McCoy had resisted at first, but as Spock knew, he had a plenitude of human weaknesses. Spock had even taunted him for being “soft and sentimental,” but the doctor could not bear the thought of more people so casually “disappearing” just for earning the new Captain’s ire. His nurses and assistant doctors were his friends — as much as was possible on the cutthroat starship. He had already lost Jim, who had afforded him protection in exchange for the occasional sexual favor; he had to admit it was “logical,” as Spock had pointed out, to simply transfer his loyalty to the half-breed Vulcan for the same protection, even if the price was exponentially higher.
It was no secret that he was now the Captain’s kept man — he saw the smirks and heard the snickers as he left Sickbay at the end of his shift each day and walked the corridors alone, dutifully, to the Captain’s quarters. He would not let it bother him. He could even bear the ignominy of being reduced to a sex slave, wearing nothing but a collar as he performed whatever Spock demanded of him. At least the Vulcan was not excessively violent. Once McCoy’s obedience had been established, he had not so much as been slapped by his master. After the first few nights, McCoy had even stopped taking his emergency medical kit since Spock used ample lubricant to prevent him from getting injured. No, that part didn’t trouble McCoy at all.
What did bother him was his own response to the daily fondling and caresses from Spock. At first he had denied it, but not only did his body respond to the stimuli, he also realized that he felt perversely safe knowing that he was Spock’s property now… and whenever he was in the Vulcan’s arms, he relaxed. Despite his better judgment — which scolded him that the treacherous man was not to be trusted — McCoy thought he saw longing in Spock’s eyes, at times even true affection, as though the cold-blooded Vulcan actually cared about what his sex toy thought about him. It was all just wishful thinking, of course, a type of Stockholm Syndrome; McCoy knew his mind was only deceiving itself in order to cope with his untenable situation. And yet over time he had started to crave the Vulcan’s touch, the harsh scrape of that beard against his exposed skin, the feel of the collar around his neck….
It did not help that every time Spock fucked him, he insisted on McCoy coming first, or that he kissed him so gently — almost tenderly — as a reward for good behavior, or made sure that the chafing marks from the collar were low enough to be invisible when he wore his uniform. It did not help at all that Spock held him close all night, pressing occasional kisses to his neck and murmuring words in Vulcan when he thought the Human was asleep; or that he had repeatedly wiped away McCoy’s tears of humiliation, claiming that he did not wish to see him distressed; or that he had on more than one occasion killed men with his bare hands for attempting to touch the doctor. It did not help when McCoy woke to find Spock staring at him, looking lost and vulnerable and as if he could find the answer to his problems in McCoy’s face.
The doctor knew enough of psychology to realize that he had spun a dream out of a nightmare, but he could not stop himself from trying to drown in that dream. Perhaps that was what Spock wanted from him, after all — apart from the sex and subservience, maybe he simply wanted McCoy to immerse himself in the make-believe world he had created.