McCoy had seen plenty of dicks in his day-- as exotic and varied in size, shape, color, and design as the beings they were attached to. But the selection at this club had to take the cake. The glory holes featured nearly two dozen species-- and that was just the ones he could identify. Just as many were on this side of the wall, coming and going-- literally.
“Better’n Risa,” he muttered, appreciative. So it wasn’t as safe-- it was a trade-off between boring and sexy, and this club was winning hands down. Besides, he had a hypo hidden in his jacket that would knock down a Gorn in heat.
He hung back by the wall, taking a hit off the personal vaporizer in his breast pocket. It had a mild stimulant in it, nothing as damaging or addictive as nicotine, but hey, he was on shore leave. He was going to live a little. None of the communal ones for him; fuck only knew what you’d catch doing that. There were plenty available, emitting a noxious brew of exotic scents, and plenty of exotic drugs, too, for every possible physiology, available over the counter, no prescription necessary.
He eyed the ever-changing lineup of genitals, waiting for a set that suited his fancy. Not that Leonard McCoy was a prejudiced man-- well, except for when it came to Spock; a man had to have one xenophobic exception to prove how tolerant he was the rest of the time-- but he’d rather not get too adventurous with his selection. After all, there were species represented on that wall whose seminal emissions had such a high acid content they’d eat the enamel right off his human teeth, and then where would he be?
He whiled away the time taking hits off the vape and watching for his chance. You had to admire whoever designed this place. The holes in the wall were arranged at several different levels, but the majority were conveniently located at face level for access by a humanoid mouth. For those that weren’t, there were a selection of lightweight stepladders.
He exhaled, politely directing the tingling, minty vapor upward into the cloud hovering under the ceiling, and was about to take another hit when something caught his eye.
Vulcan? I’ll be damned. McCoy pushed away from the wall, pretty sure he was mistaken. The flashing lights in the ceiling shone in all the colors of the rainbow. I’ve gotta be hallucinating.
He wasn’t. The closer he got, the more he could be sure: characteristic green cast to the flesh, consistent whenever the light strobed in something approaching the normal visual spectrum of the Terran sun. That was definitely a double ridge on the glans, half-hidden beneath loose folds of skin that would accommodate it when it swelled. Jesus. What were the odds he’d find a Vulcan here? How many Vulcans could there be on this space station, anyway?
He took a step forward, then another, fascinated almost against his will-- and then McCoy’s eyes popped. The cock was still soft, but he could see quite clearly: it had only a single slit in the tip; it didn’t have both an emergent urethra and vas deferens. And that, that my friends, was an anatomical oddity you only found in male Vulcan-human hybrids, and the odds against there being two of those on this station, or in fact anywhere in the galaxy, were infinity to one against.
He knew this cock. He’d treated this cock; he was this cock’s primary care physician, and thus he was one of maybe-- maybe three or four people in the galaxy, at most, who’d recognize it on sight. This cock belonged to Spock.
He glanced side to side, suddenly beset by panic, and took a step back. Holy fuck. He grabbed the vape out of his pocket, glared at the label, and licked the emitter, suspicious-- but no, it tasted right. Maybe there was a hallucinogen in the air. Had somebody slipped him a roofie?
The cock waited patiently, still soft.
Damn it, Spock, not even a sheath? Of course, Spock wasn’t worried about infecting anyone. McCoy had medical scans on his tricorder from just two days ago, so he was also the only person in the universe other than the owner who could be almost 100% confident this cock was clean. Unless Spock had been fucking everything he could get his hands on while aboard the Enterprise since his physical, or maybe during the roughly thirty-seven minutes since his last bridge shift would have ended and he was cleared for beam-down.
McCoy was prepared to wager against those two eventualities. The odds were definitely stacked in his favor.
He scowled bloody murder at a Ferengi who looked like he might be angling in to get a mouthful of Vulcan, and the little alien scampered along toward the next hopeful.
Christ, those fucking sharp teeth! If Spock wanted to stay healthy, this wasn’t the way to do it. But when you had the itch, you had to scratch it somehow. Maybe masturbation was somehow considered more illogical than anonymous club sex. McCoy shook his head with disbelief, his mind racing.
Oh, this was insane. Both of them. But he couldn’t let just anybody get at Spock, not when there was a safer option.
They were both insane for being here. McCoy was probably more insane, actually, for even considering what he was about to do. But…. he had the itch himself, only from the other side.
It was convenient. It was safe for them both.
Hell, it was even fucking logical.
He started to step forward in spite of his better judgment, then panicked again-- he couldn’t do it, couldn’t! Spock was a fucking touch telepath and McCoy didn’t even have the bad defense of not knowing it was Spock on the other side of the wall. No deniability at all. Unless--
He shot a desperate, calculating stare at the window in the wall where drugs were passed through a recessed slot in exchange for credits. There was a substance Cardassians used as an intoxicant; one of the odder benzodiazepines. He’d read about it just a few weeks ago in one of his journals. It made any Cardassian who took it trip balls, but didn’t do much for humans except calm them down if they had anxiety disorders. McCoy had been a lot more interested in the side effects. For one thing, it blocked psi ability completely for several days as it worked its way out of the human’s system-- both sending and receiving. Trying to read somebody who was high on that stuff would be like trying to meld with a brick wall.
It was a long shot. There probably wasn’t a Cardassian this side of Bajor. But….
He gave the cock a final frantic look, scowled to either side to warn away any other over-enthusiastic patrons, and hurried to the window, pulling out a credit chip.
“Twenty micrograms of Cardassian Snoxx.” He kept his voice down as he scanned the chip and accepted the resulting pills, eyeing them suspiciously. Incredibly, his tricorder said they were what he’d asked for, without any deleterious additives. He dry-swallowed them hastily and turned back around.
Someone was just settling in, and he cursed silently to himself, hurrying over before the man could get started. Thank god, a Talaxian. They were usually easy to intimidate. He loomed over the guy, jerking his thumb to one side, and put on his best scowl. He didn’t dare utter a peep, but luckily the fellow blanched at the wild look in his eyes and scuttled away.
That left him and the cock, and Spock on the other side of the wall, probably getting pretty damn impatient right about now. And he was going to have to stay that way for at least three minutes more, because that’s how long it would take McCoy to metabolize enough of the drug to start touching him.
McCoy flailed for a second, frantic, before sudden inspiration struck. Well… it was supposed to be a blow-job, wasn’t it?
He leaned in and blew softly, caressing the cock with a stream of warm, damp air. It twitched in response, exquisitely sensitive. He took a hit off the vape and exhaled the steam, trickling it over Spock’s cock. It stirred as the menthol activated Spock’s TRPM8 and the ion channels opened, obedient, giving him what was probably one hell of a tingle since Vulcans were a lot more sensitive to mint than humans. McCoy marveled to himself, amazed, as the cock flushed darker green, lifting and filling, nearly tapping his nose. He was turning Spock on, he was turning Spock on, holy shit. It could actually be done.
His own cock stirred, sympathetic arousal beginning to burn at the base of his belly, and he had to shift his legs to accommodate it, dropping one hand to cup himself through the fabric of his jeans.
He still wasn’t dizzy, so he gave it another long, slow breath, getting as close as he could without touching, trailing the white vapor up from the base to the tip, lingering at the ridges beneath the glans-- there was a nerve bundle there; he ought to be sending shivers up and down Spock’s spine. And it would only get better; he was loading his mouth up with the chemicals from the vapor, so when he went down it would be an icy-hot shock to Spock’s system, guaranteed to give him a charge he wouldn’t soon forget.
The dizziness took its own sweet time; by the time his head was swimming adequately, Spock’s cock was fully engorged, and he could see a shine of moisture gathering at its tip.
He brushed a tentative kiss there, then drew back, instinctively waiting for the universe to explode.
Somehow it didn’t.
McCoy hesitated, eyes drifting shut, and laid his palms flat on the wall. Good thing he’d had the benzodiazepine to keep him from panicking, or he’d be losing his shit right about now.
As it was he drifted forward, and this time he let his lips flower open against the tip just a little, getting his first taste of Spock. He tasted faintly salty and sweet, both at once, mouth-watering. God, Spock’s dick was a gorgeous thing, hefty on his tongue, hot-skinned and perfect, and he loved sucking cock.
He drew back, then leaned in again, and this time he lapped up along the slit, letting his tongue dip in. The cock quivered as Spock shifted, pushing it forward so firmly the hole bit into the soft flesh of his groin. The message was clear: quit fiddling around and do it already.
McCoy obeyed. This time he let it in, sliding down. The double ridge was a challenge, stretching his lips, but the soft skin slid over it, lubricating it internally, giving him the slack he needed to make it over the hump on his first pass.
He set to work in earnest-- he couldn’t hum like he usually would, but the menthol would make up for that, and he was expert with tongue and teeth, abilities he enhanced with his expert knowledge of Vulcan enervation. Damn the green blooded bastard, but McCoy was gonna give him the best fucking anonymous blowjob he’d ever get from a hole in the wall in a seedy club, or he’d know the reason why.
He worked it for all he was worth, humping the wall, his eyes closed. Fuck, but the hobgoblin tasted good. He swallowed, lips wet and stretched, and barely managed to stifle a moan. God, the man had inhuman endurance. It only made sense-- and the burn and stretch, the feeling of helplessness, was turning McCoy on, goddammit. He throbbed unbearably inside his jeans, painfully constricted, and pushed all the way down until Spock’s neat, crisp pubic hair brushed his lips, tickling. Even it was beautiful, dark and glossy like a crow’s feathers. McCoy swallowed, working his throat around the thick shaft, a trickle of wet escaping his lips and creeping down to his chin.
He was used to hearing moans-- cries-- heavy breathing-- something to give him a warning that his partner was about to come, but when Spock’s shaft stilled its shallow thrusting and pulsed in his throat, it took him completely off-guard. He drew back, wanting to taste the come on his tongue, but there wasn’t anything to taste. And then Spock was done.
Sensing Spock about to withdraw, McCoy hastily reached and caught the base of his cock in the circle of thumb and forefinger, considerately trying to milk him dry-- but apparently he hadn’t released any seed when he came. No wonder he didn’t use a sheath; this way he didn’t lose sensation and since he could apparently control ejaculation, he wouldn’t have to worry much about infecting or maybe even impregnating a partner.
Spock was drawing back, slow but inexorable, and McCoy couldn’t stop him. All he could do was press a few hasty kisses to the flushed, softening shaft, leaving a last lingering one on the tip before it pulled out of reach, telling it goodbye. Fuck, but he’d never have that gorgeous thing in his mouth again, and suddenly the loss struck him as an insupportable one.
McCoy leaned against the wall and wiped his mouth roughly with his sleeve, trying to still the sudden trembling in his thighs. He’d been concentrating so hard on Spock’s pleasure he hadn’t come himself, but he was so hard he wouldn’t be able to walk; he’d have to waddle. Arousal had coiled firmly around his spine, merciless and sullen, and he knew it was the kind that wouldn’t pass easily; it’d fade slowly, reluctant, and leave him with a heavy, dull ache in his balls for hours.
He was going to go home, he knew it already-- home to his quarters on the Enterprise. He suddenly didn’t have the stomach for his seedy rented room, or for some anonymous fuck picked up on a dance floor somewhere.
No, he understood, his heart sinking with a strange, helpless flutter. He’d rather be alone with his right hand, replaying the smoking-hot memory of secretly bringing Spock off.
God help him.