Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
This story is one in a series about the relationship between James Kirk and Suzanne Brandt. It follows Homecoming and deals with the events that took place in Blood Claim. The Kirk-Brandt Chronology lists all the stories, both in order of occurrence and order of creation.
It hasn't been right between us since Nevaris. Nevaris, Beta Chorea, Vulcan...they've changed me in her eyes.
We're fine all through the day, lunches at HQ, preparing dinner together, walking the dog, spending time with friends. But in bed, it's not right. She's afraid for me or afraid of me. Or just afraid.
Dammit, I'm not that fragile. Can't we just forget all that's happened and be ourselves again?
I can see her frustration growing every day, and I know she won't take it out on me. Not playfully, not seriously, not anything. I've never seen her like this. It's beyond tender and willing; it's bordering on passivity. Anything I want is all right with her. Unless I try to give her the smack on the bottom that I know she wants. She won't even allow us that simple pleasure, because it could lead us into something more complex--such as turnabout's fair play--and we can't have that. So she hides behind a mask of compliance, trying to be what she thinks I need.
I don't know what I need. But I know what I want. I want what we had. I want those wild nights when we weren't sure where we were heading until we were at the edge, and sometimes not even then. I want to know that when I hold her down and make her face a different kind of pleasure, it will be no more than three nights before she does the same to me.
I want her to forget what d'Lain did to me.
It's been a week since she began teasing me at Fig's birthday party. Every time she stood by my side or walked near me, her hand brushed my ass. It was casual and arrogant, and each time I stood a little straighter. I'd catch her eye and feel her cool gaze pass through me.
'Yes, I touched your ass, and I'll touch it any time I want.'
When we got home, she pushed me through the door and onto the sofa. Her kisses were brutal, she tore at my clothes, and when I put my hands on her, she moved them to where she wanted them. I thought we'd finally broken out of our missionary monotony, but when I resisted, when I tried to push her to really take command, she gave in. She lay back and let me run the show.
She never would have done that before. It was her game and she should have seen it through.
We've always been equals, both fighters, both leaders, and both loving the way that plays out in bed. But now she's decided that I need the reassurance of always being in charge. That's not normal, not for us, and I guess there's only one way to prove it to her. I'm going to start a game. And we're going to play it through to the end.
***
I can hear Suzanne in the kitchen, talking to the dog while she stacks the dishes. I can still smell the Rigellian takeout and oranges we had for dinner, even here in the bedroom
I look around the room. Neat, orderly, nothing unplanned, except--where is it? There. The wine stain on the quilt, nearly hidden by the pillows. A souvenir of more spontaneous times, when spilt wine was par for the course.
I go the bedside stand and open the bottom drawer. Looking at the toys, feeling an unwelcome deja vu. d'Lain liked to make me choose from among his instruments. I can almost hear his mocking whisper.
What is it to be, James?
It's still a valid question.
I pick up the hairbrush. It's Suzanne's favorite, whether she's giving or receiving. I turn it in my hand, admiring the luster of the red-brown wood. The bristles are stiff and clean--this has never been used to brush anyone's hair. I slide it under one of the pillows, dim the light, and go to the doorway. Suzanne comes out of the kitchen and sees me.
"What?" she asks, half-smiling.
I say nothing. She comes to me and puts her arms around my neck.
"What?" She cocks her head. It's almost a taunt because she thinks she knows damn well what.
I take her hand and lead her into the bedroom. I undress her slowly, nipping at her skin as I expose it. I lower my head and suck her nipples, pressing my palms against her ass. She arches and rubs against me. I dip lower and kiss her stomach and thighs. She shivers, groans, clutches at my hair. She bends her knees, opening to me, but I refuse to follow.
She says my name. She might as well have said "Take me" because there's no ambiguity in that breathless demand.
I stand, take her hands, kiss the right, then the left. "No."
She opens her eyes. Puzzled. I can almost see her thinking, 'No? Oh, I get it. He wants to be coaxed.'
She moves in slowly and our lips are almost touching when she says, "No?"
With that, her mouth is on mine, sweet, uncomplicated kisses that feel more like being tasted than being seduced. She opens my collar, pushes my shirt up, gives my lower lip a quick bite, and pulls my shirt off over my head. She kisses me again, a long, hungry kiss that she breaks off almost violently. She sits on the edge of the bed, flushed and short of breath. Her legs are slightly parted, one hand rests on her thigh, and she holds out the other to me.
I kneel. "What do you want?"
She sits up and stares at me. I'm remembering the night on Nevaris when I knelt before her, and I'm sure she is, too.
Her eyes turn the color of steel. "Don't do this."
"Maybe I can guess what you want." I reach under the pillow and retrieve the hairbrush. "Is this it?"
I lay it in her lap, holding it in place with my fingertips.
Don't turn away. Don't say you can't, you won't. Don't ask me if I'm sure. Just take it. Take it, Suzanne.
"Don't do this," she says again, but this time it's a plea.
I wait, saying nothing.
She picks up the brush, but she turns toward the nightstand. To put it away. I grab her hand and stop her. The brush shakes in our double grip. I feel her hand clenching inside mine. I know I must be hurting her, but she gives no sign of it.
Hurting her? Do I really want this if she's so unwilling?
Feeling foolish, I let go.
She sets the hairbrush on the nightstand, rubs her hand, and walks past me.
I close my eyes, wondering how long it will take me to gather my pride and rise from this spot. It will be easier if she's not there so I wait until I hear the door closing.
I'm halfway to my feet when I hear her say, "Get on the bed."
I whip around and see her standing half in shadow, her body taut, her expression stern.
"I didn't say, 'Look at me.' I said, 'Get on the bed.'"
I obey, lying flat on my stomach, but I steal a glance to watch her pick up the hairbrush.
Once it's in her hand, she tests the weight and takes a quick swat at the air. She kneels beside the bed and leans in until her face is very close to mine. There's no sign of the smiling woman who came out of the kitchen just moments earlier, but I recognize this new one. I first saw her five years ago, when I slugged Finnegan and she turned me inside out for it. I'd never experienced anything like it. I think I even forgot we were in the simulator; it seemed like the bridge of my ship. Just the two of us on an Enterprise where Suzanne had taken command and I didn't know what that meant. At least not at first.
I remember a moment just like this, when she searched my eyes for answers. It hadn't taken her long to decide to proceed with what she'd planned. I was shocked at the side of her I saw that night; now I'm relieved.
She stands and slaps the hairbrush against her palm.
"Hands and knees."
Her words are quiet and sharp, and that's familiar, too. She's not a chatty commander.
"Head down."
I fold my arms and rest my forehead on them. I feel her opening my pants and jerking them down to my thighs. I wait for her to begin, but instead she takes my left hand and pulls it around to the small of my back. Then she does the same with my right and when my wrists are crossed behind me, she rests one hand on them.
Yes, yes, yes. She knows. I don't want to be subdued by physical restraints, not tonight. Tonight I want to surrender my strength to her, to know that I could move, but I won't. It's not like it was with d'Lain. I give this to her willingly.
The first blow is hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I rub my face against the quilt, wiping away the moisture, but I've made us confront this and I know she won't let me turn away. She waits until I turn my head to the side once more, exposing my face to the air and her gaze.
She takes her time, making sure I feel the hot prickle in the wake of each stroke. Soon I'm gasping and then moaning and finally my throat aches from swallowed cries. I clench my hands, claw at my palms, and still I feel her light touch holding me in place. There is shame and fear in being mastered so easily and a dark part of me rejoices in it.
And there is pleasure.
If I dared, I would drop to the bed and rub against it. But my pleasure is hers to command, and all I can do is wait for the exquisite devastation of release.
The brush flails at my ass, steadily, deliberately, over and over. I lock my hands together, almost believing that holding on to something will enable me to hold on to myself. But I still feel her fingertips, mocking my struggle with their light touch, and I know my pride won't save me. It will be the last thing I give up, but I will give it up, just as I did with d'Lain.
No, it's not like d'Lain. There's a difference. There's a difference.
But what is it? I don't know, I can't think, I can only feel the fiery bondage of hard, smooth wood, burning deeper with each stroke. Pain and humiliation spiral around me, dragging me into the darkness. I remember this, I remember what I did and what was done to me, I remember the emptiness as hope and determination slipped away, I remember the unending helplessness, until I wanted nothing but death.
Wanted? There's no past tense here, James.
No...
You're still mine, but you knew that, didn't you?
No!
You think you've chosen this, but I made that choice for you.
There's a difference!
Tell me then. He measures his words, matching them to the rhythm of the paddle he wields. What. Is. The. Difference.
I hear myself gasping, "There's a difference," but that's just one more unanswered prayer. There's no difference, none at all, he's here, he'll always be here, sneering, laughing, making everything I believe about myself into a lie. There's nothing left, it makes no difference whether it was taken or given, there's no choice, no escape, no difference--
"MERCY!"
I hear a clatter, wood against wood. I fall to the bed, panting, moaning, pain fading. Someone rolls me over. Hands on my face, forcing me to focus.
"Look at me!" A voice full of fear, but not mine. "Jim, look at me!"
I obey because I must. I see...Suzanne.
"Mercy..."
"I've stopped! It's over!"
I see her clearly now. She's afraid. No, more than afraid. She's terrified.
Because I've never safe-worded before.
I look around. Our bedroom. Not d'Lain's. The lamp is glowing at less than half, just the way I set it. The quilt is bunched up under me. I can still smell Rigellian spice and oranges. If I get up and open the door, the dog will be lying in front of it.
Get up? I can barely move. It takes all my effort to raise my arm and bring my hand to my face. And I find Suzanne's hand already there.
I pull her to me and kiss her hard. Her body against mine is like a light burning in the dark, leading me back to myself.
***
Quiet, very quiet. My heart has stopped pounding, and I feel her breath on my skin, gentle and regular. I should say something, apologize or explain--
"What just happened here?"
She always asks the tough questions. If I weren't so flat-out exhausted, I'd point that out, but I'm too tired for anything but honesty.
"I think it was an exorcism."
She shivers. I don't think it's for lack of a blanket.
"Was it successful?"
I listen and hear nothing. I hold her closer, stroke her hair, inhale the soft, warm scent of her. The ghosts of the past have fled, and my future is here with me, waiting for an answer.
"Yes, it was."
I wrap the loose ends of the quilt around us. She rests her head on the pillow near mine and the last bit of tension leaves her body.
I know what the difference is. This is now and this is Suzanne, and because of that, there's mercy.
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