Characters: Paramount
Plot: what plot?
Rating: NC-17, or for us traditionalists, X

Chapter 3
In which Paris quotes poetry

Meanwhile, B'Elanna Torres and Tom Paris had lingered longer over their dinners. They had, in fact, out-lingered their fellow diners, so that the two of them were the only ones left at the table, Torres at one end facing the galley and Paris at the other facing the stars. Their trays contained only traces of green residue; both had been quite hungry.

Torres noticed that for some reason she had the desire to throw heavy objects at Paris. She had experienced this feeling before, but it was becoming more and more powerful, irresistible in fact. Fortunately for Paris, there were no heavy objects present. The tray was the first object to fly in his direction, but its aerodynamic properties as a throwing weapon left much to be desired. It skidded harmlessly across the floor. Paris looked at Torres, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

In the center of the table stood a small glass vase with flowers in it. It had a rounded shape and looked promising. Torres picked it up, enjoying the feel of its cool hardness in her hand. She stood up in order to be able to put more force into the throw. She was completely oblivious to Neelix's horrified stare from the galley. For her, there was no one present but Paris. He dived behind the table just as she began her throw, and the vase shattered on the floor. Suddenly, she had a vision of her parents' living room when she was a small child, a large lead crystal vase lying in sparkling fragments on the tile floor, her father hiding behind the couch, holding a small leather-bound book in his right hand and the back of her shirt in his left, holding her back from the beautiful chunks of glass that made rainbows in the sunlight. She remembered the sound of her father's voice as he recited from memory,

los ojos tengo en agua noche y día,
y en fuego el corazón y el alma mía.

As she stood there letting the strange mixture of rage and nostalgia flood over her, Paris decided on a counterattack. He sprang out from behind the table, tackling her. The feel of her warm, strong legs against his body made him tingle all the way down to his toes. He could smell her, too, a warm, almost woody scent with overtones of fish. He wanted her desperately. It was stronger than any desire he'd ever experienced in the past. He would be quite willing to take her by force, but he had the feeling he wasn't as strong as she was. He soon found his suspicions confirmed and her kneeling astride his chest. Fortunately, her mood seemed to have changed. She had a broad smile on her face.

"Poetry," she said, her voice low, almost growling. "You're supposed to quote poetry."

Paris was a bit confused by this, but he put on his best innocent-schoolboy face and began:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely, but a hell of a lot less temperate...

"Attention all personnel. All human members of the crew who had the green stuff for dinner are requested to remain in their quarters until further notice. All members of the crew who did not have the green stuff and all non-human members of the crew who feel normal, report to your stations immediately." At the end of the message, Paris thought he heard the captain giggle, but of course that was impossible. He looked up at the half-Klingon, evidently not feeling normal, on his chest.

"Shall we remain in your quarters or mine?"

"Mine are closer." She dismounted, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him to his feet. She was right; it was not far. Soon the doors were whisking closed behind them.

"All right, get out of that damned uniform," she said.

He glanced around her quarters, taking in the lack of personal touches. The walls were bare except for a couple of those blue disks that someone at whatever Starfleet department was responsible for interior design on starships seemed to favor. A small planter with some pink-flowering bromeliads provided the only touch of life. He'd come on board with only a small duffel bag, but she'd come with nothing but the clothes on her back.

At the moment, however, there were no clothes on her back. She sat on the edge of the bed removing her boots and the gold-and- black jumpsuit crumpled around her ankles. She looked up at him impatiently.

"Yes, sir!" he said with what he regarded as his winning smile. He unzipped his jumpsuit, pausing briefly to dodge a boot. He reflected that it would be wise for him to take his own boots off in the living area, so that they would not be within easy reach. He proceeded to do so. She was now lying on her stomach on the bed, arms crossed, watching him critically, as though he had been some jury-rigged piece of equipment brought on-line for its first test. Her back did not have the pronounced ridges of a full Klingon, but her spine was rather more prominant than a full Terran's. Paris was not particularly well-informed with regard to the usual Klingon form of the rear end, but whatever genes were responsible for B'Elanna's, it was lovely, with the color and smoothness of polished amber, though of course rather less shiny. He tossed his uniform aside and walked into the bedroom.

Tom Paris was a good-looking young man, Torres noted. Perhaps not as good-looking as he thought he was, but slim, with very nice legs and, on the whole, a decent chest, not as broad as Chakotay's but with more hair. His penis was rather impressive. If she had been inclined to analyze people, she might have drawn some connection between its dimensions and his general air of self- satisfaction, but as it happened, she was not so inclined. Her thoughts on the subject were of a more immediate and practical nature.

Paris lay down beside her on the bed. Without ceremony, she rolled him onto his back, climbed astride him, and initiated the docking maneuver. She moved her hips in a slow circle, feeling him inside her. He closed his eyes. Soon her movements became more urgent. Their orgasms were quick and nearly simultaneous. He'd never heard a woman roar quite like that before. He rather liked it. She lay on top of him, kissing him, enjoying the warmth of his body, running her fingers through his hair. Gradually, she became aware of two facts: she wanted more, and his equipment was still on-line. She began to move again.

"Let's take it a little slower this time," said Paris. "You wouldn't happen to have any massage oil, would you?"

"Afraid not. Should have snatched some salad oil from the mess, but somehow I didn't think of that." She grinned, flashing teeth which were well above the usual Klingon standard. "Fortunately, I still have some replicator credits left." She let Paris choose the scent; he selected vanilla.

Paris really intended to give her a full massage before returning his attentions to the interior of her body, but found that he didn't quite have the necessary degree of self-restraint, so after he'd done her back he took her from behind. She raised her hips under him, growling low in her throat, moving against him, driving herself onto him, until she came and slumped forward onto the bed again. He came, lay on top of her for a few minutes, and then turned her over and started to massage her front. When he had finished, he moved on to a part of her body that wasn't really either back or front. This elicited howls of pleasure which he thought must have been audible in the Alpha Quadrant.

Then it was Torres's turn to massage Paris. After she'd done his arms and legs and oiled his back and buttocks with long, firm strokes, she lay down on top of him and slithered back and forth, her oiled body moving smoothly over his, driving them both crazy with the sensation of her breasts rubbing against his back, her lower abdomen sliding back and forth over the smooth, well-muscled curves of his ass, though of course given their relative positions it was Paris who got bitten. He rolled over, sending her slithering off to lie on the bed next to him. He gave that lovely ass of hers a good swat. She bit him again.

Torres sat up astride Paris and ran her fingers through the golden hair on his chest, then began to massage him, enjoying the feel of his firm muscles under her hands. He folded his hands behind his head and looked up at her, her dark hair hanging forward around her face, the elegant arches of her forehead, her high cheekbones, her full, red lips, the play of the muscles in her arms as she worked, the soft golden breasts moving in an entrancing fashion. Then she looked him in the eye and smiled and slid forward so that her wet, hot sex was over his, sliding gently from side to side. Her face looked almost as though she were in pain, but he could tell from the sounds she made that it was quite the opposite. She came, throwing her head back and clenching her hands against his ribs in a way that sort of hurt and sort of tickled. He grabbed her hips, trying to move them and tilt them so that he could find his way inside. She cooperated, sliding down onto him, her hidden muscles squeezing and releasing, her warmth surrounding him. She lay down on top of him, stretching her legs out alongside his, nuzzling his neck, but this time not biting. He put his arms around her, pulling her hard against him as he came. Soon afterwards, he drifted off to sleep.

To be continued....