The characters belong to Glen A Larson.  No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made from this fan site.

   
I used to think the Gemonese rope dance was corny, when I was about the age that Boxey is now.  Then I grew up a bit, the hormones started kicking in, and I realised it could be fun with the right partner.  I grew up a little more and realised the steps of the dance weren’t simply about flirting but were an exploration of sexual dominance, suitably sanitised for public display.  I don’t even want to get into how the whole thing ever got turned into a socially-accepted dance to be performed in groups in public…  

I’m guessing that Apollo’s still hasn’t got a clue what the dance is really about because otherwise he wouldn’t have been as relaxed as he was earlier this evening, dancing it with Sheba.  He knows the steps of course, but it wasn’t until I saw him doing it so correctly, performing the moves by rote, that it came together for me.  It was yet another thing he learned at that expensive school they sent him off to, along with how to be the perfect high-society son and heir while learning nothing about himself, let alone about life.  He can’t even dance without it being apparent that he’s doing what he’s been taught to do, rather than something he’s discovered for himself. 

I’d like to think it was this realisation that made me think of what I’m going to do tonight.  You can’t kid a kidder, though, and I know it was the sight of that silken cord in his hands that did it.  It was the way his long fingers caressed it and the way they closed around its soft strength as though he never wanted to let go, even as he allowed his partner to pull it through his hands.

So later, when I’m lying on top of him on his bed and have kissed him into near-speechlessness, it’s the natural thing to do to suggest he might want to try our own version of the Gemonese rope dance.

He pushes his hips up against mine and, even though we’re still clothed, the sudden rush of heat as his hardening cock finds mine means I almost miss his words. 

“I wasn’t planning on dancing, Starbuck.”

I reach into my jacket pocket, squirming just enough to allow me to access it more easily, and I love the way his lips part as my cock rubs against his, the layers of clothing between us only adding delicious friction.

“What I’ve got in mind is a little more fun than the dance you were doing earlier,” I tell him, and let the purloined silken cord dangle in front of his eyes.

His suddenly rather bugging-out eyes, if truth be told. 

“Star-”

It’s all he has time to get out, because it wasn’t for nothing I came top of the class in tactical manoeuvres at the Academy.  I kiss him, and shift slightly so that my thigh is pressing between his legs, then I push it gently against him, rubbing, until he’s unable to speak but only to make these little noises of satisfaction into my mouth.

It seems he doesn’t even notice when I unbutton his shirt and lay bare his smooth chest in front of me.  He’s concentrating on his cock, and my thigh against his cock.  He’s just about aware enough to make a wordless noise of complaint when my lips leave his, and then to shift under me to help me peel the shirt off his arms, first right, then left.  As I pull it off his left arm, I lean forward further as I fling the shirt onto the floor and close his mouth with mine again.  I don’t think he’s breathing as he arches up into me, but maybe that’s because I’m stealing his breath, not wanting to retreat from him long enough to breathe myself.  I’m not sure how I manage to concentrate enough to loop the cord around the metal bed frame and then his left wrist – and the Lords bless the military for giving the double beds in the family quarters the same basic issue metal bedframe as the bunks in the BOQ - but as I pull back enough to allow him finally to draw oxygen into his lungs and look down on him, his legs spread already, the hardness of his beautiful cock outlined clearly by his pants, and his lips as swollen and bruised as his eyes are desperate for me, I know that concentration is almost a thing of the past.  I catch hold of his right arm, manoeuvring it so the cord loops in a silken kiss around his wrist.

Realisation seems to hit suddenly because he stares up at me in growing awareness and tugs briefly against the loosely tied cord as he works out what it is I’ve done.  There’s a glimpse of something in his eyes, something I can’t quite identify except that it’s close to fear.  And that cuts me to the bone. 

“Starbuck,” he starts, the prelude to what I’m sure will be an order.  He seems to have forgotten the whole purpose of being here; at least, he’s no longer pressing against my thigh and his tone is sounding rather like he does when I’m late reporting for duty.  Even if it’s because I’ve been fracking the Strike Captain through the nearest bulkhead, he never lets me get away with it.  I’m pretty sure he’s put himself on disciplinary measures before now.

“What?”  I lean forward and my tongue pushes between his lips again, and by the time I’ve finished with him he doesn’t seem able to remember what the problem is.  So I run my hand up his smoothly-muscled arm, and finish the job properly, the cords tightly binding the whipcord strength that’s fooled so many Triad opponents in the past.  He may not have the bulk of Boomer, but there’s a tensile strength to him that no-one ever underestimates more than once.

When I’ve finished, I pull back up and look down at him from where I’m sitting astride him, and I wonder why it’s never occurred to me before to do this.  He’s deceptively passive as he watches me, the near-panic disappeared.  There’s almost a hint of embarrassment in his gaze as it meets mine, I think – but more than that, there’s a vulnerability I haven’t seen in him before, and it’s that which makes me want to hold him and never let him go.  Once I’ve opened him up, slid deep inside him and fracked him  through the mattress, of course, because as well as looking like the helpless princess awaiting rescue in a possibly slightly kinky fairy-tale, he’s so fracking hot.  My hand moves across his chest, mapping the muscles drawn tight along his ribs from where his arms are pulled over his head.  He’s breathing faster: sweat beginning to gleam on his skin in a way that has me wanting to lick it off, and his hands start to twitch slightly in their bonds, long fingers trembling, as though he’s trying to keep control as my hands explore his body.  He bucks upward and groans, partly surprise, partly pain, but mainly delight as I pinch his right nipple.  Hard. 

I want to do more, but even more than that, I want to keep him on the edge, keep him guessing.  So I stop touching him, and my hands move to my pants.  His eyes are dark as they watch my fingers fumble at the fastening, and then my cock’s free and my hand’s wrapped round it and refusing to let go.  And he likes watching me jerking off over him, if the little panting sounds he’s making are anything to go by.  I like it too because I know part of him still thinks it’s dirty.  All that early conditioning, the upbringing that teaches it’s a sin, and that good boys don’t…  I still remember how he’d get so embarrassed at the Academy, thrown into company with horny adolescents jerking themselves off each night.  His tongue flicks out to wet his lips as he watches me, and I struggle not to moan.

It’s not that I often have to resort to my hand, of course – normally I’m having to fight off the offers – but even so, I know that I’m closer than I should be at this stage in the proceedings, so I slow down, and eventually force myself to stop.  I get up from the bed and pull my pants the rest of the way off.  Maybe that’s not strictly necessary, but I do love being skin to skin with Apollo.  And then the rest of my clothes follow, and I see the frustration in his face as the truth of what it is I’ve done to him begins to dawn: he’s seeing me in my full glory, and even I have to admit that’s a pretty impressive sight for anyone to witness, but he’s unable to reach out a hand and touch.  Unable to do anything save squirm slightly and say my name in a way that suggests it’s only his Kobolian upbringing preventing him from letting me know how desperate he is and swearing at me instead.

I know there’s a grin on my face as I move back above him, and bend my head to concentrate on undoing his pants, distracting him so he doesn’t see what I put down on the bed beside him.  I know the grin’s still there when he arches upwards, all those swear words suddenly breaking through his conditioning as my tongue bestows a welcome on his eager cock before I move back and start pulling his pants down his legs, revealing the leanly-muscled thighs that I swear are half the reason the entire Fleet becomes glued to the screens every time we play Triad.  It’s those self-same thighs that receive my full attention once I’ve finished undressing him, and he begins to moan in earnest, pulling jerkily against the silk that holds him unforgivingly while my lips and tongue trace upwards, promising but never quite granting what he’s looking for.

It’s difficult not to take him in my mouth, not to taste his heat and need, but there’s something I want even more than that, now that he’s entirely mine to order as I please.  And so after some more worship, which he seems to interpret as teasing if his gasped imprecations are anything to go by, I place a hand under his hip, and urge him to turn over.  It takes him a micron to understand the steady pressure I’m exerting, but when he realises, he turns over with all the speed, if not quite the grace, of a Viper on full turbo, obediently responding to my hands so that he shifts until he’s in the perfect position for me to slide deep inside and frack him senseless.  The cord around his wrists is shorter now, having twisted as he turned, and he’s not going to be able to move much.  That’s just the way I want him tonight.  Give him half a chance and Apollo will be back in charge – back where he never really loses his self-control, not even during mind-blowing sex, because that isn’t what Kobolians do.  Nor what blue-blooded Capricans do.  Add the two together, and I’ve got me a fight on my hands.  It’s just as well I like the odds.  Because Apollo only ever plays fair – another weakness of his upbringing.  Playing fair isn’t something that bothers me unduly, and so I know he stands no chance.

I start worshipping him again, once again with my tongue.  If only there were a virtuoso of the year award for tongue-action, like there is for musicians, I’d be even more famous than I am.  I don’t waste time on the warm-up – he’s already there, he just doesn’t know it yet.  But as my tongue slips inside him, and then I thrust it deep, ever deeper inside him, he does know it.  He hides his face in the pillows, whether because he’s embarrassed or to muffle himself I don’t know.  But it’s just as well he is, given the noises he’s making; fun though this is, there’s no reason his neighbours need to spend time wondering just what it is that Starbuck’s doing that Apollo’s beginning him to stop.

“No, Starbuck – you mustn’t – please…”  Which sounds pretty unambiguous except that even while he’s sobbing this out, he’s pushing back onto me, opening himself as far as he can and making these deep, deep noises in his throat that I’ve never heard before.  And I want to keep hearing them, so I keep going.  I do wonder how much of him loving it is because it’s forbidden  - nasty and dirty, and something he shouldn’t know about, let alone be having done to him, but tied as he is, he can let it happen without feeling guilty.  Whatever the reasons, he’s just loving the fact that I’m fucking him with my tongue.  And I love it too, because the strangled whimpering sounds he’s making into the pillow are the biggest turn-on I’ve known since….   Well, ever.

Even though I don’t want to stop, don’t want him ever to stop making those sounds, I know if I don’t get inside him soon, it’s going to be too late.  So I leave him wanting, just for a micron, hating the emptiness of his groan as I move away and reposition myself, before my cock pushes into him, steadily, unforgiving.  It’s almost more than I can take when he starts those noises again, starts that begging as I’m deep inside him, panting as I try to control myself rather than just give into what I want and lunge deep into him, again and again.  But he’s pushing back, thighs spread as wide as he can get them, and moaning my name into the pillow in a way that destroys what’s left of my self-control.  So I drive into him, harder than I’ve ever done before, knowing it’s too much, that he won’t be able to walk tomorrow but that he needs me as hard and as deep inside him as I need to be.  I know that this is the real Apollo.  This is Apollo without the inhibitions, without the limitations caused by expectation, and what he wants is me.  What he wants is me so deep inside him that we’re practically one person.  And because that’s all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, I have to bite my lip, damn hard, not to come right then and there.

He’s still moaning into that damned pillow when I force my right hand away from its bruising grip of the soft skin over his hips and pick up the cord I left on the bed earlier.  Silken strands slither over my hand as I close it around his cock.  He thrusts blindly against it, against the softness and the promise of strength and freedom, and I can’t help myself – I can’t do anything save lunge into him, my hand so tight around his cock that it has to hurt.  He’s whimpering, sweat beginning to pool in the small of his back, but I can’t stop long enough to lick at it, I can’t stop at all because Apollo’s head is lowered, his shoulders bowed in supplication as he gives in to his need and my cock and he cries out, his voice hoarse as he comes, strings of his need all over the rope and my hand.  His voice breaking on my name tears me apart, deep inside him.

I know I’m going to have to move, when I can breathe again, but not yet.  No matter that we’re stuck together, me sprawled on top of him, and both of us panting harder than two pilots in the peak of physical training should ever do.  All I can think is that I want to hold him forever, and love him. 

That’s the difference between me and Iblis.  I know he wants nothing more than to see those proud shoulders bent in submission, for Apollo to give up everything he is.  For me, Apollo yielding his will to me is the most awe-inspiring thing I’ve ever experienced, will ever experience, because his will is part of everything that makes him what he is – duty, command, and that Adaman arrogance – and I know that by sacrificing that, he’s given me something he gives to nobody else.  He’s offered himself to me, the real Apollo that he keeps hidden from all others.  But then, I’ve already given him everything I am.  

Until Iblis understands that, he’s never going to win.  Until he understands what love really means, Apollo will never be his.

The fact that Apollo will never again be able to dance that dance with Sheba without thinking of me and getting a hard-on the size of a basestar is just a bonus.
 

End