Blah blah, Paramount is Supreme, owns everything and everyone, or
will soon.  If you're under 18, you should feel very ashamed of
yourself when you finish this story.
 
Rapunzel
by Nancy Brown (nancy@rat.org)
Copyright 1995
 
     With a practiced twist of her wrist, she let her hair free of
its confinement.  She scooped it into her hands, letting the fine
silky threads flow throw her fingers as rain would.  There was a
comb by her mirror, very old and very valuable, an heirloom of
sorts.  She pulled its hungry teeth down the length of her mane,
letting it slowly massage her scalp as she did.  Oh, but that felt
good.
     She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time, then
stood staring into her own wide eyes.  Her lovers had always
preferred her hair, loved taming it with caresses and shaping it
beneath clenching fists.  She, on the other hand, thought that her
eyes were really her best feature.  The windows to the soul, some
people called them.  She wasn't so sure of that.  Despite what she
said or did in public, she wasn't so certain that she even *had* a
soul.  Yet, her eyes still told the truth about her.  In fact, her
last lover had seen through them and found out what she was beneath
the surface of absent smiles.
     Damn.  Every time she thought about him anymore, the tears
started and made her eyes all rimmed.  She wondered: which of the
two of them had been the bigger fool?  It was impossible to even
think about being together, no matter how close they became.  It
was another paradox of her life, which had known more than its
share.
     It had all happened months before, of course, and the ache had
slowly faded from her, although it was not gone and never would be. 
She'd been telling herself that she'd only done what was necessary
for the good of everyone involved.  Sometimes, that even worked. 
The last week or so, though, it hadn't.  Not at all.  She'd seen
his face in every reflection, watching her mutely, his tender eyes
in a grave cast.  She heard him whispering to her at night, above
and between the cries of her new lover's ecstasy.
     She slammed the comb down and stalked away from the mirror. 
She wanted to be lovely tonight, to be kind and courteous to the
man who had reminded her that life was for the living, not for old
ghosts.
     She settled down on her couch, which had these past two nights
doubled as her bed.  Her robe had been draped carelessly across her
body, and she stretched out to enjoy the feel of the material
beneath her fingers.  Who would have thought that she could be this
content?
     The comfort of the couch slid her into a drowsy state, and she
remembered how life had been once upon a time.  Her parents had
been good to her, from what she could remember of them.  She
remembered a birthday party, and the smile on her mother's face. 
Her death had been so sudden to the little girl she'd been.  After
that, her mother's kind face had been replaced by that of a
different, much older woman, whose smiles were never as frequent or
as long-lived.  She supposed that she couldn't complain.  She'd
still been raised right and taught all the things that mattered.
     It hadn't been till her teenage years that things had become
much more interesting.  She'd decided then that she wanted to spend
the rest of her life in service to her people, and she'd dedicated
herself to that goal, winning approval and more from her superiors. 
There had been one in particular whom she'd become close to.  She
had even sent him a letter to him for his birthday through a mutual
acquaintance, just the other day.
     The years had trickled by, taking many of the people she loved
and leaving only half-known or understood adversaries.  Now she was
firmly ensconced in the most important assignment of her life,
playing the same role day in and day out like a master actress. 
All for her people.
     Of course, this particular assignment had its good points. 
The gentleman who would soon be at her door was an excellent
example of those perks.  Strong, handsome, as dedicated to his duty
as she was to her own, she found him ... intriguing.  She wondered
idly if it were the power.  She had always found herself attracted
to powerful men, men who shaped their destinies and those of the
people around them.  Once she'd even speculated it was due to her
father's near-total absence in her life, but she doubted it.  She'd
tasted the semen of common soldiers and of men who were nearly gods
in their spheres of influence.  She definitely preferred the taste
of the latter.  On the other hand, she found powerful women
disturbing.  They tended to have less need for her to whisper to
them at night how wonderful they were, although she'd done that
from time to time.
     She had her own power now, the power of life and death, she
thought, what most of those others could only dream of possessing.
     Except.  His face was before her again.  He'd had no use for
power, although he had his own.  He'd really had no use for her,
she had realized even then, save what he needed to survive, for
other forces called his heart.  And still.  Even with everything
that had gone between them, and what she had been forced to do, in
the end, he loved her.  She knew that, and it made her fiercely
angry inside.  How dare he!  Damn him, how did he even consider
loving her after what he knew and what she had done?  It astounded
her, had left her feeling very small and weak, something she did not
enjoy at all.  It had been in his nature to love all he met, if only
abstractly.  He was the one who would walk, who had walked, empty-
handed among his enemies out of that childlike love.  She had
wondered now and again in the months that had followed what it
would have been like for him to have taken down her long hair and
love her completely.  Many things might have been different.
     She heard a noise, and her eyes eased open.
     "I always expect you to appear outside my window," she said to
him.
     "That would be difficult."  He smiled.
     "As difficult as waiting outside my door where anyone could
see you?"
     "You know why we can't allow that to happen."
     "I know, but a girl can dream."  They both laughed uneasily. 
It had been quite some time since she'd been a girl.  At least she
had aged well, her breasts almost as firm as when they'd first
poked forward and demanded attention.  She slid her robe open,
letting him see one deep curve.  "So," she said in a much lower
voice, "what did you come here to discuss?"
     He did not answer, instead kneeling before her in a
supplicant's position.
     "Oh, you want to talk about that."
     "Talking wasn't actually part of the plan."
     Her mouth curved.  "I thought not.  Come closer, my dear."  He
leaned his head against her exposed flesh and sighed.  His hair
tickled her sensitive flesh, and she noticed with dissociated
amusement that her nipples had become rocks, needing to be touched.
     He seemed to pick up on her slowly rousing state, for her slid
the robe away to offer him easy access to the rosy tips.  He drew
his tongue across her nipple, both rough and moist against it.  She
would not cry out yet, but she felt the touch matched by a pull
deep in her cleft.  His head moved to the other side, and she felt
lips wrapping around her aureole and suckling as a baby would,
while making tiny cries of delight.
     She placed her hands against his broad shoulders.  Firm under
her fingers, she kneaded them, working out the tension he gathered
inside himself like waves.  Slowly, she worked her hands inside of
his shirt, moving it aside and off of him.  His fingers trailed
down her abdomen as he continued his feast, making it difficult for
her to remove his sleeves.
     He pulled his head away.  "No," he said, pulling his shirt
back on.  She sat back in shock.  "Not that way.  Tonight, I want
to be dressed, and I want you to be dressed, too."
     "That's not very flattering, you know."
     "When has that mattered?"
     She bit back her reply.  It was the truth.  Sometimes, they
got into these sparring matches a few strokes and gasps from
release, and the arguments only made the orgasm more powerful.  She
nodded, then tugged at his waistband.  "We're going to need to at
least move a few things out of the way."
     She pulled down the top of his trousers slowly, caressing
every exposed bit of skin with her fingertips.  She dipped her hand
far enough to catch his scrotum, and felt its warmth against her
coolness.  She massaged the sac carefully, not wishing to rush
this, then finally moved her hand up to take his already-stiff
penis into her fingers.
     He made a noise deep in his throat.  She knew how much he
enjoyed the manipulation, and she increased the pressure she kept
against it, while moving her thumb to rub against the rose-colored
head.  It was only when she neared it with her mouth that she
noticed the faint scars.  Although he'd been inside of her
countless times in the past days, she'd never seen it so close. 
Instantly, she memorized every scratch, every detail.
     "How did these happen?  It looks as through you tried to mate
with a bramble patch."
     He remained quiet, and she noticed to her chagrin that his
delightful erection was fading fast.  He said in a tight voice,
"Some methods of Cardassian interrogation are more direct than
others."  He looked down at her, and she wondered what he read in
her eyes: did he see pain, sympathy, guilt?  She took his quickly
into her mouth, not allowing the past to stop her as it had before.
     She relaxed her throat, letting him sink deep inside, then
made swallowing motions until she felt him respond.  She pulled her
head back, licking the underside as it moved out and away and
offering a friendly nibble to the tip.  He groaned.
     She was wet, had been so for some time.  She thought of his
"interrogation," wondering just what methods had been used, what
they had done to him.  She saw a Cardassian with cold, familiar
eyes turning a device she knew very well on the man before her, and
another gush soaked through her robe.  She hadn't been wearing
anything underneath, and she knew the couch was damp.  It would be
worse.
     He picked her up roughly and pushed her back against the
couch, all the while murmuring devotions.  He was ready, and she
was ready, and the only thing preventing him from pulling her legs
apart and taking her was that she spread them herself and gyrated
her hips waiting for his touch.  Her own hand snaked down to rub
against her outer folds and take the liquid upon her fingers.  she
slid them against his lips.
     He pushed and she felt him deep inside of her.  He withdrew,
then plunged again, rubbing himself against her soaked vulva as he
moved.  Now that she knew, she could actually feel his scars
against her, and she saw again the Cardassian with his torture
devices.  She remembered the slightly leathery feel of Cardassian
skin against her own and twisted beneath his motions.  She kissed
him quickly, then deeper, as they merged again, bodies separated by
cloth, only touching at lips and groin.
     He pulled back from the kiss, began licking her cheek.  She
moved her own tongue to his ear, slowly moving back to his nose and
then quickly stroking across the bridge.  He sighed as his body
twitched and she gasped, feeling it.
     His strong hands, powerful hands, braced him to either side of
her head, holding to her hair like a lifeline.  He was losing
control now, as he always did, his eyes closing and his mouth
crying words that had no form, save one or two that made a name she
had heard many times before.
     They met in the lighted room, power to power, strength to
strength, each equally devoted to the night and the people that
bound and separated them.  Only what he didn't know, would
hopefully never know, was that they didn't serve the same people. 
She saw the face of her last lover again, the sorrow in his eyes
when he realized the truth and perhaps knew even then that she
would have to kill him.  The world stopped and she screamed a name
and after a moment, so did he, panting and gasping with one last
thrust that nearly split her through.
     He collapsed on top of her, then pulled her close.  Her robe
was disheveled, and his shirt was wrinkled, and her hair was
tangled in his grasp.  Her breathing returned to normal, or at
least normal for this body, and she found herself drifting into
sleep.  She should stay awake and alert, but what could possibly
happen?  She was safe in the arms of another man who could never
love the real her, although he might think that he did.  If he ever
discovered the truth, she would have to kill him, too.  She yawned. 
Definitely time for a nap.
 
 
     The Gul finished reading the letter and shook his head sadly;
he appreciated the sentiment, but one of these days, Winn was going
to get careless and blow her cover.
 
The End