spock: logic is sexy

Fic: The First Time (Uhura)

Title: The First Time
Author: igrockspock
Characters/Pairings: Uhura/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Nyota's not dispensing with her virginity lightly.
A/N: Written because I continue to want to see Uhura outside her relationship with Spock. Although there are certainly naughty bits at the end, it's also very much about a young woman deciding who she wants to be.

Nyota loses her virginity at 17. She could have done it a lot earlier -- she's looked hot since she was 12, known it since she was 14, and carried herself like a princess since she was born -- but, unlike most of the girls in her class, she's not interested in fumbling in a broom closet with a jock who ejaculates prematurely and smells too strongly of aftershave. And, unlike the girls gyrating on the dance floor of this club, she's not willing to surrender her virginity to a sweaty, grabby 20-something...who also smells too strongly of aftershave and probably ejaculates prematurely too. Unfortunately, she only needs 10 minutes to spot the difference between the guys in the club and the guys in the school: they can fill in a beard, but they also don't take no for an answer. The fifth time one of them grabs her ass, she snatches her purse and fake identicard from the table and marches out the door.

Stupid fucking fake ID, she thinks. Cost 200 credits and all it's good for is getting my jailbait ass groped in a club I didn't really want to go to in the first place. Maybe there's something else she'd like to do tonight? Something else a 17-year-old girl can't normally do that doesn't involve getting felt up? She runs through the list of legal privileges of twenty-one-year-olds: apply for a phaser license, buy an antique gun, enter strip clubs, purchase pornography. No, no, gross, grosser.

Then a glint of gold catches her eye at the end of the block: a long distance transporter booth. That's it! She's always wanted to visit Europe, but minors can't transport internationally without their parents' permission.

"How much to Paris?" she asks the operator, trying not to look so eager that he jacks up the price.

"Fifty credits, round trip," he replies.

"I'll give you thirty."


Seconds later, she materializes in Paris. As soon as she steps off the platform, a wave of homesickness and disorientation crashes over her. The winding streets are trimmed by neat, ordered houses. Everything is painted in shades of cream and brown. Where are the colors? she wonders. And the people? Even late at night in Mombasa, the streets are never empty. Aunties lean on canes and chat on the street corners, wizened old ladies sell snacks from street carts, hustlers line the road with bootleg holovids spread on blankets in front of them. And something else is missing, something fundamental she can't quite pinpoint. Then she realizes what it is: Paris smells like nothing. At home, no matter when she steps out of the house, her nose is inundated with the scent of spices wafting from open windows and roadside restaurants. Indefinable odors mingle near the market, and the mango trees release fruity aromas into the air. Here, nothing smells alive. How can anyone call this place the City of Love when there are no colors, no people, no scent of home cooking in the air?

"You all right, Miss?" the transporter tech calls. She's barely stepped 2 feet away from the platform. Her fingers clench around the return token in her hand. Maybe this isn't a good idea, 17 years old, alone in a city more foreign than she thought any place on her home planet could be. She should go home now and get one of her cousins to come back next weekend, or maybe even tonight. A cool breeze makes her shiver in her too-light top, and she adds the weather to her list of reasons to go back. She already knows she's strong and confident; there's no reason to force herself to stay in a foreign city when she's unhappy and alone. Her hand extends the transporter token to the operator, an excuse about the cool weather on her lips. But how will she ever join Starfleet if she can't even take 3 minutes in a strange city? She has to stay.

She squares her shoulders and holds her head up. Fake it till you make it, Grandmother always says. "Could you tell me the locations of transporter booths where I can use this token?" she asks the operator. She doesn't really want to know because she's sure she's not leaving this neighborhood, but it spares her the embarrassment of changing her mind again. Secretly, she hopes it's a long list so she'll have plenty of time to think about her next move, but she's out of luck. The tech shoves a chip into the portable PADD she carries in her purse, and 2 seconds later, he's uploaded a map of Paris with 6 different transporter booths marked.

Not knowing what else to do, she turns and walks in the opposite direction. She's really shivering now -- her halter top is way too light, and the breeze blows straight through her sandals -- but she tries not to show it. Every step requires another little pep talk: don't hunch over in the wind. If you look vulnerable, you'll feel vulnerable. What kind of hypocrite are you anyway, always talking about joining Starfleet and having adventures, and you want to turn around now just because it isn't easy?

Then the lazy notes of a trumpet drift through the air, and she follows the music like a beacon. Live music will be nice, she thinks, and most importantly, it will be inside. But, even though she's freezing, she has to pause on the stone steps of the bar while she gathers the courage to open the door. Everyone inside looks so cozy and comfortable there, as if they've been going there every Saturday night for 10 years. If you stand here too long, you'll feel too stupid to go inside, she needles herself, and descends the stone steps to the door.

At first, she feels just as out of place as she feared she would. Her bright African clothing stands out among the chic, restrained Parisian fashions, and two years of illicit Jello shots haven't prepared her to place an order at the bar. But it's an easy place to feel at home. Light from holographic candles flickers over the patrons' faces, and she settles into the darkness, entranced by the soft jazz. It's so different from the club she fled in Mombasa; here, she feels like she's the only person in the room and the band is playing just for her. She doesn't need to impress anyone, and no one needs to impress her. Everything in African culture is about togetherness, and she treasures that, but she realizes she loves this too -- the chance to sit in a public place, alone with her thoughts, savoring a mellower music than she can find in the streets of Mombasa.

In spite of her new found pleasure in solitude, it's not long before a man sidles over to the bar beside her. Some things are the same everywhere, she thinks, steeling herself for a confrontation. But the man seems happy to share her solitude. He angles his body toward her and stands just close enough to tell her that his proximity is no accident, but he does not say anything and his hands rest safely on top of the bar. Nyota watches him out of the corner of her eye for a few minutes, then turns to him and smiles.

"What's your name?" he asks.

She hesitates. Refusing to give men her name is a silly affectation, she thinks, and an armor she doesn't need against a man who's already shown her respect. She's about to answer, but then he says, "No matter. A little mystery is good, no?" After that, they sit in silence some more, and she tries to look at his face in the candlelight while pretending to watch the band. He is older than her, she knows; she can see the streaks of gray in his temples and the beginning of laugh lines around his eyes. But she likes the way he carries himself, how his clothes are elegant but understated, how he doesn't act like she's his prize. He's so different from the younger men she's used to, who all have something to prove and want to use her to prove it.

That's why she says yes when he raises an eyebrow and says, "I think the lady would like to dance." She likes how he treats her on the dance floor. His hand presses gently on the small of her back but does not wander higher or lower. He stands close enough to let her skirt swish against him, but when she doesn't press herself against him, he does not pull her closer. Best of all are his eyes, the way they stay locked on hers, appraising but not challenging.

They move languidly across the dance floor, weaving between a dozen other couples. The jazz beats are unfamiliar, but her partner is a good lead, and anyway, Nyota knows she has rhythm. She wonders if he can see the flush that's spreading across her collarbone or feel the heat that trickles down from where his hand rests on the small of her back. When he leans close to her ear and whispers, "you are the most beautiful woman in this room," she moves her body closer to his and does not back away, even when she feels him hardening against her. His hand feels heavy against her back now, and this time, when he leans into her, he whispers, "my apartment is not so far away." She straightens her shoulders and looks into his eyes. "Then let's go," she whispers back, and an unfamiliar surge of electricity floods her body.

Inside the doorway of his apartment, she feels a tiny wave of trepidation. Should she tell him that she's never done this before? But what if he stops, won't do it, tells her to go back to her parents? The tingling between her legs is new and a little scary, but she wants to follow wherever it leads.

He must have been able to see some of her anxiety because he gently strokes her cheek and whispers, "you have nothing to fear from me." His lips are light on hers, and he does not press his tongue between them until her body relaxes against his. Without quite knowing what she is doing, she arches her neck, and he trails kisses across her pulse points and down to her collarbone. Both his hands rest on her hips now, and she lets one of hers tangle in his hair while. A little shocked at her own audacity, she lets her other hand find his and drag it toward her breast. He looks at her for a moment and she flicks her eyes toward a closed doorway she imagines is the bedroom. His eyebrows quirk, a little surprised, but his lips lift into a small smile. "As you wish," he says, and leads her inside.

Her eyes fasten on the bed, and she is frozen by indecision. She doesn't doubt what she wants to do, but she doesn't know how to do it. Does she fling herself down on the pale blue bedspread? Wait for him to throw her on top of it? Put her hand in his pants? Something else?

But then he is standing behind her, his fingers stroking the bare skin of her back along the edge of her halter top. Slowly, he untwists the tie that holds it to her body, then eases it over her head. She hears a soft swoosh as it hits the floor, and her nipples go hard in the cool air. She's not wearing a bra; she's never needed one, and she wonders if she should feel self-conscious about her small breasts. "So beautiful," he whispers, answering her question with her asking. Still behind her, he slides his hands over her smooth abdomen and reaches up to cup her breasts. His thumbs slide back and forth across her nipples, and she leans back against him, arching her neck so he can kiss it.

"Do you want to go to bed?" His voice is rough in her ear, making the back of her neck tingle.

"Yes," she whispers back, and he lays her down gently. She closes her eyes and hears his shirt hit the floor, his belt buckle come undone. Then his fingers slip under the waistband of her skirt, pulling it down with her underwear.

He lies down beside her, not on top of her, and she feels grateful for that, and she is glad he left his boxers on too. His hands are still stroking his breasts, and then he bends his mouth to her nipple. When his tongue brushes against it, a single electric line of heat races down her abdomen and settles between her legs. She thinks she hears herself gasp. He moves his mouth from breast to breast, his fingers delicately squeezing whichever nipple isn't between his lips. Now she knows she is gasping, and his kisses move in a straight line down her abdomen. He locks eyes with her for a moment, giving her a chance to tell him to stop, but she doesn't want to. The tingling between her legs is a pounding now, and she has no intention of stopping.

Even so, he pauses for a moment, looking up at the moonlight shining over breasts. His hands snake slowly up her thighs, gently pressing them open. They rise higher still, tangling in the hair between her legs, and his thumbs carefully part her lips. She can feel his breath on her sex now and her whole body is on edge, wondering what will happen next. His tongue slowly traces the edge of her opening, then moves gently inside it and out again. Over and over again, it follows the same path: plunging deep inside her, circling the edge of her opening, stroking the space just under her clit before finally lapping over it. Each time, it moves a little faster and a little harder, and each time, more heat and tension gather in her thighs. She has masturbated before, quite a lot actually, and felt orgasms before, but she has never felt anything that built like this. She feels every stage of it: her legs opening wider, heat racing down to her toes, belly arching off the bed, breasts pointing in the air, mouth opening, all her muscles shaking and clenching together.

After she is finished, he lies down beside her and rolls her still-shaking body on top of him. She looks up into his eyes, a smile on her lips. "Thanks." Her voice is still small and breathless. "That was fun." His eyebrows lift and he casts a long, appreciative glance over her naked body. "You are extremely welcome."

She lays still for a few more minutes, letting the panting subside, but she is conscious of another new sensation: the heat of his hardness against her abdomen. He is still wearing his boxers, but she can feel a tiny spot of his wetness just below belly button. It excites her and intrigues her, and she curls her fingers tentatively over the elastic of his shorts.

"We do not have to do anything else," he says, and she knows he means it.

"I want to," she replies, sliding his shorts below his knees. Then he is naked, and she's not sure whether she should look at it or look away. Is it rude if she stares? Rude if she doesn't? Finally, she settles for laying her hand gently over it. The flesh is hotter than she expects -- burning almost -- but smooth and soft too. Her thumb slides gently up and down, still not quite sure what to do. He is watching her now, his eyes entranced by her naked body leaning over him. Gently, he curls his hand over hers and guides it up and down, faster and faster.

He is breathing hard now, his face red. She wonders if he is about to come when he loosens her hand and pulls her back on top of his body, kissing her deeply. She follows gratefully, glad to be relieved of the responsibility to decide what happens next. His hands stroke her body, sliding over her naked back and over the curve of her ass, slipping up her sides and sliding between them to cradle her breasts. When she breaks their kiss, he slides beneath her so that he can take her nipples into his mouth again. Then his fingers are pressing against her opening, and she feels his hardness against her sex. Everything is fast now: his fingers darting inside her, pressing deep; the tip of his cock brushing against her clit each time she moves. Sometimes, she feels it twitch and she imagines it throbbing inside her instead of simply against her. She wants it, she is absolutely certain of that, but she has no idea how to propose it and no voice to speak it with anyway. All she can do is moan and gasp.

Through half-open eyes, she sees his hand plunge into the drawer of his bedside table and come out holding a condom. He looks into her eyes again and stops touching her for just a moment, giving her a chance to say no even though she can see it tests his self-control. She swallows, nods, closes her eyes because she's too embarrassed to watch him roll the condom over himself. He guides her hips down over him, and she expects to feel him inside her any moment, but instead, he strokes her clit with the tip of his erection. She moans and feels herself getting wetter, looks up to see him watching her with hungry eyes.

"Are you ready?" he whispers, and she nods again. His hand presses gently against the small of her back, pushing her opening over him. Time slows as he places his hands on her hips and guides her down over him. It hurts as he pushes inside, but somehow it's not a bad thing. She feels stretched, but also full, and she can feel unfamiliar muscles flexing around his shaft. There is one more push, a harder one this time, and she whimpers a little bit but doesn't ask him to stop. Then he is all the way inside her, the very tops of her thighs resting against his hips.

She keeps her eyes closed. Her whole being feels pulled toward this one taut, full place inside her that aches and tingles at the same time. Even though she doesn't mean to, she keeps squeezing herself around him. At first, she doesn't know how to move, and his hands guide her hips in a gentle rhythm. She wonders if this is enough for him, if her clumsy movements compare badly to the other women he's been with. But he is giving her time to explore and find her rhythm, whispering to her to move slowly, to find what she likes. Gradually, she stops thinking about him and focuses on her own pleasure instead. Her hips move to the lazy jazz beat they danced to tonight, and his hands move down to cup her ass. The pressure of his hands on her cheeks forces him deeper inside her, and she feels her whole body start to shake. He is sitting up now, the change of position pressing him in deeper still. Then, without ever slipping outside her, he lies her down on the bed and lays on top of her, lips still on hers. He is thrusting harder now, but she likes it. With every movement, her breasts brush against his chest, the wiry hair tickling her nipples. He kisses her hard now, thrusting faster and faster, snaking his hand between them to stroke her clit. The heaviness of his thrusts and the lightness of his fingers drive her over the edge. She bucks against him, pressing her breasts hard against his chest, and moans her orgasm into his mouth.

He finishes not long after her, and they collapse together in a heap, him stroking her hair until she falls asleep. Before she drifts off, she thinks that he did not treat her like an object, a prize, or a child but as a woman capable of making decisions that deserved respect. This, she knows, is what she will demand from men for the rest of her life.
I LOVE your Uhura fics!

Here you've captured perfectly that confusing mix of want and need + inexperience; made it so completely real. And it's still really really HOT.

I can believe that the Uhura we know from canon had this experience.
Thank you! I'm so glad this experience rang true as both a first sexual experience and an experience canon Uhura might have had.
I really liked this. It's not something I see often, but it fits so well with canon Uhura.