ugly bag of mostly voyager

Chapter Four

The feel of her, creamy and slick under his fingers, hardens him instantly, painfully. Chakotay plants his feet against the weakening of his knees and forces his hand to still, closing his eyes when Kathryn whimpers in protest.

“Commander.”

There’s menace in Janeway’s voice, and Chakotay opens his eyes to find her narrowed stare on him.

“Why have you stopped?” she demands softly.

It takes him two harsh swallows to find his voice. “Because you gave me the choice.”

Janeway stares at him. “And you’ve chosen to condemn three of your people to a fate worse than certain death, rather than give this woman what she so clearly wants?”

Chakotay meets her eyes. “Does she?”

He eases his hand back from between Kathryn’s legs and releases her wrists. She’s no longer restrained by him in any way, but she doesn’t move, just leans against his chest as if she needs his strength to hold her upright. He can feel her trembling.

“What do you care?” snaps Janeway. “Seven years ago you’d have given your left testicle for one night in my bed. Well, here I am, gift-wrapped, or the next best thing, at least. Take her. I want to see you fuck her, right here and now, in front of her lover. No, wait,” she holds up a hand, striding over to the wall panel and activating it, “Janeway to Tuvok.”

“Yes, Captain. I am standing by in transporter room two with Henley, Jor and Seska.”

“Hold that thought, Tuvok. Escort them to the brig, then convene the senior staff in the briefing room. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

“Understood. Tuvok out.”

Janeway closes the channel and turns to smile at Chakotay and Kathryn.

“What are you doing?” Chakotay growls.

“Upping the stakes.” Janeway folds her arms. “Get dressed, Kathryn. We’re going for a walk.”

 

=/=

Janeway strides ahead of them, long-legged and confident, a smile lurking dangerously at the corners of her lips. Both Kashyk and Kathryn have found their voices and are demanding answers of her; Chakotay and Kash, however, know their captain enjoys the power of her silence and has no intention of telling them what she has in store.

Chakotay has his suspicions, in any case.

When the five of them enter the briefing room, Harry Kim is glaring at Tom Paris. “Since when is he back on the senior staff?” Kim demands as Janeway moves to the head of the table, resting a hip on it.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” Paris drawls, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Still haven’t figured out how to earn that second pip?”

“The way you earned yours? Not worth it,” Kim retorts.

From the opposite side of the table, Ayala chuckles.

“The fuck are you laughing at, asshole?” Paris scowls.

“Enough,” Chakotay says softly. Janeway seems to be ignoring them, but he knows from bitter experience that her mood can turn in an instant, and he doesn’t feel like cleaning blood off the walls today.

He glances at Janeway and follows the slight tilt of her head: she wants him to move to the corner of the room. He’s been relegated to the role of observer, it seems.

Chakotay isn’t sure how he feels about that. What he does know is that his instincts are on high alert right now, and they’re telling him to stay close to the other Kathryn Janeway – the one who’s standing between Kash and Kashyk, her chin high and her eyes wary as Kim, Paris and Ayala look her over with interest, their squabble forgotten.

There’s nothing he can do to help her if Janeway decides to let them play. And he shouldn’t care what happens to her, anyway. So why this churning stomach, these clammy palms?

The doors open to admit a wild-haired B’Elanna Torres, her leathers ripped and dirty. She throws herself into a chair, thighs spread, propping one boot on the table. “What are we doing here?” she growls.

Chakotay notes Janeway’s avaricious gleam as she eyes the younger woman. “You’re here at my pleasure, Lieutenant,” Janeway informs her creamily. “And yours, too, if you behave.”

Torres opens her mouth, but whatever she’d planned to say dies unspoken as she catches sight of Kathryn and Kashyk.

“Kahless,” she breathes. “I thought Seska was full of shit, but they’re real.”

“Yes,” agrees Janeway. “Would you like to be sure, B’Elanna?”

“What do you mean?” Torres frowns at her.

“Come here.”

B’Elanna obeys, eyes switching suspiciously between the two near-identical women. She stops half a metre from Kathryn and reaches out tentatively, plucking a lock of hair from her shoulder.

“Her hair’s longer.”

“I like it,” Janeway muses. “I think I’ll have the Doctor lengthen mine later. In the meantime, B’Elanna, why don’t you find out if there are any other differences between us?”

 

=/=

B’Elanna Torres always was a quick study, Chakotay reflects, as he watches the engineer grasp Kathryn’s face in one hand and turn her chin aside, sinking her teeth lightly just above Kathryn’s jawline.

Kathryn gasps, jerking out of Torres’ hold, one hand pressed to the bleeding imprint as Torres bares her teeth at her. “B’Elanna,” she stammers. “Stop.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Chakotay hears Paris mutter under his breath. “Maybe my other self is onto something.”

Kathryn is still backing away when the conference room door opens again and Tuvok enters. Sizing up the situation at a glance, his hand shoots out, circling Kathryn’s wrist in an iron grip and immobilising her.

In an instant, Torres pounces on her. She sniffs at Kathryn’s cheek, tilting her jaw to nibble and lick at the bloody mark; she tangles her hands in Kathryn’s hair, spans her waist with her fingers, moulds them around her hips. And all the while Kathryn twists in Tuvok’s hold, squirming into B’Elanna’s shaping hands and away and back again.

By the time Torres clutches the sides of Kathryn’s jacket in her hands and rips it open, Kathryn is panting from exertion and her wrist is red raw from Tuvok’s uncompromising grip. “Keep her still for me,” Torres instructs Tuvok, and he encircles Kathryn’s other wrist, pinning both hands behind her back.

Kathryn struggles and kicks and writhes until she’s breathless, but Tuvok is immovable. Hair hanging in her face, she twists to catch his eye. “Please,” she begs, “please don’t do this,” but he doesn’t even look at her.

Torres steps forward and yanks Kathryn’s pants open, wrenching them down her thighs. Kathryn kicks out at her as best she can, hobbled by the tight leather pants; the stiletto heel of one boot catches Torres across her shin and the younger woman hisses, balling one fist and striking Kathryn full in the mouth.

Chakotay winces in sympathy, watching her touch her tongue to the fresh blood on her already-split lip.

“Torres,” he says quietly.

“Shut up, Commander,” Janeway hisses at him. “Let her have her way.”

Torres is beyond his control now, anyway, Chakotay realises with a sinking heart. Her sight is fixed on the blood staining Kathryn’s mouth, and her hands are already moving automatically to strip off her own clothing. Vest, undershirt, boots, belt and pants hit the deck in swift, economical movements, and Torres stands naked, all eyes on her, her eyes on Kathryn.

“Kim, get over here,” she orders without looking away.

Chakotay has never seen Harry Kim move so fast in his life.

“What do you want me to do?” the ensign asks eagerly.

“Undress her.” Torres flicks him a brief smirk. “Watch the boots. She kicks like a targ.”

But Kathryn seems locked in place, her limbs lax and unresponsive as Harry Kim takes his time pulling off her leather boots and pants, tugging the scrap of underwear down her legs. She stares straight ahead, gaze fixed and vacant. Not even when Kim lifts her panties to his face and sniffs at them, raising his head to grin at her, does she blink.

Chakotay shifts his feet, hoping to catch her attention, give her something to focus on. But she doesn’t look at him, and he subsides lest he draw Janeway’s notice instead.

Kim tosses Kathryn’s clothing aside, pockets her panties and looks hopefully at Torres. “Now what?”

“Now fuck off,” she says.

He starts to protest, but a glare from Torres sends him back to his place at the table. Torres turns back to Kathryn.

“Your blood is sweet,” she murmurs, moving in close and nuzzling at Kathryn’s cheek again. “Now I’ll taste the rest of you.”

She sinks to her knees, parting Kathryn’s thighs with her hands, and presses her face between them.

A melody of sighs and groans and indrawn breaths travels the room as Paris, Ayala, Kim and Kashyk lean in to watch the show. And a show is what B’Elanna is giving them: she moans eloquently as her tongue traces the outlines of Kathryn’s flesh, flicks lightly at her clit to make Kathryn’s hips jerk, sucks languorously until Kathryn’s legs begin to buckle.

But she isn’t going down without a fight, Chakotay realises, as Kathryn slumps like a dead weight in Tuvok’s grasp, forcing him to clamp one arm around her waist to hold her upright. The move frees one of her hands. She tangles it tightly in Torres’ hair, wrenching her head sideways and simultaneously launching her weight back to knock Tuvok off balance and locking her thighs around Torres’ neck.

Tuvok reels backward into the bulkhead, the combined weight of the two women almost – not quite – enough to send the Vulcan to the deck, but Kathryn’s violent writhing keeps him distracted while B’Elanna chokes, fingernails digging red marks into Kathryn’s thighs as she tries to break the stronghold. The three of them careen across the briefing room floor, half drunken parody, half fight to the death – until phaser fire scorches a wall panel into fireworks, mere centimetres away.

The trio freeze in place, turning to stare at Captain Janeway, who holds the offending phaser to Kashyk’s temple. Her wintry eyes are fixed on Kathryn’s.

“Have I made my point?” she demands.

Slowly, Kathryn’s thighs unwind from Torres’ neck and she stands. Chakotay watches her wince as she eases her arms from Tuvok’s grip. Torres coughs, rubbing her throat.

“Good,” says Janeway, sweet as poison. She holsters the phaser at her hip and pushes Kashyk into a chair. “Come here, Kathryn.”

Kathryn hesitates, then walks over to stand before Janeway.

“Take off your jacket and sit down,” Janeway says, indicating Kashyk’s lap.

Kathryn obeys, and Kashyk’s hands immediately find her inner thighs, drawing them apart, opening her to full view of the room. She flinches and turns her head aside to stare at the wall, but Chakotay moves into her field of vision.

He isn’t sure why. He only knows that it’s vitally important to him that she survives this, that he helps her to survive it. That he imbues her with whatever strength he can, even if it costs him everything he has left to give.

Janeway crouches beside the chair holding Kathryn and Kashyk. “Spread her wider,” she orders, and Kashyk does so, hooking Kathryn’s thighs over his elbows and holding her legs as far apart as he’s able.

Kathryn whimpers low in her throat. Don’t look away, Chakotay commands her silently, and she doesn’t.

Janeway leans in, tracing Kathryn’s cunt with one bare finger and lifting it to her lips. “Very nice, B’Elanna,” she says. “You’ve made her very wet. Come here, pet.”

Torres crawls over to her on hands and knees and Janeway threads the fingers of her other hand lightly in her hair, combing gently through her dark curls.

“Would you like another taste?” she asks.

“Please.”

Janeway nods. “Don’t let her come.”

Eagerly, Torres crawls between Kathryn’s spread legs, rests her hands on Kashyk’s thighs and dips her mouth to the wet pink flesh on display. She starts light and slow, a delicate meandering of the tip of her tongue that barely makes contact. But Kathryn whines, a soft involuntary sound in the back of her throat, and tilts her hips, and Torres breathes her in, and Chakotay watches the shudder ripple along the half-Klingon’s spine and worries that she’s about to lose her head.

Torres’ tongue presses firmly now, long lavish licks that trace the length of Kathryn’s cunt. She sips and sucks, tugs with her teeth. Her fingers crawl upward from Kashyk’s leather-clad thighs to Kathryn’s soft bare skin.  From across the room Chakotay sees Kathryn’s eyes flicker, her lips part, her chest flush, and is afraid. If Torres brings her to climax against Janeway’s explicit instructions, Janeway is likely to kill them both.

Torres slips one finger inside Kathryn’s pussy, Kathryn shudders and gives a high-pitched moan, and Chakotay takes one step forward and growls, “B’Elanna.”

Bright agony blooms across the nerve bundle in his left trapezius, and in the instant before Chakotay blacks out, he realises that he really should have been keeping an eye on everybody else in the room.

 

=/=

He’s still in pain when he comes to, but it’s not his first Vulcan neck pinch, and Chakotay knows the headache will eventually fade.

It’s what else she might have had done to him – and not just him – while he was unconscious that concerns him more.

To begin with, he realises as he assesses his situation, his legs are secured to a chair, his wrists bound together behind it; one of the briefing room chairs, probably, from the shape of it, though it’s hard to be certain thanks to the hood that completely covers his face and head. He breathes slowly, both to quell the rising panic and to ensure he’s not going to run out of oxygen. Once he’s sure of that, he tries to speak.

“Captain?”

The hood is immediately removed, to his great relief, and Chakotay blinks the dancing lights from his eyes and takes rapid stock of his surroundings.

Yes, he’s still in the briefing room, and yes, he’s tied to a chair. Someone has removed the upper layers of his clothing and – he glances down – unfastened his pants; from the level of disarrangement, he assumes Janeway, or someone else, has molested him while he was out of it. He grinds his teeth and puts it out of his mind. What’s more important is what happens next.

He looks up into Janeway’s smirking face.

“Oh, Chakotay,” she laughs, resting a palm on his chest. “What have I told you about being a hero?”

Chakotay knows better than to answer. Janeway pats his chest perfunctorily and moves away, clearing his field of vision.

And now he can see everything.

Paris and Ayala are still lounging casually to one side of the conference table, Kash standing like a statue by the opposite wall. Kashyk sits just behind Janeway, his body language ostensibly relaxed and confident, but Chakotay, who’s spent enough time with the man to get his measure, knows most of that is armour.

Torres, naked, bruised and bleeding from the mouth, is lashed to a chair at the opposite end of the briefing room table. She’s glaring around the room from behind a fallen curtain of hair and there’s a roughly-tied gag stuffed into her mouth. Harry Kim stands behind her, one smug hand resting heavily on her shoulder.

Neither Tuvok nor Kathryn is anywhere to be seen.

What the hell happened while he was unconscious?

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” Janeway purrs in his ear before Chakotay can speak. “Your little Klingon had every intention of disobeying me. But don’t worry, Commander – she’s too pretty to kill for such a minor misdemeanour, and far too talented.”

“What have you done to her?”

Janeway laughs. “Nothing – yet. But she does need taking down a peg or two.” She straightens. “What do you think, Ensign Kim? Are you man enough for that job?”

Torres growls and bucks, rocking the chair on its feet, and Kim leaps backward with a frightened squawk.

Paris guffaws. “Better luck next time, Ensign.”

Janeway sighs. “Tuvok?”

The Vulcan appears silently from behind Chakotay’s left shoulder and he flinches involuntarily. Janeway quirks one corner of her mouth at him.

“Don’t fret, Commander. I want you wide awake for the next part.”

Chakotay doesn’t like the sound of that.

Janeway’s eyes slide back to Tuvok. “Bring her,” she says, and Tuvok moves behind Chakotay again.

When he reappears a moment later, he’s holding Kathryn by the upper arm, but loosely. She’s still naked, Chakotay notes, with fresh bruises on her ribs and upper arms, but her head is bowed and she isn’t fighting him; in fact, she moves docilely where Tuvok guides her, standing quiet and passive for Janeway’s inspection.

“What have you done?” Chakotay demands. “Have you drugged her?”

“Only a little bit,” Janeway assures him. “Her attitude was becoming a problem. It won’t affect her responsiveness, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Her responsiveness?”

Instead of explaining, Janeway takes Kathryn’s hand and tugs her over to Chakotay’s chair. “Stand here,” she instructs her double, manoeuvring her between Chakotay’s legs.

Then she cocks her head to study Chakotay.

“What?” he demands, as that churning feeling kicks up in his gut again.

“You do remember that I have three of your former crew sitting in my brig, waiting to be gifted to Maj Culluh should you annoy me, don’t you, Commander?”

Chakotay keeps his mouth closed.

“And you also remember that there is information I want from this woman, and I intend to have it before the day is out?”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You’re going to convince her to give it to me,” Janeway snaps. “Obviously.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Oh, Commander,” Janeway sighs, “are you really such a fool? Do you really not understand the power you have over her?”

He frowns at her.

“Well,” she shrugs, “perhaps you don’t. So I’ll show you.”

She turns toward the conference table.

“Lieutenants Paris and Ayala, report for duty.”

 

=/=

Ayala is already shedding his jacket as he approaches, and Janeway chuckles.

“You always were quick on the uptake,” she murmurs. “You can break her in, if you like.”

Chakotay sucks in a hard breath, yanking at the bonds around his wrists, and Janeway turns back to him.

“Oh, no,” she mocks. “Jealous?”

“Captain,” he grits. “You can’t do this to her. She isn’t –” he breaks off, unable to articulate his objection.

“Isn’t what?”

“She isn’t like us,” he tries eventually. “She isn’t from our world – they don’t do things this way where she’s from.”

“Oh, don’t they?” Janeway laughs, turning to Kashyk. “Tell me, lover, does your Kathryn like to fuck?”

Kashyk looks at her, then at Chakotay. And Chakotay doesn’t like the look in his eyes.

“Oh, she likes it,” Kashyk drawls. He stands, reaching deliberately for Kathryn’s hand and placing it over the bulge in his pants. When he takes his hand away, hers remains, her fingers softly cupping and stroking. “See?” he says.

“It doesn’t count,” Chakotay growls. “She’s drugged. She can’t consent.”

“We can fix that,” Janeway purrs.

She slinks over to the replicator, calls up a hypospray and returns to Kathryn, pressing it to her neck. A slight hiss, and Kathryn blinks, the dazed, beatific haze clearing from her eyes. She inhales sharply and drops her hand away from Kashyk’s groin; she shivers, eyes darting around the room. But she doesn’t try to cover herself; rather, she stands straight, shoulders back, and fixes her gaze on Janeway.

Smart, thinks Chakotay; she knows where the greatest threat lies.

“What’s happening?” Kathryn grates, voice hoarse.

“We-ll-ll,” Janeway draws the word out, “Chakotay here was just insisting I let you decide that.”

Kathryn waits.

“So here it is again,” Janeway goes on. “You’re going to do exactly what I want, or people are going to die.”

 

=/=

“What do you want?”

“For starters,” Janeway waves Kashyk back to his chair and makes herself comfortable on his lap; his arms come around her, hands unbuttoning her fly, “Mr Ayala is going to fuck you, then Mr Paris will have his turn. Then, if you’re still conscious, you’re going to tell me how you and your lover travelled to this universe.”

The colour drains from Kathryn’s face. “No.”

Janeway shrugs, wriggling in Kashyk’s lap as his fingers delve between her legs. “Then you’ll be signing a very painful, drawn-out and undignified death warrant for three young women, your lover and yourself. Is that what you want?”

“No,” she whispers.

“I’ll make it easier on you, then. You can fuck them both at once.”

Kathryn reaches out to grasp the back of a chair for support, knuckles whitening.

“Captain,” Chakotay says quietly. “This isn’t a choice.”

“Tuvok, will you please gag Chakotay,” Janeway snaps.

“With pleasure, Captain,” Tuvok replies, stepping forward to shove a rag into Chakotay’s mouth, binding it tightly at the back of his head. Chakotay pushes his tongue around it, works his teeth against it, but the fabric is thick and the knot solid. He considers himself lucky that he can still breathe.

“Mr Ayala,” Janeway murmurs, “I did promise you could take her first.”

“I don’t mind sharing, Captain,” he answers, walking behind Kathryn and stroking a hand the length of her spine, “as long as I can fuck her ass.”

“Mr Paris?”

“Fine with me,” Paris says hastily, moving in front of her and skimming one hand up over her ribcage.

“Is her skin as soft as mine?” Janeway asks with interest, as Paris’ fingers drift over the curve of Kathryn’s breast and Kashyk’s fondle Janeway’s.

“Mm-hm,” both men mumble in unison.

Kathryn’s eyes search desperately for Chakotay’s. He growls behind the rag, shifting against his bonds, gaze locked with hers, never wanting to look away.

Ayala steps back from her to strip off the rest of his clothing and begins nudging her forward, bending her over onto Paris, and Kathryn gasps, tensing.

“Wait,” she begs. “A minute, please.”

“Lieutenant,” Janeway scolds. “Lubricant, please. I don’t want her ripped apart,” she adds, thoughtfully, “yet.”

“Fucking heathen,” Paris mutters, glaring at Ayala over Kathryn’s shoulder. He tips Kathryn’s chin up, searching her expression. “Don’t worry,” Paris assures her, “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Ayala grumbles something unintelligible and stomps over to the replicator, returning with a tube of gel. He places a hand flat between Kathryn’s shoulder blades, ready to push her down again, but Paris stops him.

“I can see I’m gonna have to direct proceedings,” the pilot says with heavy sarcasm. “Sit down, for fuck’s sake, and have some patience. You’re gonna get your rocks off, guaranteed, but it’ll be so much better if you take it easy. Okay?”

Shrugging, Ayala flips open the tube of gel and sits wide-legged in the nearest chair, stroking the lubricant slowly onto his cock. “You gonna come over and suck my dick too, fly boy?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Kim pipes up from the safety of the opposite corner, but if he’d expected Paris to take offence, he’s disappointed; the pilot just shrugs.

“I’m a little busy with the lady right now. It’s okay,” he addresses Kathryn, taking her hands and lifting them to his jacket front. He curls her fingers around the zipper tab and encourages her to slide it downward, push the coat from his shoulders, lift the undershirt over his head. Stripped to the waist, he bends to kiss her, but she twists her head to the side and his lips lock onto the pulse point in her throat instead.

“She doesn’t kiss on the lips,” Janeway remarks, her voice catching as Kashyk’s fingers slide between her spread legs. “I think she actually believes it means something. Isn’t it cute?”

Paris ignores her, scraping his teeth lightly over Kathryn’s jugular, and Kathryn’s eyes flutter closed, her palms flattening on Tom’s chest as she tilts her neck to give him greater access.

“You like that?” he murmurs, lips nuzzling her ear.

She doesn’t answer in words, but her sigh seems to be all the reply he needs. Paris slips his hands under her thighs and lifts her easily, winding her legs around his hips and walking her over to where Ayala is sitting, easing her gently down into his lap with her back against Ayala’s chest and his thick, dark cock nestling between her thighs.

Ayala groans and wraps his arms around her from behind, one hand clutching her breast, the other diving between her legs. Paris steps back to pull off his boots and pants and kneels before them, pressing their legs apart and leaning in to lick and nibble at Kathryn’s clit, pushing his tongue deep inside her. He reaches for the tube of lubricant, squeezing some into his palm, and with one hand he works Ayala’s cock while the other presses one finger, then two, carefully into Kathryn’s anus.

Kathryn’s whimper pulls an answering moan from Chakotay’s chest, the sound attracting Janeway’s attention.

“What’s wrong, Commander?” she husks. “You had your chance with her and you turned it down. Are you regretting your decision now?”

Chakotay glares at her over the gag, and Janeway laughs, the sound ending in a gasp as Kashyk’s fingers twist interestingly inside her trousers. She pushes his hand away and stands, stripping off jacket, boots, pants and panties in a matter of seconds, then sinks back onto his lap, legs sprawled, and cranes her neck to bite at Kashyk’s chin.

“Touch me,” she orders him, “but don’t make me come until she does.”

From the way Kathryn’s hips are writhing and the arch of her back, Chakotay realises Tom Paris is close to bringing her to that peak. Apparently Janeway comes to the same realisation.

“Stop,” she snaps. “Too soon.”

Paris eases back, sitting on his heels, and Kathryn shudders, her chest heaving as she pulls herself back from the brink.

“Fuck her,” Janeway demands. “Do it now.”

“With pleasure,” growls Ayala, and he grabs Kathryn’s hips, lifts her, and plunges her down, filling her ass, clamping his arms so tightly around her ribs and chest that she can’t draw breath to scream.

“Christ,” mutters Paris.

Don’t hurt her, Chakotay hurls at him silently, but either Paris has forgotten his promise or he never meant it. He steps forward, hands on Kathryn’s thighs, pushes them further apart and drives himself into her.

Kathryn’s body shudders, her legs falling helplessly either side of Paris’ hips, arms pushing at his shoulders; Ayala loosens his hold on her to stroke her breasts and she half-sobs, half-moans, a sound that could be pain or pleasure or an unholy mix of the two. Then the two men begin to move: a violent push-pull, or shove-wrench, and she finds purchase and rhythm. Her head falls back on Ayala’s shoulder, her fingers curl and clutch Paris’ back, her legs lock around his hips, and she begins to utter softly, “oh God, oh God, oh God,” and then just “oh … oh…”

And Janeway orders them, again, “Stop.”

“Are you kidding me?” Paris wheezes, stilling his thrusts, head bowed and panting.

Kathryn writhes beneath him and Ayala, under her, groans and clutches her hips. “Don’t do that.”

“Pull out,” says Janeway. “Ayala, you’re done. Go find yourself a bored crewman or a holodeck. I don’t care.”

Ayala growls, but subsides at Janeway’s sharp glare, wincing as Paris pulls out and helps Kathryn off him. Paris holds her against him, both of them trembling, while Ayala yanks on his clothes and storms out of the briefing room.

Janeway ignores him. Eyes feverish, she glances around the room, taking in each crew member, and seems to come to a decision.

“Paris, bring her over here,” she directs.

Obediently, he shuffles Kathryn toward the two chairs where Janeway sits on Kashyk’s lap, and Chakotay sits gagged and bound.

“Now turn her around,” commands Janeway. “I want Chakotay to watch her while you fuck her from behind. No – I want her sitting on his lap. Spread her legs either side of his.”

Chakotay growls his protest against the gag, but it sounds more like begging. And when he can finally bring himself to look at Kathryn’s face all he reads in her eyes is need. Not that their needs make any difference to Captain Janeway.

Paris helps Kathryn climb onto Chakotay’s lap. Her thighs are spread either side of Chakotay’s, her torso pressed to his, her arms draped around his shoulders. He can feel her soft breasts, the hard points of her nipples scoring his chest, the fragrant brush of her hair against his skin. He can smell her. God, he can smell her, and as Paris presses close, raising her hips to push inside her, he can feel her, damp against his undershorts.

“Tuvok,” Janeway orders breathlessly, “release Chakotay’s hands. I want him to hold her while she comes.”

The bindings come free and it’s worse, so much worse, because he can’t help himself. He can’t stop his hands from rising to touch her, his fingertips from stroking over her soft, soft skin, cradling her breasts, cupping her hips, skimming the curve of her waist. He can hear the wet sucking sounds of sex, her low gasps and moans, and he’s so painfully hard he can’t help moving his hips to meet her. The single layer of fabric between them, slick now with her juices and stretched over his erection, rubs her swollen clitoris with each movement.

Paris thrusts into her harder, faster. “Come on,” he groans, teeth clenched, “I can’t last.”

“Make her come, Lieutenant,” growls Janeway, voice hitching as Kashyk plunges his fingers deep inside her.

“Fuck her,” urges Harry Kim, fingers digging into B’Elanna Torres’ shoulder, eyes glazed.

Kathryn begins to pant in Chakotay’s ear, her body arched and tense. Her fingers work into the knot at the back of his head, pulling the gag away. He turns his face, his lips finding her throat, latching onto that spot that he knows, somehow, will send euphoria curling all the way to her toes.

And then, not knowing what in the hell possesses him, he whispers, “I wish it was me inside you,” and cups her face, tipping her forehead to his.

“Oh God,” she sobs, “Chakotay,” and then her eyes glaze and her body writhes, her mouth falling open as her orgasm rips through her like blinding fire.

He holds her through it, holding her up as Paris pulls out of her, holding her steady as her limbs loosen and tremble with exhaustion. He holds her gaze as she comes back to the present, clearing away the post-orgasmic clouds. He holds her close as her breath puffs against his lips, as she seems to melt into him, as her lips brush his own so briefly he might be imagining it. He holds her arm as she lifts herself carefully off his lap and stands, straightening to face the stares and the intimidation and the next cruel challenge, and he holds her gaze as she looks down at him, gratitude clear in her blue eyes.

Something warm and painful swells in his chest. He swallows against a rush of feelings, confusing and raw, and for the first time, looks away.