The pairing is Dylan/Tyr and it is definitely not for the little tykes.

This story is best understood if you watch the 1972 Gene Roddenberry movie PLANET EARTH (which features another Dylan Hunt who has been caught in a time chasm) preferable with the man in your life sitting naked on the floor eating cooked cereal with a large wooden spoon.

Captain Dylan Hunt seemed to think better when he was pacing. He was less prone to distract himself with the items he found at his desk: playing with his pens, stringing together paper fasteners, sorting through flexy messages, or searching his databases for who knows what. Today he had to do some serious thinking because the problem with Tyr Anasazi, his weapons officer, had reached the limit of his tolerance. Some action had to be taken. Tyr was coming to his room for dinner that evening and he planned to get everything straightened out once and for all.

In the last few months Tyr's insubordination had manifest itself again. Just when it seemed the Nietzschean had become willing to play by the rules and take his part as weapons officer on the Andromeda Ascendant seriously, he changed again. He began disappearing in the Maru for days on end and always returned tired and cranky. Tyr seemed to be avoiding even the most simple of tasks causing Beka and Harper to be overworked and short of temper. It was fortunate that they had not had any encounters with hostile species, because right now Dylan was not sure that he could count on Tyr. This was going to change if he had any hope of proceeding on his mission with Tyr as part of his crew.

He sifted the options through his mind. There were not many and they were not pretty. Dismissal of the Nietzschean from his crew was the logical outcome of most of the scenarios he worked through. It was not a pleasant thought. The replacement of a strong crewmember would be difficult. He would have a whole new set of problems with whomever he recruited. It was better to have the devil you know. . . . if he could only come up with a way to get him . . . .

There was one thing that he hadn't tried. He knew it was probably the answer, even though the thought of using it was frightening. The crisis on the ship would require the use of a potion alleged to be the ultimate solution -- to be used only when everything else failed. Right now it is was tucked in a pouch at the bottom of the trunk in an obscure storage bay, sealed tightly with an electronic High Guard lock. Only by inserting a combination of five-digit random numbers, known only to him, could the bay be opened. He kept his most private items there, including this potion given to him by his mother before he left for the High Guard Academy.

Because he had never had need to try it, he had no idea if it would work or not. Maybe it was a placebo. He wouldn't put it past his mother to give him some mixture concocted of her herbs to hold for when times got unbearable, knowing that having it would keep him fighting through the toughest of times. His mother was like that. Full of "fairy tales" and "myths" from many different cultures. She had told him that the recipe for the potion had been handed down through the women of her family for generations and that she had given it to him only because she had had no daughters. It was the secret of the "Federation of Ruth, and she trusted him to use it only in case of dire emergency. He took comfort in the fact that his mother had trusted him, and until today had never felt the need to even consider using her secret solution.

* * * *

The two men sat in Dylan's suite across a table set with High Guard china and silver. Dylan found formal meals comforting especially when there was serious business to discuss. He felt that he had an upper hand because he knew that Tyr was always less than comfortable wearing his full uniform. Tyr seemed to prefer chainmail and raveled knit shirts. Under his long leather coat, the leather undershirt seemed to strangle the Nietzschean's neck. Dylan liked the feeling of control it gave him.

"I have a treat for you tonight, Tyr." Dylan smiled as he placed the bowl in front of his guest.

Most any other species would have turned up their face at the beige mix of soft-cooked grain topped with a small fried egg. Tyr looked up at him and smiled. It was Nietzschean gourmet food.

"Here, you'll need a spoon." He handed Tyr a new, long-handled spoon fashioned of white ash.

Tyr looked at it, balanced it on his finger, and once again gave an approving look. There was a protocol associated with the eating of this gruel, taught at the High Guard Academy; and by adhering to it, Dylan was showing the Nietzschean that he had taken the time to become familiar with his species' food rituals.

"You are not participating, Captain Hunt?" His deep chocolate eyes searched and questioned.

"I have an allergy to flax seed. Discovered it after sharing this treat with Gaheris Rhade one evening. My eyes and mouth swelled up horribly. But I wanted you to have this tonight, because we have some serious matters to discuss. I wanted it to be a token of friendship and understand."

"And I am to be certain that it is not poisoned?"

"You will just have to trust me on that, won't you Tyr?"

He watched as the Nietzschean loaded the spoon and shoveled the gruel into his mouth. He had watched members of the species eat this food before. A Nietzschean's palate must be able to differentiate and appreciate the nuances of the grains in the mixture, something that a human could not do. He watched as Tyr ate with an _expression akin to glee. Even before he had developed the allergy Dylan had considered the gruel tolerable at best.

"I have more, if you want it, the packets make enough for two, but I cooked all of it just in case, as it appears, you really enjoyed it."

"I sometimes get cooked cereal designed for humans, oatmeal and farina, which while being tasty and nutritious are nothing like this. I would like more, but I feel bad eating in front of you."

"Would you feel better if I brought myself some cheese."

"Yes, Captain."

"What?"

"I said 'Yes, Captain,' Captain Hunt."

"Very well, Tyr."

The second bowl was attacked with the same gusto. Dylan watched carefully and picked at his cheese. When Tyr was about halfway through the bowl, Dylan picked up similar wooden spoon and began slowly tapping it on the table. The only reaction it produced from Tyr was his attempting to synchronize his eating with the beat of the spoon. Dylan smiled, and produced a more regular cadence.

"Eat…..eat…..eat….eat…..eat…..eat." When the Nietzschean did nothing but spoon the gruel into this mouth in time with the rhythm, Dylan smiled. It had worked. The rest of the night would really be fun.

He sat down the spoon, arose, removed his High Guard jacket, hung it up, and returned to the table. He was surprised that Tyr had wiped the inside of the bowl clean with a finger and was now licking it. He let him enjoy it; it might be the last thing he enjoyed that night.

"Please stand." He waited as the Nietzschean complied with his order. Quietly standing beside the chair and pushing it back under the table. "Eyes down."

* * * * *

The drug with which he had liberally laced the gruel was rumored, at least by the women in his family, to have been developed in an area called New California on the Planet Earth after its first nuclear destruction. He remembered his mother telling him stories of how the women ruled this part of the planet and kept men as their slaves for manual labor and breeding purposes only. Though the Federation of Ruth had eventually fallen apart, the potent, that they called "Dink Extract" had been secretly used by women for generations and had resulted in the incidence of domestic violence by males to have been almost completely eliminated.

The Nietzschean maintained his pose, standing erect, hands at his side, and eyes focused on a spot on the floor about a foot in front of his boots. Dylan watched the Nietzschean's muscles quiver as he fought to maintain the position.

"At ease, Tyr. Look at me."

Tyr slowly relaxed and looked up to meet Dylan's eyes. However, when their eyes met, Tyr quickly turned his head, as if the captain's gaze was hot and melting.

"You are a good little Dink aren't you, Tyr." Dylan was delighted that there was no response. This was beginning to look like fun.

"I would like you to remove your uniform, Tyr. A good Dink does not need to wear so many clothes." He watched as Tyr removed his jacket and peeled his shirt over his head. The Nietzschean's body was wonderfully developed and cut. Dylan ran a finger along one of Tyr's pecks and was delighted when again Tyr showed no reaction.

"Remove the trousers and assume the eyes down position." Tyr struggled with removing his pants. To remove them, he had to first remove his boots, and Dylan had not told him to do that. Finally a nod indicated that it would be all right for him to sit down and remove the boots. He rose before removing the trousers, unzipped his fly, and hooked his fingers both in the waistband of the pants and his underwear. He removed both in one motion.

"Very efficient. I like that in a Weapons Officer. " Dylan said with a big smile.

His original plan had been to question the Nietzschean about his extra-vehicular activities and perhaps make him engage in a few humiliating activities just to insure his alpha-status; but Dylan found the sight of the naked Nietzschean, his huge cock just beginning to rise, extremely erotic.

Natural history had indicated in all animal groups one member would rise to the top. The alpha member would mate first with the females of the group insuring the survival of his genes. In pack animals such as the wolf or the dingo, the lower animals would roll, submit their sex organs to the inspection of the alpha, as a mark of his status. It would be interesting to watch a chemically enhanced Tyr roll, not to mention very sexually satisfying.

"Would you like to suck my dick, Dink?" Dylan stifled a laugh caused by the sound of the similar consonants running off his tongue. A minor change of an internal sound. 'Dick, dink, dick, dink' he thought to himself as he unzipped his high guard uniform and extracted his erect cock from his boxer briefs.

Tyr dropped silently to his knees and began a process that Dylan had not experienced in over three hundred years. Despite their expressed preference for sex as a procreational tool, Dylan had learned that when Nietzscheans used sex recreationally, they were most adept. Tyr seemed as hungry for Dylan's seed as he was for the seeds in the cooked gruel. The Captain stood at attention and smiled as the Nietzschean performed as ordered.

Dylan gathered the cords of Tyr's hair in his hands and pulled his face closer to his body. As his cock slid unobstructed down the Nietzschean's open throat, he was still aware of the tongue stroking the shaft. Nietzscheans were skilled at fellatio, and often lorded this ability over humans. He remembered at the High Guard Academy that a fellow Nietzschean cadet had bragged that he could make any kluge come in less than three minutes. Dylan had taken him up on it, standing and taking the pleasure for almost eight before collapsing in a heap on the floor. News of the incident had spread quickly and made him somewhat of a folk hero among the male and female members of his class. Postponing orgasm had its rewards.

Perhaps it would be better if he made Tyr wait, too. He seemed too eager, too hungry.

"Enough. I demand my prerogative as Captain of this ship, Tyr Anasazi." It was pure torture to remove his penis from the mouth where it was being so carefully and skillfully kept. It was only by concentrating on what would happen next, that Dylan was able to keep from shooting his cum all over his quarters.

He walked behind Tyr and pushed his head forward. The man was a study of physical beauty and power. His bladed wrists were akimbo on the floor, supporting his head with the long black braids spread out on the floor around him. The line of the muscular back, arching upward and ending with the exquisite ass was almost too much. Dylan slowly ran his hands along Tyr's thighs, moving the knees apart with a slight kick of his foot. The Nietzchean was ready to roll -- surrender to his alpha status.

He made a small concession, walked to his bedside, removed his trousers, and opened a tube of leather fragranced lube. He considered taking the Nietzschean dry, but the fragrance enhanced his pleasure as did the feel of Tyr's ass as he rubbed it on his dark skin. He felt an involuntary quiver shake Tyr's body as the tip of his finger touched his anus. The man was not used to being fucked. He was an alpha. He was a Nietzschean. Dylan had no desire to hurt him, just to let him know that however high his stature was in the world on the Nietzscheans, aboard the Andromeda Ascendant he would always be under Captain Dylan Hunt.

The ache in his balls was too much for prolonged stretching. He would have to take it on faith that the unctuous lube had sufficiently prepared Tyr to receive his cock. He dropped to his knees and adjusted his weapons officer to receive him. Again the shudder, he wondered if Tyr was actually a virgin to this activity, and then he was inside.

Tyr was no virgin. Unlike fucking a woman, that can be enjoyable even if the woman just lies there, even if she unsure of her moves, or even if she has passed out, fucking a man requires that his body accept your cock to be truly pleasurable. Tyr knew how to move. Once again Dylan realized that his self-control needed to be employed to keep him from cuming until the Nietzschean had melted beneath him. He thought of basketball games and running on the beach until he felt the contractions of orgasm coming from the Nietzschean. His hand reached around and grabbed Tyr's balls and felt them empty. The fact that Tyr was shooting his load on the carpet in Dylan's quarters never crossed his mind. Only then did Dylan cum, falling forward and taking Tyr to the ground under him.

He wanted a drink. Some part of him even wanted a cigarette even though he had not smoked one since his Academy days. Maybe it was because he hadn't cum this hard since he was still a teenager. He rolled to the side and reached over and put his hand on Tyr's shoulder. The Nietzschean lay there, eyes tightly closed, mouth slightly open. He fought the urge to kiss him on the lips. That was not what this session was about. It was about power, not about pleasure.

"Open your eyes and look at me, Dink." Tyr opened his eyes. He did not seem afraid to look him in the eye any longer. "Do you understand the message I wanted to get across to you, Tyr?"

Tyr nodded his head and closed his eyes again.

"Open them and look at me. I do not need you falling asleep until we have an understanding, Mr. Anasazi. I need loyalty from my weapons officer. I need dependability. You have shown neither. I cannot continue with you flying off on frolics of your own. Do you understand?"

A head nod with eyes fighting to stay open. A man could get lost in those eyes. Even in the drugged state, Tyr's eyes had a spark that Dylan found intriguing. Again he fought the urge to kiss him to melt into those soft lips and explore his mouth with his tongue. He thought of Tyr holding him. . . this was not right . . ..

"I need to know what you have in Storage Area 15. I know it is personal, but as a captain I have the right to know."

"And you haven't looked?" His voice seemed to be regaining its Nietzschean's cynicism.

"I said you were going to tell me. Even if I know, I want to hear it from your lips, Tyr Anasazi, do you understand?"

"If I told you, my captain, I would have to . . ."

"You would have to kill me, I know. Do you think you have the power to do that, Tyr Anasazi, after what I just made you do? After I made you roll like a wolf, a dingo, a feral dog."

"I didn't say I would have to kill you, Dylan, you infer too much. If I told you, I would have to kiss you."

It took a second for what he had said to register in Dylan's brain. It was half a second too long, because the Nietzschean proceeded to do what he had promised without disclosing the contents of Storage Area 15. He rolled the captain still dressed in his turtleneck and underwear onto the floor under him and kissed him firmly and deeply. Dylan did not have time to think about basketball and found the response to the kiss reflexive and pleasant.

"Did you honestly have the audacity to believe that I would succumb to some herbal extract that Nietzschean teenagers have used as a pleasure drug for centuries. Who do you think Ruth was? She was an ancestor of Paul Museveni founder of the Nietzschean race. She is second only to Ayn Rand in the hierarchy of females to our species." As he talked his large hands slowly and methodically ripped the turtleneck and briefs off a quite startled Dylan. The captain was not sure that that Nietzschean was not also considering killing him.

"You have a really nice ass for a kluge, my captain." The slap Tyr imparted was more playful than painful and caused Dylan to relax, slightly. "I bet you haven't been fucked much either, am I right. Always telling others that you are the Alpha. Well, you have already demonstrated your fabled staying power, let's see how it stands up to a good fucking by an Nietzschean. If you think we are good at giving head, and being fucked, you have a whole new lesson to learn, My Captain.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I saw you looking at my cock earlier. I know it is a lot larger than yours, or any other member of your species. I'm good at this. It's my specialty. {Tyr uses the British pronunciation here speci-al-i-ty} So to speak. If you can speak now, my good Captain."

Tyr kept his promises on all levels. He was gentle, he was thorough, he was skilled, he was lasting and he was huge. He rubbed Dylan's shoulders as he fucked him and whipped his long hair across the captain's back. Dylan had no desire to think of anything else but the act of being fucked and thus came twice before the Nietzschean pulled out and deposited his load on the his back.

"I do not expect you to roll, Dylan, unless you want to roll over and kiss me again."

As much as he wanted to oblige, Dylan was incapable of moving. He lay prone on the rug and watched the Nietzschean's feet as he dressed and put his boots back on.

"If it was sex you desired, Captain Hunt, all you had to do was ask. I find you most attractive and most desirable. I do not, however, condone the use of sex to extract answers to questions. Even when not used for procreation, I prefer that my sex be used for pleasure. Thus said, I must congratulate you on your technique, if not your motivation, my good Captain."

"I suppose you are not going to tell me where you go when you leave on the Maru either?" It took all his strength, all his engrained leadership training to overcome the feelings that still wracked his body and ask that question.

"No, I will answer it, my captain. I go to visit the child."

"You told me your child was dead."

"My child is dead. . . the child I go to visit is. . . " The door closed. Dylan could not hear the answer.
 

McJude

August 2002
 

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