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by Robin

WARNING: Hot and heavy, ropes, whips, etc. Very much *non consensual*. Don't even think of reading this if you are at all squeamish about floggings and violence done to helpless naked captains. You have been warned.

WARNING!

This started as a thread in ascem about dressing characters up in nice gear. With the approval of the original author, I thought I'd run with it. Purely PWP and not very nice to Kirk. If it makes you feel any better, think mirror universe TOS.

Paramount owns Star Trek, and wouldn't want anything to do with this story.

Spock: Black, straight leg jeans, tight. No shirt. Long black heavy coat. Smoking. Wet look hair. Black wrap around sunnies. Smelling of expensive cologne. A long, black, plaited, whip trails from his left hand and curls over his boot tips, lying across the wet, cold, concrete of the deserted carpark like a lazy viper.

Kirk: Curled, bound and naked at Spocks feet, shivering on the cold wet concrete of the deserted carpark, the red welts glistening in the rain as the arc lights hiss and spark overhead.

Bones: Armani, a black stretch limo, and quietly smoking, waiting for Spock to finish 'the business'.

Uhura: Gold spandex, thigh high "come fuck me" boots, sprawled in the back of the limo, wiping a dusting of white powder from her upper lip, and licking the Amex card clean.

The low, angry throb of a Ducatti motorcycle draws Spocks attention from his task. The cycle pulls up alongside, and the leather clad rider removes his helmet. Spock throws his cigarette down with a hiss.

'You're late, Mr Chekov.'

'I'm here now, aren't I? I see you've started.' Chekov eyes the trembling man, and rests a foot on his head, grinding slowly at the exposed ear. 'Has he talked?'

'He's finding it hard to talk with no fucking teeth!' A throaty chuckle came from the limo. Chekov noted the small white fragments scattered nearby. Bones waved, his head wreathed in smokey haze, his hands snug in fine black gloves, now stained in places, and scratched in others. The cold light caught the dull brassy sheen of metal across his fist.

'Please. Stand aside. I need room to swing.' Spock twitched the oily lash, flicking it beside him. Then, with a snap, sending a bloody, discarded molar shooting away to bounce off the petrol tank of the motorcycle.

'Hey! Watch the paintwork! OK, you have your fun, but leave some for the rest of us.' Chekov retreated to the limo, pulled out some fixings, and quietly began rolling a smoke with practised fingers. The small sounds of well oiled leather, and the rustling of the tobacco papers, the ticking of a cooling engine, and the incoherent mutterings of hurting man, paused, as a black clad arm rose. And then fell.

*thwack*

*thwack*

*thwack*

*thwack*

*thwack*

'Er, Spock?'

'What?!' The word hissed with an indrawn breath. The temperature dropped. The arm, poised high, trembled.

'Um, just check his pulse for me, will you? He doesn't seem to be moving much.'

Chekov stifled a giggle. Finishing his smoke, Chekov had one hand stuffed down the front of his pants, and was busy playing with his prick.

'As you wish.' Spock forced the whip handle under the quivering chin of his victim, and lifted. He reached down and rested two fingers gently on his throat. 'He lives.'

'Carry on.'

'With pleasure.' He lowered the chin, stroking one finger slowly down the side of the bruised, and bloodstained face. 'Soon.' he whispered.

*thwack*

*thwack*

*thwack*

'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!'

Spock smiled and lowered his whip hand. 'Hello Jim. Glad you could join us. Please. Don't get up. You've done very well. Now behave, and do as Pavel asks. I'll be watching.' Spock looked to the limo and beckoned Chekov over. 'You're turn, Mr Chekov.'

'You fucking beauty!' Chekov approached, unzipping his fly and removing his Rolex.

'Jim, wake up. It's over.' Spock shook his friends shoulder, rousing him from the mind meld. Kirk's face was pale, as he woke with start, grasping Spock's arm.

'Spock! You saw? Do you understand now what it's been like these past nights? I'm afraid to sleep, and when I do, well, the dreams start. It's driving me crazy.' Kirk ran a shaking hand over his tousled hair.

Spock retreated to the far side of the room, giving his Captain some space. 'What time do you have these dreams, Captain?'

'I dunno. Sometime in the early morning, I guess. Why?'

Spock paused and considered his reply. 'In Vulcans, the dream you have just before waking, is prophetic. It is called T'Conn Peth, or the wish fullfilment dream.' Spock waited for that to sink in.

'What! Dammit, Spock. You think I *want* to be beat senseless by my best friend? Do you think I want Chekov to..to.. assault me! It was so real, I felt my teeth being broken by those brass knuckles. Do you think I enjoyed that?'

'Did you?'

Kirk waited for a silent ten count, then waited another, for his face to cool down. Hell, Spock was just trying to help. He couldn't help being a prying, obnoxious, Vulcan, trying to rattle him with his psychobabble. 'I'll be leaving now, Spock. On second thoughts, I will ask Bones for those sleeping tablets after all. Serves me right for trying to get to the root of the problem. Obviously some things are best cured as symptoms.'

Spock watched his Captain change back into the self assured, confident, egotist he always presented to the world. Disappointed with the outcome of the mind meld, Spock seated himself behind his desk and spent a few minutes in silent meditation. 'It's a shame. A real shame.' he announced to the empty room. He reached down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk...

...and admired the sleek, black, coiled length of tightly plaited leather.

THE END - ain't that enough? ;-)