ugly bag of mostly voyager

Prompt #4: I thought of you all day.

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Chapter One: Distracted

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Kathryn

He’s doing it on purpose.

Long fingers drum lightly on the armrest, trace across the console between our chairs. Each movement is deliberate, designed to catch my attention in the most subtle of ways. Slow circling of fingertips, a whisper-light touch, the confident slide of a palm: he knows full well that my focus is narrowing, my mind clouding, with each stroke and curl of his hands.

Those hands. I’ve watched them inflict pain – efficient, devastating and swift – upon our enemies. I’ve seen them manipulate Starfleet technology and the most rudimentary of tools, deftly and capably. More recently, though, I’ve come to see them in a different light.

There’s an element of that same deft proficiency in the way he uses those hands to hold me, to support and cradle me, to restrain and control me. And they are certainly both skilful and efficient at bringing me to the brink of pain in order to heighten the resulting pleasure. His hands can bind and grip and strike, and equally, they can trace and stroke and caress.

And when he puts his hands on my body, his unwavering dedication to every aspect of my wellbeing flows from his fingertips and into my skin, a permanent imprint of loyalty and love.

Watching him, I feel my cheeks heating up and my breath coming faster. Perhaps I make a small sound, because Chakotay glances over at me. Whatever he reads on my face brings to life an impertinent grin. It’s enough to return me to my senses.

At least, until his attention has returned to the console and he taps it to draw my gaze, and I read the message he’s just written on it.
 

Holodeck 2, 2030 hrs. Initiate program Chakotay alpha six and wait for me.

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Instantly, lust swells in my throat and tightens my lungs, and my hands begin to tremble. I squirm in my chair. Chakotay’s eyes cut sideways.

He takes in my flushed cheeks, my parted lips, and smirks, turning away from me to type into the console again.

 

I can see that excites you. Are you wearing panties right now?

I give an infinitesimal nod of my head.

 

That’s fortunate. You’re wet, aren’t you? I can tell. If I stroked you between your legs, on the outside of your panties, my finger would be damp. It would smell like you. Taste like you too.

I almost moan aloud. Only the chirrup of a console stops me in time, and I turn hastily away from Chakotay’s hypnotic words, clearing my throat. You bastard, I think, fighting to hide a smile.

We’ve played this game before.

It’s not always a competition between us: to find out who can come up with the most inventive and teasing form of torture, who can hold out the longest before the ascending burn of lust cannot be borne for one more moment. Sometimes – often, in fact – it’s sweet and slow and simple; making love rather than fucking.

But he knows me, and he knows precisely how to turn up the heat until I’m ready to self-combust.

The bridge is quiet, and he’s typing again.

 

Kathryn.

I quirk an inquiring eyebrow.

 

In two minutes you’ll excuse yourself to your ready room, where you will remove your undershirt, bra and panties, put on your uniform again and return immediately to the bridge. You may not leave again until end of shift.

I send him a not-quite-glare. He reads my mind and grins.

 

Barring emergencies, of course. Go.

Rising from my chair, praying my trembling knees won’t betray me, I announce, “You have the bridge, Commander,” and flee.

Chakotay was right, I’m forced to concede as I strip off my uniform and find my panties drenched and my pussy slick and puffy. When I pull the trousers back on over bare, heated skin I find that the seam presses firmly between my thighs, and my nipples chafe and stiffen without the protection of my bra. Each step, each movement, brings friction that builds the pressure inside me to an almost unbearable degree.

Swallowing hard, I exit the ready room and my gaze scans the bridge, a habit I always indulge when I’ve been absent from it, no matter how short the period of time. My crewmen work diligently at their stations. Only Tuvok senses my regard and raises a silent eyebrow.

As you were, Commander, I address him silently. Tuvok knows my secrets, and keeps them well.

I move back to my chair, sitting gingerly and almost groaning aloud as I cross one leg over the other. Chakotay dips his head to hide his widening grin and lets his hand drift onto the console again. Another message appears. I briefly struggle with my better angels – you’re on duty, Kathryn! – but inevitably I capitulate, my gaze shifting to drink in his seductive words.

Alpha shift has never dragged on for so long. By the time shift change rolls sluggishly around, Chakotay has kept me consistently on the edge of climax with a combination of heated looks, subtle touches and well-chosen words. I can’t wait to get out of here so I can relieve a little of this tension.

Then the console lights up:

 

After your shift you will go directly to your quarters. You’ll take a long bath and do whatever you need to do to prepare for tonight. You’ll dress in clothing of your choice. My only stipulation is that the underwear stays gone.

My throat works roughly.

 

You may touch yourself, but you are not permitted to come. If you do, I’ll know and you’ll be punished.

 

As soon as you’ve activated the holoprogram I want you naked. I intend to fuck you so hard and for so long tonight that you’ll lose your voice from screaming, and I don’t want anything getting in my way.

My mouth drops open and I sink a little in my chair. Blood rushes to delicate parts of me, and my heart is thudding so loudly it drowns out all external sound. It isn’t until Tuvok’s calm tones announce the beginning of Beta shift that I realise my crew is waiting patiently for me to officially dismiss them. All eyes are turned to me.

Chakotay stands patiently beside my chair, poker-faced but for the devilish gleam in his eye.

I will not blush, I remind myself furiously as I scramble to my feet. “Dismissed,” I blurt. “Commander Tuvok, you have the bridge.”

I walk on wobbly legs to the turbolift, hoping for a moment of solitude, but it’s not to be. Just as the doors begin to close, a hand reaches in to stop them. A strong, long-fingered, capable hand.

Chakotay steps into the ‘lift and keeps moving forward until I step back to avoid contact. Crowding me up against the rear wall, he raises a hand to my face. I’m already closing my eyes and leaning my cheek into his palm when someone else jostles his way into the lift.

“Captain. Commander.”

“Lieutenant,” Chakotay half-growls. His hand drops casually to his side and he shifts to give me some room.

Shrewd blue eyes flicker over us, missing nothing. My heart sinks as the smallest of smiles curves Tom’s lips.

“Plans for tonight?” he asks, the easy tone at odds with his knowing smirk.

I find my voice, infusing a chill into it. “A quiet night in with a book, I think, Mr Paris.”

“Sounds exciting,” he deadpans. “If you change your mind, Captain, Harry and I thought we’d drag out the old Sandrine’s program. It’s been a while since our last pool tournament.”

“Perhaps another time.”

“I’ll go easy on you, Captain,” Tom says in that innocently earnest tone that doesn’t fool me for a minute, “in case you’re worried about losing your shirt.”

And he glances from me to Chakotay and back again, an audacious grin widening across his face.

Before I can decide how to respond, the ‘lift stops on deck three and Tom moves smoothly to one side to let me pass.

I decide discretion is the better part of valour, tossing “Good night, gentlemen,” over my shoulder as I glide into the corridor.

Tom is still beaming and I can’t stand it. Halting just outside the ‘lift, I turn to smile at him sweetly.

“Mr Paris, am I to understand that you’ll be wagering on the outcome of this tournament?”

His smirk falters. “Uh…”

“I’m disappointed in you, Lieutenant. After all, there’s no such thing as a sure bet. Particularly when you think you know more than you actually do.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “And whatever you think you know, the surest bet is to keep it the hell to yourself.”

I swivel and stride away, the sound of Chakotay’s dark chuckle reverberating in my ears.

Inside my quarters, I order the bathtub to fill with vanilla-scented bubbles and perch on the edge. For the moment, preoccupied with the conversation in the turbolift, my ardour is dampened.

Have we been more obvious than I suspected? Has the crew picked up on something new between us, some sort of charge, or perhaps the luxuriant ease that comes with sexual satisfaction? Have we slipped up, linked fingers in public, let slip a clue or two?

Shaking my head, I stand to strip off my uniform. I’m not going to let it get to me. If Tuvok, my Vulcan stickler for protocol, is satisfied that neither my judgment nor Chakotay’s is impaired by our relationship, perhaps it doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks.

Cool, recycled air whispers over heated flesh as I let the last of my uniform drop to the floor. I stand before the rapidly misting mirror, twisting this way and that, my spine prickling with anticipation. No doubt Chakotay has some surprises in store for me tonight.

But I have a surprise for him, too.

I slide into warm silky water and lean my head against the lip of the tub. The only sound is the musical plink of each drop of pooled condensation falling from the faucet into the water below. I lift one leg out of the tub to prop it on the edge, idly admiring the way the bath oil cools into droplets on my skin. One rolls from the inside of my knee and along my thigh to disappear beneath the surface. I follow its path with a fingertip, and as my own hand sinks below the waterline I’m reminded strongly of the hot springs on Latavan. Of feminine hands exploring my body without invitation or apology, and of my own reaction: shocked and confused, and incredibly aroused.

Oh God, I can’t think about this now. I’m so turned on that the slightest stimulation could send me over the edge, and there’s hours until I meet Chakotay on the holodeck.

He forbade me to make myself come. And I’ve learned to take his orders very seriously.

Drawing a deep breath, I push myself upright in the tub and wash quickly, careful not to linger on any of my erogenous zones. I drain the tub and sonic dry, dress hastily in sensible underwear and a fresh uniform, collect a coffee from the replicator and settle at my desk with a stack of padds. Because work, as I’ve long known, is the only thing that has a chance of distracting me when I’m like this.

And to an extent I succeed; I manage to clear several reports, comm B'Elanna for a lengthy conference on purifying the dilithium crystals we recently acquired, and check in with Tuvok on the bridge. I even allow myself a short break to sip at a bowl of soup, because I’ve learned that nights with Chakotay usually require stamina.

Finally, thank God, the chronometer chimes to inform me it’s 2000 hours, and I promptly pack away my padds and strip off every stitch of clothing I own. I order the computer to play some sultry jazz, wrap myself in a silk robe and sit at my bureau to apply makeup and style my hair. I have every intention of looking as good as I can tonight.

I can’t help the frisson that rolls along my spine as I wonder how I’ll look once he’s finished with me.

At 2025 hours, satisfied with my appearance, I shrug into leggings, a tunic and slip-on shoes and head for the holodeck. Along the way I meet the occasional crewman in off-duty gear, probably en route to Tom’s pool tournament. I’m used to their curiosity about me, about what I do in my downtime and who I do it with. I’ve perfected the art of the brief greeting, the reserved smile, the regal nod.

And then I’m inside, the holodeck doors sliding shut behind me, and instantly I am no longer the captain, but a woman about to meet my lover, the man who does things to my body and my mind that set me alight in a way I’d never imagined before we met.

The man I’ve been thinking about all day.

“Computer,” I husk, “activate program Chakotay alpha six.”

What shimmers into existence around me is a room that has no pretensions: it is simply four walls, a plush carpet and a bed. An enormous four-poster bed, covered in soft white sheets and heaped with pillows. There’s an invisible light source somewhere above me, its warm, golden glow suffusing the room and leaving the corners in shadow. Music plays – a rasping male voice, muted trumpet, a slow drumbeat – designed to stir the blood without distracting the mind.

I disrobe slowly, letting the sounds and scents permeate my consciousness, letting the anticipation build again.

Soon he’ll be here, I think as I fold my clothing neatly and place it in a corner.

Soon, he’ll be touching me, I remind myself, sinking onto the bed. And he’ll show me what it will take to please him, and then he’ll reward me for it. Soon.

But when is soon? The bed is so soft, and I am so painfully aroused, and I’ve been waiting so long. And he promised he’d fuck me into oblivion tonight and if I don’t feel him soon, stretching and filling me, his mouth consuming mine and his hands, God, his hands on me and his voice growling low in my ear … I can’t hold out any longer, I can’t …

My fingers slide between parted thighs, encountering flesh so slick and heated it wrings a moan from my throat and an arch in my back. I’m so close to orgasm that the slightest brush of my fingertip is all it’s going to take. And despite his command to wait, despite his promise of punishment if I disobey, my control is shredded and all I have left, all I am, is hunger.

Digging my teeth into my lower lip, I let the urge take me, my fingers circling as I begin to tip over the edge into a bottomless well of need –