The Striker
Chapter 2: Fateful Decision

Copyright© 2015 by The Slim Rhino

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2: Fateful Decision - Ambassadorial Aide T'Pol of Vulcan is displeased with the workout facilities in the Embassy and finds a solution that doesn't quite please her peers. An alternate universe prequel to the "Startrek: Enterprise" series we saw on TV, that features some unusual pairings.

Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Fan Fiction   Sports   Science Fiction   Aliens   Light Bond   Oral Sex   Petting   Military  

T'Pol sat still, sunk in deep meditation. Her legs were aching from the frequent hard contact with the human who had disagreed with her participation in the training, but she endured the discomfort with the trained ease of a former operative and a Vulcan in general.

There had been a lot of emotions and sensations to process, and she found herself no longer surprised that the young human engineer, who had become a regular companion lately, was in the center of her thoughts. A momentary lapse of attention, thoughtlessly exiting the changing booth in the sports shop only partly-clad, had changed the young male. She had not expected that a fellow female would be inconvenienced by her lack of clothing – after all human and Vulcan females were mostly identically built. But, so much was obvious, the sight of her unclothed torso had clearly had a profound effect on Lieutenant Tucker.

What she did not understand was why that knowledge did not inconvenience her. In fact, if she was required to describe the emotions associated with the incident, she would rather describe them as ... agreeable. It appeared to her that the human's reaction was one of appreciation rather than displeasure or even disgust at her exposed form. It was only logical that human males would appreciate a female body, because so once did Vulcans (and most likely they still did, but would of course never admit as much).

In their bid to banish the emotions that had fueled Vulcan's violent past, her ancestors had summarily banished all emotion, suppressing them in an almost militant manner, among them those that were better mastered than suppressed. During border skirmishes with Andoria, her planet had suffered devastating losses, not the least due to the fact that her race suppressed emotions like fear, instead of recognizing it as a sign of potential danger. Expressing that fact publicly had played a part in her dismissal from the Ministry of Security.

Her latest decision to join a human sports team would no doubt cause more censure from the Vulcan authorities and the only regret she had, was that Tela'at Soval would have some of it directed at his person for his 'failure' to prevent it from happening. She took comfort in the fact that the venerable Ambassador and brother of her deceased father had withstood the overbearing control of the Vulcan authorities for half a century in his posting on Earth, so it was to be expected that he would continue to do so.


Soval ended the recording, deep in thought. Although Earth had abandoned the concept of 'nations' a long time ago and was now ruled by a United Earth government, the humans still organized competitions between those formerly divided regions as was evident by the event called 'The World Cup' of which his friend Maxwell had provided a recording.

He could still not completely reconcile himself to the fact that T'Pol would partake in such a competition, much less among an otherwise entirely male team, but he had to admit that the game was much more than just mindless violence against opposing players and an inanimate object made from the skin of animals. It was in fact a highly tactical endeavor in which the intellectually superior opponent could easily beat the one relying on brute force. And that was a rather appealing thought for a Vulcan.

He had no doubt that T'Pol, who was an unusually intelligent individual, would master the tactical challenges and become a valuable member of the human team; and despite his misgivings about her decision, he found himself wishing that she would succeed in her self-imposed challenge. He decided to watch her further progress, although hoping that Maxwell would not require him to wear the garishly colored apparel again.


Lieutenant Charles Tucker III stood at the window of his Starfleet apartment looking at the lights of San Francisco at night. Sleep would not come easy after such a day. It was unnerving enough that he could literally feel how he was falling head over heels for the cool charms of the Vulcan woman, but seeing her barge out of the changing booth topless was an image that was now burned into his memory like a cattle branding. He'd seen his fair share of ladies in various stages of undress, but none of them had been as spectacularly built as the one he had unexpectedly seen in the afternoon, stark-naked from the waist up.

He had escorted her back to the Vulcan compound after the tryout and – on an impulse – even hugged her, but in general the situation had been awkward as he could hardly tell her what had been on his mind at the time. How does one go about telling a Vulcan that you are falling in love with her? It was a question for which he had no answer.

The coach had offered that he could join the team as well, and that would have enabled him to be with T'Pol even more frequently than now, but he would not have nearly enough free time to train seriously enough to have a realistic chance at making the team on merit. Finding time to pick her up at the Vulcan compound for a short walk or dinner in a restaurant was one thing, but almost 8 hours of practice every week? That was too much to ask of his schedule.

He sighed and sat down on the couch, closing his eyes while he replayed the day's events in his memory, but he quickly abandoned the idea when a very obvious bodily reaction accompanied his reminiscence of the visit to the sports shop.


"With all due respect, Sir," Malcolm said, annoyed by Monrovich's tirade. "Have you even been watching the training? She scored more goals in one game than Gonzales managed in half a bloody season. Who cares if she's a woman or not? I for one am sick of being a midfield team in the bloody second division. If we want to get somewhere, we need a good forward. She is one, while Gonzales, quite painfully obviously, is not."

He held the team owner's stare. The slimeball could of course not know that he was trying to intimidate one of Earth's most experienced undercover operatives, and Malcolm was not inclined to tell him. In fact it was rather amusing that a fat moneybag with all the sporting credentials of a hippopotamus was trying to stare down someone who had fought Gorn, Cardassians and other more disagreeable species whose existence nobody on the planet, except for a few battle-hardened men and women like those in the Section, so much as suspected.

"She has no idea of tactics and falls over at the drop of a fuckin' hat," his opponent seethed. "The coach should never have taken her on the team."

"She fell a lot," Malcolm agreed. "Every time Gonzales or one of his cronies hacked her down. The coach has never sent off someone during a training game until today and for that tackle it was more than deserved. If I was you, I would use the back exit to get out of here, because there seems to be a rather upset gentleman in the stands who did not take awfully kindly to your heckling and Gonzales' attempt to break her legs."

Fatso trundled off in a huff – amusingly towards the back exit – and Malcolm allowed himself a moment of smugness about his victory. The scumbag could have kicked him out of the team easily, but even Monrovitch knew that, left to his own devices with just Gonzales and his posse, his team would drop down the order like a stone.

Several players gave him a pat on the back and the coach just grinned like the cat that ate the canary.

"Where is Gonzales anyway?" Malcolm asked. "I think I want to have a word with him."

"I kicked him out of the team," the coach admitted. "Morales, Checo and Rodrigo walked out with him, as you'd expect. Had you not given Monrovich a piece of your mind just now, I think I'd be sacked by now."

"Good riddance to the lot of them," Reed said grumpily. "That leaves T'Pol and Jenkins as our only true forwards though."

"Well, I think we can agree that having no striker or Gonzales wasting air upfront won't make much of a difference," the coach said, rolling his eyes, and the team broke into laughter. "We'll have to make up for it in the midfield. I think we'll use a 4-5-1 with you, Malcolm, and Rich as double-sixes, N'Kono and Masterson on the left and right flanks, and Jamieson as offensive center."

"It would be worth a try," Malcolm agreed. "Considering it's been only the first proper training I think T'Pol's positioning was much better than yesterday."

"She's a quick learner," the coach concurred. "Maybe all that talk about how smart Vulcans are is more than just a myth."

"Where is she anyway?" the Brit asked. "Someone should have a look at that ankle."

The coach chuckled.

"I think she's in good hands. The 'upset gentleman', as you called him, offered to bring her over to Doc Pardus. I think a good icing down is all it takes. She seems to be quite a tough cookie."


T'Pol was not in an agreeable mood. It was not so much the fact that she had to sling her arm around the human's neck to steady herself – in fact she found that experience not disagreeable at all. It was being seen to be in need of help which spoiled the experience. She had never been able to endure such situations with any patience.

Despite her best efforts, her human companion saw right through her attempts to hide the pain. Before she could stop him, he had already hailed a taxi and helped her sit down in it.

"Starfleet campus, house forty-three," she heard him order, and she looked at him inquiringly.

"We'll make a stop at my place," he explained. "I doubt you have any ice packs in the compound."

"And you happen to do so," she said with a touch of sarcasm seeping into her voice. Although she was not displeased by the thought of spending some more time with her human companion, she had heard claims among the compound's denizens that, for humans, taking a female home to one's residence after a 'date' amounted to a precursor to sexual relations, something she definitely was not planning to engage in - not yet - as her mind added without her having planned to have these thoughts. With a considerable effort she hid her shock at having these unbidded flashes of illicit imagination.

"I'm an engineer, working on prototype technology," he said with a smile, oblivious to her silent misgivings. "I burn myself more than once every week, so I always have some ice packs in the freezer."

She resolved to watch out for any indications of indecent motives while visiting the dwelling, but so far Lieutenant Tucker had given her no reason to doubt the sincerity of his words, so she relaxed somewhat. If anything, her own thoughts seemed to be more dangerous than any pontentially - and so far purely hypothetical - ulterior motives of the human. He had never given her reason to suspect him of such.


T'Pol sat on the very comfortable couch of the human's home, her right leg with its swollen ankle propped up on a pillow. The residence of the young male was not as she had expected it to be. There was no sign of untidiness or even chaos as another rumor rife in the compound claimed. Apparently, on the contrary, unattached human males were indeed able of keeping their home in order.

Or they are not as unattached as one thought, she mentally added, and was surprised by how upset she was by the thought when she saw a picture frame on a shelf, displaying Lieutenant Tucker with a young female, each having their arm resting around the other's shoulder.

To her displeasure, her host had obviously noticed that momentary lapse in controlling her emotions.

"That's Lizzy, my baby sister," he explained, carefully wrapping the flexible ice pack around her ankle.

"She does not look like an infant."

The human laughed softly, while fixing the cooling device with a towel.

"It's a human expression. It means she's younger than I – by three years. She's an architect back home in Florida."

"You seem to have quite an affection for each other." She deliberately ignored the surge of quite illogical gratification that the attractive female in the photograph was a sibling, instead of a potential mate.

"Well, don't you love your brother or sister?"

"I do not have siblings. Many Vulcans only produce a single offspring in their lifetime. Thankfully there are enough, who produce multiple offspring. Or species would face extinction were this not the case."

"Much like humans these days," her host said. "My parents had three, but that's becoming a bit rare nowadays. Most people choose career over kids. They don't know what they're missing."

T'Pol was taken aback by the wistfulness of his words. It was apparent that the young male did not only cherish the memory of his siblings, but he also seemed to have a strong wish for children. That would of course rule out any intentions in him to seek an intimate relationship with her as she, as a member of an alien species, would not be able to bear his offspring. To her shock, she found the thought thoroughly disagreeable. Again, it took a substantial effort not to display any outward sign of her inner thoughts. But this time the emotional turmoil was too powerful.

Something in her mind snapped, and a decision was made. On an impulse she forcefully grabbed the human and despite not really knowing anything of the technique, she pressed her lips against his as she had seen portrayed on human paintings. Thankfully he seemed to be familiar with the ritual, and she willingly followed his lead. The torrent of emotions that washed over her in that moment of short but intense touch-telepathic contact was exhilarating and frightening at the same time, and she became lost in the sensation of his lips moving against hers.

When her senses cleared, she and her partner in the experience had already parted, and the human was looking at her wide-eyed in what could only be described as utter shock, breathing heavily.

"I - I apologize if I..." She found herself inexplicably unable to construct a coherent sentence.

 
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