Fucking Nimoy Ch. 01

"Who should I make this out to?" He said in that distinctive gravelly voice. It was Spock without the pointy ears, the baby blue tunic, the high sheen bowl cut, or the winged eyebrows. Instead, he wore a tweed sport coat with wide lapels, flared slacks that skirted the ground and enveloped his shoes, and a burnt orange turtleneck. His black hair was in a stylishly mussed mop rather than Spock's perfectly ordered coiffure.

He hadn't even looked up when you stepped up to the table. He was nearing the bottom of a stack of glossy 8X10 color photos of himself made up and costumed as the stoic Mr. Spock, and it had been a long day. That show had been off the air for almost two years, but it seemed like Leonard Nimoy was, inexplicably, increasingly being known as Spock.

As you faltered in your response, he did look up. His initial thinly disguised irritation evaporated when he saw that it was not a gawking pimply-faced boy, but rather you standing before him self-consciously and voluptuously in a plaid jumper skirt and long-sleeve white top. The skirt felt, at that instant, like it displayed too much of your creamy thick thighs, and the top seemed to cling to every curve. Your nervousness was not eased by the fact that, as Nimoy slowly returned his gaze toward the stack of photos on the table in front of him, his eyes seemed to take in every inch of you and then to linger interminably on the hem at the front of your skirt. In a subconscious act of vulnerable modesty you put one of your hands on your opposite shoulder cupping the base of your neck and allowing the arm drape across your chest as a kind of shield. There was a kind of raw eroticism about the act that caught Nimoy's eye as he returned his gaze to your doe eyes and handed you a portrait on which he had scrawled his signature on the front, flipped it, and wrote something else on the white paper backing.

You took the photograph with a muted "Thanks" and began to walk off.

On the back of the photo he had written: "Hamilton Arms, Rm. 614; Be there at 8:00pm tonight." You experienced a jumble of emotion. Nervousness and exhilaration were intermingled indistinguishably. He saw you, looked upon you, and demanded to see you again. That was flattering and thrilling. Yet the thrill was intertwined with an omnipresent nagging unease at the back of your mind that he couldn't possibly want you, and that you must be misreading his intentions. Nonetheless, there was no doubt in your mind about whether or not you would go. It had not been a request, but a command. And you loved that it was a command. There was not the slightest hint of ambiguity. Oh, in some theoretical sense you were completely free to ignore those words by shear force of free will, but, in reality, your own desire sealed your fate, more so than summons from the lanky man to whom you were more than willing to relinquish yourself.

At the appointed hour you were at that door trying to compose yourself before knocking. Your hair was still slightly damp and gave off a subtle fruity shampoo smell. After the signing, you had gone to your hotel and ritually primped in preparation for your evening rendezvous with Mr. Spock. This involved a long hot shower and shaving your legs and nether region with meticulous care, despite the fact that they were already quite smooth. The shaving process was slow as your hand occasionally trembled ever so slightly and your mind raced with the evening's possibilities. You had resisted the urge to pleasure yourself in the shower beyond a few furtive touches and a brief period of reveling in the pulse of the showerhead. If you were going to be deflowered this evening, you would not be lacking for eagerness.

Just as you had summoned the nerve to knock, the door opened. It was not Nimoy, but a younger blond man in a gray suit. He was clean-cut and professional in appearance. "I'm..." You started to introduce yourself, noticeably perplexed.

"Please come in. Mr. Nimoy is expecting you. He has a few administrative matters to attend to, and then he'll be right with you." The man said. You presumed he was a personal assistant or something of that sort.

Oddly, despite the fact that the hotel suite had an armchair and loveseat in it, the young blond man ushered you to a spot in the middle of the room at which he left you standing. You only noticed the sound of the lavatory sink running as it abruptly stopped. Shortly after that, Leonard Nimoy strode into the bedroom from the bathroom. He was wearing a white terry robe embroidered with the hotel's crest logo. Over his tall lean frame, the robe came only to mid-thigh. He made a beeline toward you. You looked down at floor shyly, unsure what to do.

"Glad you could make it. I'll be with you in a moment. I swear my life is coming down to signing things 90% of the time. When I'm not signing autographs, I'm signing contracts so I can get paid." As he was saying this, he put his hand under your chin and lightly raised it until your neck was sufficiently craned to be looking him in the eye. With the other hand, he cleared a shock of brunette hair out of your face that had fallen across your cheek while you were looking down. "I think you will do just fine, but I'll need to have a look at you." Nimoy said before walking over to and sitting down at the small round table next to which the blond man was standing, and which contained three small stacks of papers arrayed orderly.

You stood glued in your spot. You were not sure what he meant.

When he saw no movement, Nimoy looked over and clarified the command. "Dear, that means I need you to disrobe." He said to you, and then to his assistant: "She may need help with that zipper."

You were wearing a simple floral print dress that zipped down the back. The assistant strode over. "Allow me." He said as he reached around and, matter-of-factly, tugged the zipper down as far as it would go to a point directly above the cleft of your backside, which his knuckles inadvertently brushed in the process. The assistant turned and walked back to the table and the feel of cold air on your back was palpable where the fabric had fallen open.

As the two men were occupied with business matters, the younger pointing out where to sign and the elder scribbling his name or initials, you were slowly, and with the most intense feeling of being exposed, slipping the dress off your shoulders and then stepping out of it. You laid the dress over the back of the armchair, and stood there in only underwear. Should you remove the little cover that the bra and panties offered? That was what you believed the instruction to be, and so, hesitantly, you complied. You fidgeted. Your knees were together with one knee turned inward, and you instinctively moved your arms about looking for an illusive pose that would be both natural and provided some measure of cover of your tummy in particular.

Soon the two men were done and the assistant began collecting the papers up into an orderly sheaf, which he put into a leather portfolio that he then zippered shut and tucked under his arm. The assistant smiled and nodded politely as he passed you crossing the room toward the door. The nonchalant nature of the blond man's gestures seemed odd in that it betrayed no acknowledgement of the fact that you were completely naked. It was the same way you would greet an acquaintance on the street. Your eyes followed him unconsciously because you had an irrational fear that when he threw open the door there would be a dozen paparazzi with flash bulbs popping standing in the hallway to capture your exposed form.

There was no one in the hall. When you turned back to Mr. Nimoy, he was standing in front of you. He took your hands in his and put your arms down to your side. He then did a slow wide walk around you. He not only caressed with his eyes, but also used his hands. He put them on your waist, your breasts, and your buttocks. He stimulated a nipple with his thumb as his long fingers caressed the sensitive outer edge off one of your hanging orbs. He watched the nipple thicken and its shade darken. He ran his fingers through your hair, sweeping the locks around and holding it up in turn to see your face framed in various alternative ways.

When he ran a hand across your tummy, your hands instinctively began to creep back up, but he again put them down at your sides.

Nimoy said: "I think you are just the girl I've been looking for, but there will be a few rules that I must insist upon. First, if you are not being posed, and you are talking to me, you should look me in the eyes - unless you are adoring my cock or I am taking you in some position in which we are not face-to-face. Second, when you are in my presence, you shouldn't try to cover up. Most of the time you will be nude, and I want unobstructed views of all of you. Third, when you are in my company, you will respond to my whims as directed and without question. If these terms aren't acceptable, you are free to put your clothes back on and go now. However, I'd like you to make up your mind quickly as I have an appetite for you and the longer you take, the harder it will be to relinquish that craving. So may I have an answer?"

To say you had "butterflies" in your stomach would be like equating amputation with a scratch. Nervousness aside, you had an instinctual urge to surrender yourself to his will, and to be his. He wantonly craved and coveted you, and, for that gift, you could easily do whatever he asked. Any rational thought-process about what he might require of you was swamped by a primal tsunami of desire. "Yes... Mr. Nimoy."

"You may call me Leonard." With that he took your hand and led you over to the bed.

He then directed you into a pose. He had you kneel on the bedspread with your knees wide apart, and then he had you use both hands to lift your hair up away from your face and to the top of your head with your elbows out so they wouldn't obstruct the view of your face. He used his hands to direct you to arch your back and turn your head slightly. "Oh yes, that's it. That is perfect. Hold right there." He said as he first took his time watching you longingly, and only after what seemed like at least a minute did he grab the Leica camera with a big lens and a side-mounted flash and begin to look through the viewfinder.

While alluring, it was not the most comfortable position to hold, and you could feel a little burn starting in your thighs and back, but you didn't dare move. The discomfort grew because Nimoy was not the kind of photographer who snapped off 20 pictures on the auto-setting and hoped one turned out. He was calculating. He moved around and made setting adjustments, and then he snapped a solitary photo. "You can relax." He said, finally allowing you to move about.

The next pose was much easier to hold, which was fortunate because Nimoy was looking for a quite specific facial expression that took much direction to perfect. The posture was just sprawled out with your right foot near the headboard and right hand extending off the foot end of the bed limply. The left knee and elbow were pulled in, and you looked up toward your right hand into the camera. The shot displayed the outline of your curves nicely, and the vulnerable stare made for a striking image.

This impromptu photo shoot went on for about three more photos meticulously shot over the course of about a half an hour. For the last shot, he had you lying on your back with your knees splayed wide. After Nimoy snapped the shot, he set the camera down on the floor next to the bed. He then took his fingers and spread apart your nether lips. There was a moist sound as the rosy flesh rode over the viscous slippery sauce that coated the inside of your sweet slit. He let a finger tip briskly ride over your clit and seemed pleased when it seemed to send a tremor through your system.

Nimoy then climbed up on the bed and lay on his side facing you. He traced graceful arcs with a finger over your milky soft skin. Occasionally, he came across either a pleasure spot like a nipple or a ticklish spot and smiled as you squirmed. "You're eager. Does it make you hot to know that I'm going to have my way with you?"

"Yes." You said, looking him in the eye as you had been earlier commanded.

"Do you like being teased, being forced to wait?"

"Yes...no...I guess it depends how long." You said.

"How did you feel about having your picture taken?" He asked, now manipulating one of your nipples between his thumb and index finger.

"Uncomfortable."

"Why?" He knew why, but hearing you talk about it had a kind of voyeuristically arousing effect because it was a window into the recesses of your mind.

"Because I don't feel comfortable with my body."

"I'm here hungry to ravish you, and you don't feel good about your body? Do you think I have poor taste?" He asked not as though insulted, but more as though he were playing a wry joke at your expense. "What about the other men you've been with, didn't they like how you looked? Did one of them make you feel bad about yourself?"

"I've never been with another man." You said sheepishly.

"Well, I guess it's time for your training to begin. First you need to familiarize yourself with the equipment." With that he rolled over onto his back and let the robe fall away exposing his lean hard body. He took your hand, holding it for a moment, and then he put it on his member. You now rolled onto your side as you stroked him lightly with your soft alabaster hand. His member transformed from a weighty flexible rope to a solid spike in moments. It, like he, was long and lean. The two of you formed an interesting juxtaposition of humanity with he being tall, lanky and sun browned, and you being soft, gracefully curved, and milky white. You sat up, and began to use both hands. Nimoy didn't suppress the sounds of his pleasure but let his enjoyment show, particularly when you cupped and lightly rubbed his balls while you increased the vigor with which you stroked his shaft.

Nimoy let you play and experiment like this for about ten minutes. Then he reached his hand between the undulating mass of hair that hung down as you leaned toward him and your cheek and hooked the back of your neck lightly. He then pulled your face toward his engorged organ until your lips parted to accept him into your mouth. His moans became more intense and frequent as your lips rode over his member. He kept his hand in your hair at the back of your head, and, with it, dictated when you were required to take in more of his length and when you were to linger attentively on that sensitive patch on the underside of his shaft. Neither the occasional gagging nor the involuntary eye watering dissuaded you from taking as much of him as he wanted you to. You were indispensible to him, and his pleasure was integrally tied up in your actions.

When Leonard was satisfied with your oral ministrations, but before shot his load, he pulled out of your mouth. He wiped those gag-reflex tears off your cheek with his meaty palm and ushered you over onto your back. He then scooted your hips down toward the edge of the bed as he kneeled at the bedside. He parted your lips with his tongue and proceeded to suck and lick his way up your moist trench. His long tongue probed into your canal and rimmed it, before he turned the complete attention of his tongue and lips to your thick warm clit. He sucked, licked, and even gently nibbled. He used the tip of his tongue with targeted vigor, and slipped a digit into your depths and worked it around with precision and energy. When he felt the subtle signs of your body beginning to quiver and stiffen, he stepped up his efforts. Your climax came in intense waves and sent your whole body into spastic trembling. He tried to keep up with the undulations of your love spasm, but you squirmed away when it felt you would certainly black out from all your body's blood converging on your pleasure center.

With his face sopped in your natural lubricant, Nimoy stood, slid the head of his cock up and down your slick pussy track a few times to moisten it in preparation for plunging it into you. He then aligned his cock with your canal and thrust it about halfway deep into your tight, still quivering, virginal pussy. He then worked it through a few slow and progressively deeper thrusts until you were taking the full length. He began thrusting harder and faster until he had a rhythm that was bringing him towards ecstasy. The endorphins running through your bloodstream kept you blissfully ignorant of the soreness that was developing from going from innocence to Mr. Nimoy's maniacal reaming within hours. Once again, Nimoy exercised supreme discipline and pulled out before he creamed inside you. He had plans to experience you in one other way that evening.

"Turn over, face on the mattress and butt up." He said. You complied by tucking your knees under you so your ass was up. He spread your cheeks apart for access, and then he pressed his cock head against your tight little bung-hole. With your thick slippery sauce dripping from his cock, there was enough lubrication to penetrate. There was an initial unfamiliar mix of pleasure and discomfort involved in the breaching action. That sensation began to be transformed increasingly into pain as his stroke got longer and the natural lubrication from the previous round began to dry up. Fortunately, Nimoy's substantial cock was only good for a few strokes in your previously virgin sphincter before he stiffened and shot his creamy load deep into your ass in about five rapidly diminishing spastic shots.

You both then stretched out and lay on your sides on the bed. Nimoy was behind you spooned against your round buttocks. He brushed the brunette locks from your shoulder and kissed your neck. Then he spoke. "You did wonderfully, my love. That was beautiful."

"Thank you, Leonard." You said as were catching your breath.

In a few minutes you could hear a slight raspy sound. It was not a full-bore snore, but, by it, you could tell he had drifted off. Moments later you followed suit.

Leonard had regained his strength and his lust for you by the morning, and, while you were a bit sore, your desire was unquenchable. So it was that when the nattily dressed blond assistant came in, without knocking, you were on hands and knees facing the foot of the bed, and, consequently, the door. Nimoy was behind you and was thrusting hard and fast such that his pelvis was making a loud slapping noise on your buttocks every time he reached maximum penetration. Nimoy did not break stride when the young man entered. The assistant neither averted his eyes nor gawked. He merely walked to the little round table, set his portfolio down, and sat at one of the two chairs next to it. You looked over at him, periodically. Sometimes he was looking and other times he was looking absent-mindedly away. It was bizarre to lock eyes with the conservatively dressed young man while another man was fucking you like a porn star. Soon Nimoy climaxed, not as forcefully as the previous evening, but still causing him to stiffen in a manner that reverberated through you.

"That was outstanding, my dear." Nimoy said to you as he offered a hand to help you off the bed. "It's shower time."

You seemed to instinctively recognize that showering Nimoy was now your responsibility. You, therefore, went into the bathroom to start the shower running as Nimoy nakedly and unabashedly greeted his personal assistant and they began to talk, presumably discussing Mr. Nimoy's agenda for the day. You couldn't hear anything but vague garbled sounds through the wall and over the sound of the shower.

You waited for Nimoy to come before you got into the shower with him. He spoke as you wetted, shampooed, and rinsed his hair, and then worked your way down systematically scrubbing. "We fly back to Los Angeles tonight. Have what you need ready by six, so we can get to the airport. I've got a full day of meetings and appearances. If you need anything to make this happen, talk to my assistant before we leave."