ugly bag of mostly voyager

He towers above her, legs planted apart and fingers tangled in her hair. She is on her knees, hands clasped behind her back, just as he ordered. Her eyes, half-lidded and smoky, are focused on his face as she angles her neck, taking his rigid cock inch by excruciatingly pleasurable inch into the depths of her throat.

His eyes flicker upward watchfully, focusing on the open door barely five metres away. She’d surprised him as he was leaving his quarters, moments before he is due to depart for a three-day scouting mission; had marched in unannounced, already stripping off her jacket and turtleneck as she strode toward him. He’d had seconds to recognise her intention before she sank to the floor before him and unfastened his pants.

He is still reeling from the shock of her cool hands and hot, clever mouth, from the dizzying rush of blood from his brain to his cock, from her instant obedience to his harsh demand that she hold still and put her hands behind her back, so that he can fuck her throat.

And that she’s here – she, half-naked, vulnerable and willing – with him, is the greatest surprise of all.

He lets his gaze drift over her tousled hair, her creamy shoulders; her black lace bra stands out like an exclamation against her skin, one strap fallen over her upper arm. From here he has a clear view of her cleavage, the soft swell of her breasts above the lace. He combs his fingers through her hair and reaches his other hand down to cup one breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple through the lace.

She pushes into his hand and flattens her tongue on the underside of his cock and he groans, stifling it quickly as he remembers the wide-open door.

In her position she is completely exposed to anyone approaching along the corridor. It’s her own jacket, dropped carelessly to the floor, that has triggered the sensor and stopped the doors from closing. He could warn her, he supposes, give her the chance to stop, but truth be told he can’t be certain that she doesn’t already know. That she hasn’t left it open deliberately.

In the months that they have been fucking – only ever at her instigation, and rarely, far too rarely for his liking – he has discovered that her well-known taste for recklessness extends to her sexual predilections. And who is he to deny her anything she desires?

A copper wing of hair swings forward to shield her face as she arches her neck, her mouth sinking down over his cock, already glistening with her saliva. The lewd sounds of her sucking echo in the silent room. She eases back to swirl her tongue around the head, sinks down a little deeper, then pulls all the way off his cock to catch her breath.

He tightens his hand in her hair and pushes her firmly back onto him, hips shifting forward warningly, and she makes a sound in her throat as she struggles to accommodate him. But she doesn’t retreat, and she doesn’t complain.

He would never have dared treat his wife this way, or any other woman in fact, but after his initial discomfiture he has come to relish the captain’s far darker appetites. He doubts that he would be satisfied now with anything less … unconventional.

She pulls off to lick all the way along his length, her little moans and slurping sounds curling his toes.

“Yes,” he mutters, the first word spoken by either of them since she entered his quarters.

She hums in response, hollowing her cheeks to take him in again. As she works him faster he pushes at the cup of her bra until her nipple stands above it. He pinches it and she whimpers, her eyes drifting closed.

“No,” he grits. “Eyes up. Look at me, princess.”

The endearment – if he can call it that – just slips out; he has never before addressed her as anything but Captain, and usually when they are together like this he doesn’t call her anything at all. For a moment he freezes, afraid he’s crossed a line, killed her mood.

But her body goes still and she raises her eyes to his, wide open and trusting as he has never seen them before. She writhes a little, pushing her head against his hand like a cat, and he watches her squeeze her thighs together: a sure sign of her growing arousal.

You like that, huh? he thinks. And because he is an intelligent man, he presses further.

“Suck my cock, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Take it all the way down. I want to see tears in those pretty blue eyes.”

Her moan reverberates along his engulfed penis, swirls into his balls and streaks into every limb, and he has to grit his teeth to hold back his threatening orgasm. It’s clear that she wants to finish him this way: she is giving it her all, arching and twisting to cram as much of him down her throat as she possibly can. Saliva drips from her chin, onto his balls, dampens the fabric of his pants. Her eyes are watering from the effort of controlling her gag reflex; she undulates against his hand at her breast and swallows repeatedly, the muscles of her throat caressing his cock, and he wants to thrust into her mouth until he explodes.

But he wants to be inside her more.

“That’s enough,” he grates, pulling her off him. “Get up.”

She gasps for breath, her face flushed with exertion, and stumbles to her feet with her hands still clasped behind her back.

“Turn around,” he orders.

There’s a faint sound from the corridor outside, and he decides they’ve pushed their luck for long enough. Kicking her jacket aside to let the doors close, he grasps her wrists – she has obediently presented him with her back – and half-guides, half-pushes her toward the bed, stopping just short of it. He releases her and reaches around to unzip her pants. Shoving them over her hips and yanking down her underwear, he pushes her face-down over the bed and toes her ankles apart.

One finger, dipping experimentally, is enough to convince him that she is more than ready for him. He wants to taste her – he loves to bring her off with mouth and tongue; she climaxes so exquisitely – but there’s no time. And the upward tilt of her hips, the way she turns her head – face pressed to his bedspread, eyeing him through a fallen curtain of hair – tells him that she won’t tolerate any delay.

He positions himself, pushes in a little way, adjusts his angle and thrusts deep into her willing body.

They moan in harmony. His hands settle onto her hips, gripping firm, and he pulls out slowly and pauses.

She wriggles impatiently and speaks for the first time. Her voice is tight, strained.

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

Instead of answering he plunges in again, so hard and deep that she yelps. He settles into a fast-paced rhythm, enjoying the way her body shudders with each inward thrust, the way she grips him internally and moans on each outward stroke. He slips a hand under her pelvis, two fingers finding her swollen clit and rubbing at it.

She cries out, her hips jerking, a torrent of wetness soaking his already sodden cock and matting his pubic hair. Roaring, he drives into her again and floods her with his release, collapsing over her back as she squeezes around him with the waning pulses of her own orgasm.

When he can see again he pulls out of her, curling his arms around her waist and tipping sideways on the bed. He holds her close, his mouth moving softly against the nape of her neck.

She allows this tenderness for what she judges to be the minimum polite interval. It’s her only concession that his needs in any way differ from hers, and she concedes it only grudgingly.

Still, he’s grateful she permits him even this moment of vulnerability. And fortunately, their needs coincide beautifully in all other areas.

She sits up, patting his thigh perfunctorily as she rakes her hand through dishevelled hair. “Your mission leaves at 1400 hours, Lieutenant. You’d better get going.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers. He slips off the bed and heads into the ‘fresher to clean himself up. When he emerges he finds her fully dressed, her lipstick impeccable, not a hair out of place. How she does that is a mystery he will never comprehend.

She turns for the door and he follows her at a polite distance. Just before she triggers the sensor, she faces him, her hand alighting on his chest.

“Fly safely,” she murmurs in that whiskey voice that never fails to get him hard. “And don’t scratch my shuttle, Lieutenant, or I’ll have to relieve you of that new red uniform.”

There’s a wisecrack on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, mumbling an “aye, Captain,” instead. She pats him on the chest.

“See you in three days,” she says as she breezes through the door, her mind already focused on a hundred other things, every inch the captain.

She doesn’t remind him anymore that what they have is secret. She knows she can trust him to keep his silence, of course. He’s not known for his conversational skills, and bragging has never been his style.

And anyway, who would he tell when his closest confidant is the man for whom his body is a substitute? The man she really wants but won’t allow herself to have?

She’s had enough time now to reach the turbolift, so he judges it safe to leave his quarters. In moments he’s entering the shuttlebay. The Delta Flyer II sits ready, nose pointed toward the space doors.

“Finally,” the mission commander says good-naturedly as he ducks into the Flyer. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Sorry, Chakotay,” mumbles Ayala, taking the pilot’s seat. “Something came up at the last minute.”

“I hope it was something important,” Chakotay answers mildly, and buries himself in a padd while Ayala pretends to concentrate on the pre-flight check.