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There were three things at which Sulu was tremendously apt: flying, fencing, and fucking. He didn't think of them as the Three Fs or anything like that. He didn't really think of them at all; he just did them. He was a natural.

Flying was an art, just like fencing. He could manuveur a ship through treacherous space as easily as slicing through a target. It was all a matter of lunges, flicks, and feints.

And although not a sport, fucking had an artistry all its own. There was the beginning footwork as two people got to know each other, a dance of sorts that led straight to the mat. Or to bed, if one was handy.

Most people did not think of fucking in terms of opponents and point work, but Sulu liked the control it gave him. His partners never minded.

Kirk liked it when Sulu lunged forward, pining him to the mattress. Sulu used his tongue as a foil, stabbing Kirk's mouth and nipples wetly. He navigated Kirk's body as smoothly as he flew.

Fucking Kirk was a dance of control and excitement. Kirk said, "Harder," and Sulu teased him. Kirk said, "Slow," and Sulu thrust faster. Kirk gritted out, "Bastard," and Sulu just grinned.

Right now, Kirk was pressed down with his knees to his chest, panting hard and swearing harder. "Fuck, fuck, c'mon, fuck me," he said, and Sulu thrust deep and hard inside him.

Their groans rose up, getting louder as they both got closer to coming.

Kirk was still saying, "Fuck me," in a mindless way, like a mantra. And Sulu reached around and took hold of his cock, stripping it fast and hard, and Kirk finally came, clenching around Sulu's cock.

Fucking into Kirk was like making the winning point, and coming felt like a triumph.