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Cultivating a Desire to be Seen

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The idea was intoxicating.

Sex was private. If possible, it was not to be discussed, and if it must be acknowledged, it should only be mentioned through several ritual abstractions. It had its time and place and should not be brought into the public sphere, not if his life depended on it. That was what Spock had been taught. And yet.


He was first exposed to the idea, and only that. Jokes and off-color remarks, rumors and people making fun. Someone’s too long in the bathroom at the bar. Someone else is dancing too close. Another is sitting in an uncomfortable position.

Spock did not drink. He did not dance. He sat in chairs as they were meant to be sat in. And yet.


Alone, in his single studio dorm, with the lights out, before he slept, (sex, masturbation to be precise, in its proper and appropriate place,) the idea resurfaced. What was to stop him?

Along the back wall of the third story of the library, where he tended to study, the desks were isolated, the floor was silent, and people came there rarely. There would be no one to see. He could walk up the front steps, take the elevator, all the while internally aroused. Find one of his preferred empty desks by the shaded window. Sit down at his seat. If he were fully erect then, even if someone should come by, how would they know? And what if he were to sit there and open his notes from the day’s class, aching in his uniform pants? How long would his homework hold his attention? How long before he would either have to put arousal from his mind and attempt to ignore the dampness in his briefs and apply himself to his study?

There would still be no one to see. He needn’t stop there. So long as he were quiet and relatively still, it would be simple to put one hand in his lap under the desk and rest it on his zipper.

(In his dorm with the lights out, alone, at night, in earth’s thick atmosphere, Spock was breathing heavily.)

He could almost imagine what it would feel like, where the head of his erection would sit under his clothes, how the aisles of books and PADDs and holodisks would be quiet and empty, but the many other people on the floor would be only meters away. If he ran his fingers along the length of himself over his clothes, would he be able to stop himself from shivering? How much movement could he manage to restrain and how much would be unremarkable? If someone were to walk by, would the rhythmic rubbing of his hand give him away or would it be unnoticeable to another student with music playing, eyes on their comm as they searched for a desk?

He could lay his head down on his study materials, that was acceptable library behavior, he had witnessed other students sleeping in such manners, no one would be able to see the expression on his face then. (If he closed his eyes or bit his tongue—) He believed could stay silent while he came. Would the outside of his pants remain dry? Would he stay and continue studying with come and wetness sticking between his legs?

The fantasy dissolved into a lightning storm in his fingers and heat spilling across his stomach.


The group of first year cadets spilled out of the elevator on the first floor, talking amongst themselves again leaving Spock alone as the doors closed and he began to rise again towards the first floor. It came over him like warm water filling his stomach. He had to take a moment to control his breathing. At the third floor he walked to the wall with shaded windows furious at himself. This was not his intention. It had been a fantasy and nothing more.

When he sat at the desk, he felt his briefs shift against him, damp, and the muscles in his pelvis contracted involuntarily. He pulled his materials from his bag and set them in order. His first task was the computer science readings.

Unfortunately, he needed only one hand to read. Three pages in he could no longer ignore the constriction of his uniform and the pleasurable discomfort of how it sat tight across his hips and put pressure on the beginnings of his erection. There was no one around. He looked down and brushed just his thumb, just very lightly—he could see his stomach jump even through his clothes and feel the way he was wetting his underwear further even though he could barely feel his thumb at all through the thick red material. Unacceptable.

Spock gathered his materials and returned to his dorm.

The wetness caught at him in a not entirely pleasant way, but he walked normally. It did not show through his pants to the outer layer of fabric. In his dorm he sat at his own desk and without giving himself time to consider his own moral failings, palmed himself over his clothes, three times, until he was again gasping and contracting, his body attempting to curl into a ball while still seated.

When he sat back and removed his hand, taking deeper, slower, breaths, there was still no outwardly observable sign of his activity. Which was, of course, superfluous information to be filed away and forgotten, if possible. He needed to change.