The Striker
Chapter 4

Copyright© 2015 by The Slim Rhino

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 4 - 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  

Trip walked along the corridor of Starfleet Headquarters, wondering why Admiral Forrest wanted to see a lowly Lieutenant. The last time he had spoken to Forrest was in the 602 club, when the then-Commodore had announced that the Vulcans had pulled the plug on the Warp Three project.

But what really occupied his thoughts were domestic issues. The prediction by Ambassador Soval that T'Pol would become more brazen in intimate matters was coming true with worrying speed. Her night clothes had been skimpy enough to begin with and after a few days she had ditched the top for good, sleeping topless from then on. Of course that did not do much to strengthen his resolve to practice celibacy until her betrothal had been annulled.

Both his upbringing and the abhorrent thought of adultery had been convenient deterrents to any thoughts of going further than a kiss, but that no longer counted; Soval had recently explained that a betrothal was not as binding as a human engagement and could easily be challenged by either mate – with the woman having fewer options, though.

Leading life of a monk in the proximity of daily temptation was not helped by the fact that Vulcans were designed for higher gravity than humans, which meant that despite their size, her breasts were simply perfect and not sagging the least bit. Even thinking about the most perfect pair he'd seen in his life was causing an irritatingly obvious reaction and Trip quickly found it necessary to disappear temporarily into a nearby toilet. The blue flight suits did nothing to hide male arousal.

When the treacherous organ had calmed down again, he continued on his way, forcing himself to think of other things than the image of a topless Vulcan. Soon he had reached the office of Admiral Forrest.


He had to give it to the young Lieutenant, Maxwell thought, his association with a Vulcan seemed to have calmed the temper of the man. He looked much more collected than the brash youngster who had challenged the Vulcan observers over the viability of Henry Archer's engine a few years ago and had helped A.G. Robinson and Jonathan Archer steal the NX-Beta.

He hadn't even flinched when he noticed Soval's presence in the office, but Maxwell chalked that up to the fact that the young officer had undoubtedly spoken to the Ambassador several times, since he'd decided to take a Vulcan as his girlfriend. Nevertheless, the Admiral had thought that at least the Mariner scarves that he and the gray-haired Vulcan were wearing should have gotten a rise out of the younger man, but it was obvious that Tucker was a man who had had enough surprises dumped on him lately to not flinch at small things like that.

Smiling slightly, he took a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to the engineer.

"I didn't even know I had an aunt Betsy, let alone that she died." Tucker was now at least looking a little confused, understandably so after having read what was a will, under the terms of which he inherited a very substantial amount of money from a far-flung relative of whose existence he'd never heard.

"That's because she wasn't your aunt," Maxwell explained, and indicated towards Ambassador Soval. "Meet the new owner of the Sausalito Mariners, Mr. Tucker. He's your aunt Betsy."

So he still can be surprised after all, the Admiral thought with amusement as the younger officer stared open-mouthed at the ambassador.

"So I guess I'm supposed to invest this unexpected 'inheritance' in buyin' shares in the team?"

"Correct, Lieutenant," Maxwell agreed. "For obvious reasons it can't be made public that Ambassador Soval bought the team. The High Command would immediately relieve him of his post and god knows who would succeed him. So with a little help from Starfleet Intelligence, we arranged for you to be remembered fondly by an old aunt, while coach Mancuso has 'won' a prize in a little-known lottery. Officially Mancuso, you and myself will buy the Mariners with one third of the shares each."

"Can someone explain to me why the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth is suddenly interested in buyin' a sports team?" the lieutenant asked the old Vulcan, his expression puzzled. "I had the impression that you weren't very fond of T'Pol joinin' in the first place."

"It is a somewhat opportunistic move," Soval admitted. "The dismantling of the team shortly after T'Pol's arrival would inevitably cause accusations of a disagreeable nature. In addition, it stands to reason that her arrival and the perceived 'exotic nature' of having a female Vulcan practice the sport will cause a heightened interest in the team."

"So you're hopin' to get some return on the investment out of it," the engineer deduced swiftly.

Maxwell smiled. Not too many humans were confident enough to 'accuse' the Vulcan Ambassador of something as mundane as wanting to make money.

"Contrary to popular belief Vulcans do have economic dealings, Lieutenant, so I indeed expect financial gain from the investment, but it is a mere positive side-effect. The more important aspect is T'Pol's safety. The High Command, predictably, declared her decision to practice this sport frivolous and unbecoming a Vulcan, but if she gains enough public exposure, the High Command cannot persecute her without causing diplomatic problems."

"I don't think she'll like too much 'exposure'," the young lieutenant pointed out.

"T'Pol knew that she would arouse public interest when she joined the team," Soval explained. "To a certain degree she is willing to endure it, and since it may help her security, I would say it may even be logical."

Maxwell hid his grin behind his hand. How many people out there did know that Soval actually had a sense of humor? Granted, he kept it well hidden; and with the High Command breathing down his neck, the poor old guy had to keep up the pretense of being a grumpy old git who regarded humans barely more evolved than turd-throwing apes. Thankfully the select few who were allowed to see past this facade soon realized that the truth was far from that carefully-crafted fake image of the grumpy old bat.

"Okay, Mancuso and I buyin' shares in the team won't be questioned by anyone as we're on the coaching staff," the younger man noted. "But what about you, Admiral? What's your excuse?"

Forrest snorted in amusement. "Trust me, Lieutenant, everyone even remotely close to the Mariners knows me. I've been their most rabid fanboy over the years. That position your 'better half' is playing once belonged to me. Although we were still toiling about in the fourth division back then and I was never such a devastating weapon from thirty yards out."

"Frankly, I would have pegged you for the American variant, Sir."

"That's why I was only good for the minor leagues," the admiral admitted. "I was too slow. But it was what I wanted to do. And my granddad was from Britain. He would never have forgiven me if I had played 'hand-egg'."

The young engineer laughed. "That's what T'Pol calls it, too. All with a logical explanation, of course."

Maxwell couldn't help but laugh as well.


"You ready for this?" Trip asked. "This time there are fifteen thousand people in there, and not all of them are goin' to welcome you."

T'Pol, lost for a better idea of calming his fears, leaned in and kissed him. "Let's re-evaluate that after I score my first goal," she said, despite knowing that coach Mancuso would not nominate her for the starting eleven.

"Nothing wrong with your self-esteem is there?" Charles asked with a smile, and she caressed his cheek with her right hand.

"It is only logical," she replied. "Jamieson is a capable player, but he is still recovering from an injury. He will tire within the first sixty minutes and the coach has no more alternatives."

"All the best," he said and walked away. T'Pol stood and watched until he was out of sight before entering the females' dressing room.


Malcolm Reed was not best pleased. The first game of the season had so far been a drag. The opponent had pretty much all ten outfield players stationed around the penalty area, effectively destroying any attempt at playing; it was hardly surprising that the audience was getting restless after more than an hour of what looked likely to end up an utterly tedious nil-nil.

This was not a good advertisement for the game that the Yanks still blithely referred to as 'soccer'. He himself certainly wouldn't want to have paid good money to sit and watch this damned boring match for an hour and a half. A fair number of people had turned up out of curiosity; it would be surprising if many of them gave it a second try if they didn't see anything more worthwhile than they had so far.

Adding to that was the fact that Jamieson was dead on his legs. With all the grit of his Irish forebears the chap had given it his all, but just four weeks out of the hospital he was nowhere near full fitness. Malcolm glanced across at the bench, caught Mancuso's eye and rotated the index fingers of his two hands around each other, showing the coach that it was now time for the change they both knew was inevitable. On cue the sign went up, signalling a substitution: number nine was to give way to number fifty-seven. God knew why T'Pol had chosen that weird number, but so far there just hadn't been time for her team captain to ask if there was any particular reason.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome on the field – coming in for Paddy Jamieson – T'Pol of Vulcan!"

The announcement of the stadium reporter was met with mixed response, and Malcolm found himself seething at the few idiots, who chose to whistle. It was time to teach them a lesson.

When the Vulcan came on to the field, he immediately waved her to come over.

"T'Pol, d'you think you can whack one over their defence if I set you up with the right pass?" he asked.

"Their defense is fairly compact," she replied. "I would need a ball about thirty-four centimeters above ground at considerable speed."

Malcolm snorted in amusement. "Would thirty-five do?" There was no way anyone could fulfill T'Pol's requirement precisely but at the same time he knew she would get the job done if the parameters were only half-way right.

With a wave of his hand he summoned Masterson, the left midfielder.

"Jerry, I want you to go into centre field," the captain explained. "T'Pol, you stay close to Jerry, just go where he goes, he knows my movements inside-out. I'll try to feed you as many passes as I can. It's the only way we're going to get past their bloody wall."


"Dammit!" Maxwell swore. "That's not football. They aren't even playing!"

"I agree, their only goal seems to be avoiding defeat, as opposed to trying to win," Soval agreed. As newly minted owners of the club they were afforded the luxury of using the best of the VIP lounges, and since these were shielded from outside view by dark windows the Vulcan Ambassador could indulge his human friend by wearing the 'traditional' apparel without causing censure among fellow Vulcans.

"Wait!" he heard the human shout and every further word just grew in volume as the admiral leaned forward in his chair, gesticulating as wildly as though his words and actions could influence what was going forward on the pitch. "Reed is past their bulldozer – pass it to T'Pol man, pass it, dammit, she's waiting! Yes Yes! YES!"

Soval sat back, tolerating the emotional indulgence of his friend in a regal manner. Moments before, T'Pol had finally managed to kick the ball into the opposing net with a risky long-range shot. No doubt his niece would try to convince the humans that such things were normal on Vulcan, but in reality, while the calculations were simple to Vulcans, directing the device by no more input than positioning one's foot was everything but easy. The old Vulcan allowed himself a moment of pride regarding the aptitude of his brother's daughter before suppressing the momentary lack of emotional control.

He had feared that T'Pol would get caught in the wild display of celebration that humans were so fond of, but obviously her team mates respected the boundaries of propriety and confined their celebratory gestures to amicably patting her back. It was still more contact than Vulcan etiquette allowed, but the ambassador was realistic enough to know that for a species which thrived on emotions some sort of acknowledgment for the long-awaited goal was needed. With satisfaction he watched how T'Pol accepted the congratulations with well-trained serenity.

But the agreeable sensation of pride in T'Pol's achievement was soon supplanted by an undercurrent of concern. It was not something he could ever speak about to anyone, but the fact that T'Pol had most likely won the game for the team would no doubt awaken some of the baser, less agreeable instincts of Vulcan's dark past.

For all its rules against overt physical aggression, the human game was still a battle, merely one that all combatants survived under normal circumstances. As descendants of one of the galaxy's most volatile warrior races, the combative instincts were still present in all Vulcans. Soval could feel the onslaught of victorious euphoria in himself and it would no doubt take a very extended meditation to rein in these unwanted sensations bequeathed to him by his undesirable ancestors.

For T'Pol as a young female of child-bearing age, the consequences were potentially much more dire. Her ancient instincts would drive her to mate, a desire once rooted in the necessity to replace the lives lost on the battlefield. That the battle today had been a symbolic and non-lethal one made no difference. The base instincts of a Vulcan knew no reason.

All was now dependent on the self-restraint and creativity of a young human male. For the first time in his life Soval found himself wishing that, like Maxwell, he had a deity with whom he could plead for assistance.


On their way home T'Pol was strangely silent. They'd arranged to be dropped off at the end of the road by taxi, and as they walked the last hundred meters Trip found it hard to keep up with her. More worrying by far, however, was the fact that she still didn't say anything at all, and he had no idea what was happening. Was she upset? Was she trying not to show her elation about having won the game? His guess seemed to be as good as anyone's.

 
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