Title: In a Different Light 
Author: Cait N. 
Pairing: M'Benga/f 
Series: TOS 
Rating: R, for explicit consensual sex

Scenario: Part of the Vulcan's celebration of the Rumairie
involves a "performance" of martial arts. Include one of
these martial arts showings and their significance in a
story pairing Dr. M'Benga, during his time on Vulcan, and
the character of your choice.

Summary: Takes place roughly in the summer of 2274.
M'Benga is doing a fellowship at the University of Vulcan,
Medical Department.  Just his luck, the first night of
Rumairie is the night before he leaves.

Feedback: Yes, yes, oh yes! caitn at mindspring.com

Disclaimer: Paramount owns all the characters, I just take
'em out for a spin every now and then.

Notes: Part of the Rumairie Fuq Fest,
http://www.fvillha.org/Romulan/index.htm 

Also, "fal" in the Vulcan language means "hot."

*   *   * 

"In a Different Light" 
copyright May, 2001 by Cait N.


M'Benga resisted the urge to breathe deeply of the arid
night air. Even after seven months on Vulcan, he still
wasn't acclimated to the thin atmosphere. He shifted
position on the hard, red desert sand and looked around at
. . . the encampment, was the only description he could
come up with. Flame torches formed a large oval, and cast
flickering shadows on the dunes nearby. Muted voices
floated through the air, but they were too low for him to
make out any words. Not for the first time, he wished for
the super acute Vulcan hearing. 

He'd been studying at the University on Vulcan, expanding
his knowledge of Vulcan anatomy and physiology, and taking
a much-needed break from starship life. His time was at an
end, though. He was due to leave tomorrow at noon to
rendezvous with the Enterprise. It was only by blind luck
that tonight was the first night of Rumairie. 

M'Benga had heard the stories -- hushed rumors more like
it -- about Rumairie, but had never thought it was real,
much less thought he'd ever be able to attend one of the
festival nights. Evidently not many humans were privy to
the knowledge of Rumairie, and Admiral Steng had sworn him
to secrecy. Only those offworlders who had gained the trust
of Vulcans at the highest level were allowed to observe the
festival. M'Benga had never pulled so many strings in his
entire career, but he considered it well worth the effort. 

Rumairie was supposedly an ancient pagan festival of
Vulcan held during the time when T'Kuht, Vulcan's sister
planet, is full. According to rumors, the festival included
feasting, and dancing. M'Benga couldn't imagine ANY Vulcan
feasting and dancing and "partying," which was why he had a
ringside seat at this, the first night of Rumairie. 

M'Benga was startled out of his silent reverie by the
pounding of the drums. Two huge drums, resembling
kettledrums, and what looked like a gong, were set up at
one apex of the torch-defined oval. Two muscular Vulcan men
were pounding on the drums, creating a low, hypnotic
rhythm. Another man joined the group, and began
accompaniment on the gong. Instead of the teeth-jarring
noise M'Benga had expected from it, the sounds were similar
to those of a xylophone -melodious, and a perfect
counterpoint to the low, sonorous drumbeats 

A figure shrouded in black appeared in the center of the
oval. M'Benga could have sworn it hadn't been there just a
few seconds before. A black shapeless caftan pooled around
their ankles, and seemed to engulf the tiny frame. He
peered closer. It was woman, but not one he recognized.
When she spoke, her voice carried to the furthest reaches
of those seated around the oval. 

"Rumairie . As it was in the time of our ancestors, and
our ancestors' ancestors , so as it is now. On this, our
first night of the festival, we celebrate the fierce
warriors that we were . . . so that we may never forget."
She stepped back, into the darkness, and the drums became
louder. 

A group of four men appeared from the shadows and ran into
the center of the oval, taking defensive stances, stalking
one another. Masked, and dressed in silvery-black
bodysuits, they looked like dancers to M'Benga. Their
movements were precise, and after watching a while, he
could tell they were methodical, too. Not that it had been
rehearsed -- he wouldn't go that far. The kicks and blows
could easily turn deadly, if this were a real battle.
M'Benga didn't doubt that only the highly developed Vulcan
discipline kept this from turning bloody. 

M'Benga watched in fascination, his eyes growing wide as
another figure joined the group of men, this one
unmistakably female. Her black bodysuit molded her slender
frame like a second skin, and the red metallic threads that
were woven into her outfit, reflected the firelight and
drew attention to her like a moth to a flame. 

In short, she took his breath away. Her movements were
those of a wildcat on the prowl - sleek and smooth with an
innate grace he couldn't help but admire. The men around
her were bumbling buffoons in comparison. 

He wanted her, as he hadn't wanted a woman in a very long
time. He couldn't see a thing between the darkness of the
night, and the concealing mask she wore, but that didn't
matter in the least. He found her movements in the
firelight, the red threads flickering to life, all were
erotic whispers to his aroused body. 

He could see some of the other onlookers out of the
corners of his eyes. They were reacting to the woman's
performance, leaning forward in collective silence. 

M'Benga felt a twinge of regret at the fact that she was
Vulcan. He had spent enough time around them to know of
their mating habits. He knew that Vulcans shunned casual
sex. Still, he wouldn't rest until he at least found out
the woman's name. 

The exhibition ended suddenly in a cacophony of discordant
notes from the gong, thundering booms from the drums, and a
disquieting stillness from the five people in the center of
the gathering. 

Shattering the quiet, the Vulcans sitting around the oval
clacked together pairs of fans. M'Benga had noticed people
carrying them around earlier -each person had two palm-
frond looking wooden fans. He'd assumed they were used to
combat the arid heat of the Vulcan summer, but it looked
like he'd assumed incorrectly. 

M'Benga didn't have fans, so he resorted to good old-
fashioned hand clapping. He watched with hawk-like vision
as she ran lightly from the oval. He jumped to his feet and
followed her, not caring about the rest of the festival. 

In between shadowed tents, and other festival patrons, he
followed at a short, but respectable distance. She ducked
into a tent at the far edge of the encampment. He waited to
see if she would reappear, then he followed. 

He pushed back the tent flap and stepped inside
cautiously, holding it open for light. "Hello?" he
questioned in a low tone. 

Unseen hands grabbed him by the front of his shirt and
hauled him inside. The tent flap fell back into position,
plunging the interior into a cocoon of darkness. The only
illumination was a flickering candle set on the ground in
the corner. 

He blinked, trying to see in the dimness. A shove to his
chest caught him off guard. He hit the ground with an
"oof!". By the time his eyes had finally adjusted, the hand
that had pushed against his chest had the top two buttons
on his shirt undone, and was working on the third. He
looked at his assailant 

Oh god! It was *her* -- the woman he'd been pursuing. She
stilled above him, straddling his hips, and he took a
moment to drink in the sight of her. She still wore the
mask that concealed half her face, leaving only her lips
and eyes visible. Her hair was long and dark, while most
Vulcan women he'd seen had chosen to wear their hair short,
cropped off just beneath their ears. Her lips were full and
her eyes such a dark brown, they were almost as dark as the
mask that framed them. 

"Wha --" M'Benga started to say, but was cut off by her
lips pressing tightly against his. It was nirvana. 

She kept kissing him, running her tongue along his lips,
all the while her hands rubbing his now bare chest. Her
fingertips teased his nipples, her nails raking across
them, making him groan in pleasure and pain. 

She broke off the kiss and moved her lips down to his
collarbone. "Who are you?" he moaned, wondering if this was
all a dream, and if so, hoping he never woke up. He was
lost in a sea of sexual need. 

She raised her head and smiled lazily. "Call me Fal," she
answered in a low, husky voice. 

"I --" 

"No," she said, placing a hand against his lips. She gave
him a look he couldn't decipher, then started licking and
sucking his nipples, first the left, then the right. 

By the time she'd worked her way down to his navel and was
unfastening his loose trousers, talking was furthest from
his mind. 

In the wake of "Fal's" sexual onslaught, M'Benga's
thoughts melted like snow under a warm spring sun. Logic
seemed to have deserted them both. The only coherent
thought as her luscious mouth descended slowly toward his
groin, was that he never wanted this moment to end. 

Her mouth closed over his hard cock and his back arched
off the ground. It'd been close to five years since he'd
last had a blowjob -- since he'd last had sex, period. The
more she sucked, licked, nibbled, and fondled, the closer
he got to losing control and cumming all over her face. 

Finally he grabbed her hair and pulled back, forcing her
mouth to break contact. She smiled, her mouth gleaming
wetly. She slid up his body until she was once again
straddling his hips, her sex pressing against his erection.
She bent her head, the strands of her hair brushing against
his chest. He felt along her back for the fastening to her
bodysuit, hoping it wasn't one that she'd have to stand up
and wiggle out of. 

Luck was with him. He found the hidden fastening in the
back. Gripping the edges of the material in both hands, he
tore them apart. The material split along the back, on
across her buttocks, and partway down each leg. He sent a
silent prayer of thanks to whoever had designed the outfit,
and finished ripping it from her body. 

Looking at her unclothed body in the flickering
candlelight, he doubted he'd be able to find a more perfect
woman, Vulcan or otherwise. Her breasts were pert and full,
topped by smallish nipples. Just made to fit a man's hands
. . . or mouth. He raised his head slightly and drew one
rosy nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. She growled and
pressed his head tight against her breast. Taking that as a
cue she wanted more, he sucked hard, his teeth nipping her
nipple lightly, and making her moan louder. He divided his
attention between both breasts, her hands grasping his head
and pressing him always closer. 

His right hand slipped down between her legs. Her slit was
slick with her wetness. He moaned around her nipple,
knowing he couldn't wait any longer. He grabbed her around
the waist, hoisting her up and onto his waiting prick.
M'Benga threw his head back as he slid into her. Fal leaned
back, her hands gripping his knees, arching her back and
exposing her sex to him. She started a rocking motion, his
fingers finding her clit, rubbing in counterpoint to her
motions. She moaned, her eyes closed and her head thrown
back. The sounds she was making, her scent of her sex, the
silky touch of her hair - all combined to push M'Benga
closer to the edge. 

He grabbed her waist and her up and down, pounding his
pelvis up against hers. She leaned forward then, meeting
him thrust for thrust. 

M'Benga increased his tempo, ignoring the sweat starting
to pour down his face, and the fact that his arms were
beginning to tire. "Unh, unh, unh," he grunted, feeling his
balls start to tighten. 

Fal screamed, words M'Benga was in no condition to
translate. She dug her nails into his upper arms and
squeezed her legs together as tight as she could around his
hips. M'Benga came in one heated rush. His legs locked up,
and he howled his release. 

He lay there, grasping to get his breath back in the
heated atmosphere of the tent, only half aware of his
surroundings. He hadn't had an orgasm like that in a long
time. 

Fal was lying atop him, her head resting on his shoulder.
He ran his hand over her head, smoothing out her indigo
hair in an intimate gesture. His hand stilled as it
encountered the tie of her mask. Curiosity piqued, his
fingers loosened the ribbons, ready to halt if she
protested. 

Once the mask was loosened, Fal sat up, her eyes locked on
M'Benga's face, the mask slowly falling away. 

M'Benga gasped in surprise as he recognized the face of
the woman he'd just made love with. "T'Pring!" he whispered
hoarsely. 

She raised a lone eyebrow. "That is correct, M'Benga." 

"What? How?" He started to ask how she knew who he was,
but that wasn't what was important right now. She could
have seen him when the Enterprise was there seven years
ago, or she could have seen him during the past few months,
and had inquired discreetly about him. M'Benga was filled
with so many questions he didn't know where to begin. 

T'Pring rolled off of him, and padded across the tent to a
small table. She gathered up her hair and pinned it back at
her nape. "You are wondering why I did what I did?" She
turned around and motioned to a small bed. He'd missed it
before. 

He sat on the bed, ignoring their nudity, waiting for her
answer. 

"Are you familiar with Pon farr?" 

He nodded. "I know enough to understand what it is . . .
and what it means for a Vulcan." 

"I married Stonn and we were . . . content with each
other." She looked him in the eye, her face inscrutable.
"He died two months ago." 

"And you were entering Pon farr?" M'Benga surmised. 

She nodded in confirmation. 

"Why didn't you mate with someone else?" 

That eyebrow went up again. "Take another mate so soon
after Stonn's death? It would be . . . logical, but I was
not thinking logically. I was battling Plak-tow - the blood
fever. My best option was to find someone during the
Rumairie festival to satisfy my mating lust." 

"And if you hadn't?" 

"I would have fought off the Pon farr as best as I could.
I might have asked an elder for help." Her expression
softened. "I am glad I do not have to do that." 

"What makes you think I won't tell anyone about this 

"I could always perform a mind-meld - erase any memory of
our encounter." 

"You could," he conceded, "but I don't think you will." 

"No, I don't think I will. I will trust that your sense of
honor prohibits you from discussing this with anyone else." 

His sense of honor was indeed pricked. He got up, reaching
for his pants. 

"What are you doing?" 

"I'm getting dressed," M'Benga answered. "Don't worry, I
won't tell anyone about this." 

He raised his eyes to find T'Pring standing in front of
him, her body still glistening with the sweat of their
passion, the musky scent between her legs wafting up to him
on some errant breeze. 

T'Pring took the pants from his hands, and let them drop
back to the floor. "Oh, but doctor," she drawled in a voice
that M'Benga had never heard come from a Vulcan before,
"we're just getting started." 

*** 

The midmorning sun shone through an opening in the top of
the tent on M'Benga's face, awakening him. He took a minute
to realize where he was and then the events of the previous
night came rushing back. He was alone, as he'd expected.
M'Benga located his clothes and started dressing. His eyes
fell on something sticking out from under the bed. He
picked it up, a smile playing across his lips. M'Benga
would keep T'Pring's secret, out of respect and a sense of
honor that had nothing to do with Starfleet. He finished
dressing, tucked the black mask into his trouser pocket,
and walked out into the blinding-bright Vulcan morning. 



THE END
