pornographic holo-discs that Sybok smuggled for her (Michael never had the courage to watch them, fearful that Sarek would find the metadata on her PADD even if she deleted them.). And besides, Vulcans heavily favored Pon Farr-driven plots because her adopted people are queerphobic but because they prioritized reproductive sex over all else (To be fair there were holos for ka-ashausu or dah-guvik holos for homosexuals and bisexuals respectively, but they also tended to be educational.), which meant that many of these scenarios were rather "boring."
Most Vulcans never hid the reality from their children because they believed it to be an impairment to their overall development. And likewise, their children could trust them for safe guidance during the burgeoning years of their sexual development, because most Vulcan parents would never shame them for it. To be clear, she had the same exceedingly thorough learning modules as her peers regarding reproduction, except when it came to Vulcan courtship or sexuality.
Asking the rest of her family yielded no success: Spock very much still hated her, Amanda was too graphic (Michael would never eat cucumber ever again.), Ahn was disinterested in sex, B’aht was too professional, and Sybok was too high to be coherent, and Sarek…
“You are a child,” he would say, his dark eyes boring down at her with immense disapproval the one and only time she asked. (At the time, a young Michael wanted to know if Vulcan kissed each other as Humans did, given that she had only ever seen her adoptive parents exchange an ozh'esta.) “Therefore, such matters are not for you to know at the moment.”
But this fatherly-imposed “moment” seemed unending, evidenced by Michael’s inability to find information on Vulcan sexual practices no matter the vehicle. Her searches regarding “pon farr,” “guv-savensu” (sex teacher), or if the rumors about “tersayek-zehlausu” (coupling arrangers) were interrupted by network firewalls, conveniently-interrupting librarians, and suddenly-dumbstruck instructors.
And since any attempt to glean information from her VLC peers always led to immediate humiliation: “Humans are an inferior species,” Hanesh snipes in her memory, snapping her last stylus beneath his boot. “As if any logical Vulcan would ever find a stubby-eared thing like you appealing by any definition.”
“The Extremists may eventually correct the contagions in the S’Chn T’Gai’s bloodline,” T’Via sneers, her snaggle-tooth on full display as she pulls Michael’s so-called “stubby” ears.
Michael yanks the envelope free from her pocket. With her fingernail, she cuts open its seal, only to realize that in lieu of a letter, the envelope itself unfolds into a length of parchment. Spreading it flat across her floor, she notes no visible markings. As Michael runs her fingertips across the surface, they graze over something sticky. Gingerly, she scratches at it, and examining her fingers, finds a flaky, translucent substance. She sniffs it, and then in an absolute lapse of logic, licks it. Michael recoils at the sharp, electric shock of citrus stings her taste buds.
“Lemon?” Doubtful, however, she deduces it may be lhm’ta - a Vulcanian herb similar in taste. But why, in all of Admiral Archer’s Federation, would someone use it on parchment?
Then, something clicks in that a’lazb nest of a mind of hers. She scurries from her closet to retrieve her meditation lamp and a vial of elmin'lak oil. Michael had read about such a trick from an ancient Terran mystery series involving a young detective named Nancy Drew, who encountered an ancient treasure map written in “invisible ink” made from lemon juice. She found that its messages could only be revealed when held over an open flame.
So, hoping she will not burn herself or the house down, Michael pours elmin'lak oil into her lantern and lights it. A flame roars into life, shooting a fiery tendril skyward in its initial hunger that grows softer once satiated. Carefully, she holds the parchment over the open flame. And after what seems like forever, a series of intricate lines appear on the parchment - none of them intersect, giving the impression they are drawn randomly. As she turns the paper about in her hands, Michael swears she sees the tell-tale swoop of the letter TSek, when Sarek calls out:
“You should be asleep.” Michael jumps, almost kicking her lantern over. Her head snaps in the direction of the door, just as its door knob jiggles again as her adoptive father continues: “Why are you in your closet, which is locked?”
Logically, any parent can override a child’s privacy protocols, but only if there was an actual emergency. However, Sarek was anything but logical when it comes to Michael.
“I am in a state of undress,” she replies, she hopes somewhat convincingly. But it should shut him up, as Sarek is so squeamish about anything remotely improper (which is a great many things to her dismay.).
“Then, why is your uniform not casually draping from the back of your desk chair?” he persists, undeterred by her announcement. “To bed, Michael. Without delay.”
She sucks at her teeth, annoyed that neither of her brothers’ had to endure such infantilizing treatment, as both came and went as they pleased. For Gods’ sake, she was nineteen, not-
“-nine. Yes, I know,” her father says smoothly. Damn it. Michael forgot about their very special bond - their shared piece of Sarek’s very own katra. “However, you are still not yet twenty, and therefore, remain a minor under my care. Open this door.”
“Computer,” sighs Michael, stuffing everything back into her secret shoe box and snuffing out her lantern’s flame. “...release privacy protocols and activate closet lights…” Sarek enters just seconds after she kicks her stash behind some robes. Without a word he strides inside, scrutinizing her with those cold, black eyes. He sniffs before honing in on the lantern laying between them.
“Lying is a human failing,” he immediately lies to her, and it takes every bit of will not to roll her eyes at such speciesist nonsense.
“I only do so because you do not value my privacy,” Michael counters calmly. “Sarek, I am nearly an adult and I-”
“Yes, ‘nearly’ being the operative word,” he cuts her off. “Michael, your defiance borders on disrespect. Spock informed me that you were the reason for your late return home today, that you also neglected your daily Suss Mahna training with Ahn, and that you abandoned Sybok during evening chores. Adults do not shirk responsibilities, they do not lie, and they do not cause undue burdens to their family.”
A sour taste to fill Michael’s mouth as he expertly twists her defense. But an ahn-woon swings in every direction...
“Sybok assumed my chores because I confessed to him that I had been under great stress lately,” she pushes back, setting her jaw. “As you know, I studied tirelessly all year, have received full marks in every subject, and secured my acceptance to the VSA.”
“And?”
“And, I wanted to meditate in private before watching a Kareel-ifla match while I prepare for bed. I find studying their forms to be quite educational.”
Sarek says nothing, but the tiniest vein running along his left temple twitches almost imperceptibly. Michael swallows the nerve wadding up like a clump of tugno’t wool in her throat.
“Rewards are illogical,” he finally says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Your academic success is expected of you as a member of this Clan, of which has invested a great deal of resources in your upbringing. And if you felt stressed, then you should have meditated and then gone to bed immediately.”
“And you never partake in an occasional indulgence?” Michael persists, feeling very brave enough to lock horns with Sarek, like a pair of territorial jarel. “Yesterday, mother noted that her imported bon bons were two fewer.”
“Relevance?”
“Spock and Sybok fell ill when they attempted to eat one and have not eaten another since. And I prefer milk chocolate, as I find dark chocolate too bitter. And like mother, I know you consume chocolate and have a preference for dark chocolate, of which I learned when I overheard you reject hot milk-chocolate cocoa at the Earth Consulate’s Christmas Party.”
Suppressing a smirk, Michael stares at her father as he raises a single brow and stares right back.
“Are you accusing me of something?” Sarek almost snaps. Good. She has him now.
“No, merely illustrating that even Vulcans find the occasional reward necessary, father,” she returns coolly, her face as still as Seyelan stone. “Dopamine is an effective regulator of stress relief, especially for Vulcans forced to negotiate trade agreements with incredibly stubborn Tellurites twice over the last week...”
Sarek, for once, has nothing to say. Michael keeps her face placid as he glares at her, raising a brow in what she hopes is approval.
~~~
Every twenty-six point three-eight days, Sarek is co-opted by Michael’s menstrual cycle. And while his wife enjoys his additional amorous attention, he suffers from a constant onslaught of sleepiness, soreness, and near constant starvation. However, he and Matriarch T’Sehn manage to erect a formidable psychic barrier that helps keep most of his daughter’s hormonally-driven impulses at bay and their rapidly dwindling supply of saffir safe.
After three-hundred and forty-six point seven days of katriatic peace, Sarek suddenly bursts into tears. To be clear, Vulcans can and do cry, just not in public and most certainly not while conducting a treaty signing.
“Sir, are you well?” his aide whispers into his ear. Immediately, Sarek excuses himself and retreats into the backroom. His aide is right behind and already contacting a healer on his PADD.
“Bendii Syndrome plagues your clan’s lineage,” the healer warns him, tapping at something on her tricorder. With a frown, she scans his tear ducts for the sixth time and then goes back to her tapping. “However, this does not seem to be the case. Perhaps, you need some rest.”
Though he fully intends to follow her orders, Sarek knows that the source of his embarrassment resides on Vulcan. So, he calls home as soon as he is alone, and after three excruciating rings, Amanda’s worried face appears on the screen.
“I hope everything went better for you today than it has for us…” she grumbles, pushing her bangs away from her brow.
“Is everything alright, Beloved?” he asks, trying not to sound too concerned.
“No, not really,” she replies with a sigh. “I am on the other console with Instructor Lhai about it now. She found Michael weeping in a storage closet.” Amanda pauses, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as she tries to center herself. He can see her tears, forming in the corner of her bright eyes, are like the ones he shed an hour ago. His wife raises her hand and beckons Michael to take her place.
This time, the anger he feels is his own as he notices the very large wet-looking stain running from her collar down across her uniform front; a series of cuts stretch from her right cheek and down the length of her jawline; and her sleeves are torn in several places. Sarek’s heart clenches as he watches her stifle a sob as a few droplets fall from her now-curly bob.
“Breathe,” he orders softly. And dutifully, Michael’s breath hitches; it squeaks and whimpers and whines as she swallows each sorrow gasp down. Distractedly, Sarek admires how adorable she can be, even for a teenager, as her cheeks puff out as she reigns in her emotions.
“Now, my daughter,” Sarek says in a tone as kindly as is permitted. “What happened?”
“I…I complimented Hanesh’s s-skill during a game of le’matya eh sehlat, father…” she sniffles, swiping at her tear-filled eyes. “And then, T’Via upended a watering can on my head and pushed me into an Insuke bush during botany lessons.”
There were times when Sarek wished he was a lesser, illogical person. He feels the violent rage of his ancestors swelling in his side, as his heart rate increases threefold. Taking his own advice, Sarek steadies his own breath as he formulates a response:
“I will contact their clans about their reprehensible behavior right away. Matriarch T’Sehn may also-”
But Michael only shakes her head, and such a simple gesture yields a painful truth - that no amount of social capital and clan influence will end their unique suffering, not as long as Sarek’s family exists as is. Bitterly, he ponders on increasing her self-defense lessons; or perhaps tasking Ahn as a personal escort for her while she is at the Learning Center would serve as a sufficient deterrent; or perhaps ringing the necks of the little e’shua himself…
But, like the poisonous tendrils of a d’mallu plant, Skon’s voice seeps into his mind. What Sarek says next, will haunt the final moments of his long life:
“Did you have feelings other than admiration for this Hanesh?”
Regretfully, Michael looks away, her tiny fists scrubbing at her red-rimmed eyes. Slowly, she shakes her head - this time in the affirmative - and Sarek can only sigh. “Such feelings are natural, but they tend to be fleeting, and even more so during adolescence. However, it is illogical to pursue a romantic interest at this juncture. Most of your peers have been bonded and it is not-”
“-appropriate?” she scoffs, anger clouding her sorrow. “Is a compliment somehow so beyond the pale…”
“There is a way, a method, to how these things are done. You will learn, in time-”
“In time?” The open laughter that follows is hollow, bitter. “Time indicates an actionable plan with intent to deliver on an objective, and with this as with many other things, you insist on keeping me in the dark…!”
“Because such matters are not for a child to know,” he protests, his tone as gentle as he is able. “And given your emotional reaction, I see that this approach is quite logical.”
And then, almost instantly, his daughter’s face goes still. There is no light in her eyes, no sorrowful frown to pull at the corners of her lips. With an eerie calm, Michael blinks away the last of her tears, all the while staring at Sarek with such little emotion that he briefly forgets she is human.
“Your criticism is just,” she utters, in a tone so deliberately measured that it makes Sarek’s stomach churn. “No one is entitled to another’s affections. I must focus on my continued education and assimilation, and not allow myself to become distracted by ‘fleeting emotions,’ as you say.”
And it is then that Sarek realizes his grave error. An apology sticks fast in his throat, leaving his lips to flutter about like a drowned aluk. He wants to tell his daughter that there is no regret in loving someone, even if that love is never realized. Michael stoically sends her well-wishes for his safe return and then, after informing him that she needed to change out of her still-soaked school uniform, ends their call.
As he sits and stares at the darkened console, Sarek only feels shame.
~~~
“One match,” Sarek concedes, extending his palm. Michael complies quickly, not wanting to tempt her good fortune. She stoops, plucks up her lantern from the floor, and places it into his outstretched hand. It is then her father finally steps aside, and wordlessly gestures in the general direction of her washroom.
When she re-emerges from the sonic shower, Sarek is replaced by a tray of fresh sugar cookies and hot quattil’s milk on her nightstand. A kind gesture, but one she would have to forego. There was more urgent matters... Slipping into her nightgown and between her sheets with her favorite sutor-lok, Michael orders the computer to restore her privacy protocols and to pull up a match. Unlike Terran mixed martial arts or Klingonese moQbara, Vulcan martial art matches were mostly instructional:
The first part dedicated itself to a form. Step-by-step, practitioners demonstrate maneuvers in a dozen individual categories. The second is application without contact, wherein two practitioners would choreograph a simulated fight. The third and final part is the actual match. Kareel-ifla is Vulcanian brutality at its zenith, when one of the most peaceful races in the universe had embraced violence. Its singular focus on taking down an opponent quickly and permanently. And though it is a display of absolute carnage, Vulcans merely tuned-in to listen to an announcer explains the significance of these bouts in excruciatingly logical detail.
(By the old gods, her adopted people siphon enjoyment from everything.)
But for Michael, Kareel-ifla holds a very different importance as Aloran’s ethereal holographic form appears in the middle of her bedroom. As he takes his place in the arena, every sensuous bit of muscle ripples as he strides towards the arena, and Michael finds herself fixated on his herculean chest framed perfectly by dark olive colored uniform (which matches his equally enchanting eyes), watching hungrily as he begins to stretch. Each bicep curls sends quivers along her spine as she imagines what it would be like to be enveloped by those ropy pandrees that Aloran calls arms.
The sound of the gong means the match must start. The ek’te’kru orders the opponents to pay respects, and after an exchange of ta’al, Aloran pounces first, catching his opponent with several blows to the sternum, neck, and face. The other Vulcan grunts painfully, staggering backward. Michael presses her thighs tightly together, her grip tightening around her sutor-lok at the very sight of it as she sighs with nascent pleasure. Ignoring the monotonous commentary, she shifts onto her side, making sure her duvet keeps her fully covered as she parts her legs.
His opponent recovers, striking an approaching Aloran across the mouth with a back-fist as he scrambles to create distance between them. Slowly, Michael starts to rub her sutor-lok along the metaphorical valley formed by the edges of her labia. She gasps softly, as a pleasurable jolt courses through her groin as its penal ridges gently bump against her clitoral hood.
Aloran’s licks away the green blood from his full, kissable lips, and Michael’s strokes pick up speed. While her heat may be slower to build, it is no less intense. Her hardening nipples begin to rub tortuously against the silken fabric of her nightdress. Michael slips in a second digit and then a third with practiced ease, pressing and stroking her pussy.
As she fingers herself, his opponent now has Aloran in a hold. The struggle, stumbling back and forth across the arena, until he throws his head backward and hits his opponent’s nose. Struck, the other Vulcan shouts in pain as verdant blood spurts from his nostrils. A quick elbow jab to the ribs, Aloran slips from his grasp. And the carnality of it all makes her want more. With a sigh, Michael free her fingers and reaches for her sutor-lok, idly admiring the way her slick stretches in great glistening arches between her fingers.
With the thought of Aloran suckling them clean between his beautiful lips, she presses the tip of her sutor-lok into her sex, shivering as her still tight sex contracts around it. Inch-by-inch, Michael wonders if this is how it would be: Would he steal her away from an overbearing adoptive father, flee with her into The Forge, and ravage her among the dunes? Would he kiss her so intensely, that it would feel as if he would siphon her katra from her mouth? Would he mount her like a sa-te kru during mating season or would she ride him like a vai-sehlat into battle?
Her questions cease once her sutor-lok sinks fully to its hilt. The penal ridges feel like heaven with each pass, as the sounds of faint sloshing underscore the pained grunts and flesh striking flesh. Michael feels herself trickling down her wrist, soaking her sleeve cuff, her pussy clench tightly around her sutor-lok. Aloran’s opponent finally tires, her panting matches his as her climax approaches. Trading blows for the final time, Aloran dodges a wild swing. He side-steps, and with a well-timed nerve pinch, the other Vulcan hits the ground in a bruised and bloodied tangle of limbs.
Sparks blossom across Michael’s sight, her body arching as her orgasm surges through her, just as the ek’te’kru raises Aloran’s banner in victory.