ugly bag of mostly voyager

You have studied this: in snatches of spare hours, late at night in your quarters, in holodeck tutorials. You’ve become adept at knots and bindings, suspensions and restraints.

Sometimes you like the roughness of hemp: the livid markings it leaves on tender skin, the rasp in her breathing as the rope tightens, holding her in its harsh embrace. Sometimes you prefer to wrap her in silk, to immobilise her without the distraction of surface pain, so that you can concentrate on pressing against other boundaries.

Sometimes you bind only a wrist, or an ankle or her waist; sometimes the rope weaves its way around her body, loops between her thighs, encircles her throat. You only decide which it’s going to be when she tells you: silently, in shivers and small gasps and the way her body goes lax.

You never gag her. You constantly watch the shape of her lips, ever-vigilant for the words that will tell you she has reached her limits.

Every single time, you’re afraid she’ll stay silent when she should have spoken. But you’re diligent and wholly attuned to her, so it’s never come to that. Yet.

Tonight, though, you want to try something new. And you don’t know if she’ll like it, so she’s going to have to tell you.

You wind the cord across her breasts, her waist and hips, and watch her eyes slip closed. This is familiar: the unhurried slide into submission, the gradual divesting of her autonomy. She knows this. She welcomes it.

There’s a moment when she looks at you, her eyes asking why you’re not tightening the rope so that it marks her skin, why the cord you’ve looped around her wrists and throat remains slack. But you ask her silently to trust you, and she nods.

You won’t fail her. It’s the vow you make each time you meet like this, every morning when you step onto her bridge, each night that you take her in your arms and watch her sleep. It’s the promise you made to her years ago, and you intend to keep it until death divides you.

The cord sections her body, patterning it in a silvery web. By the time you’ve finished tying the last knot, she’s trembling. She watches you with eyes that are wide and trusting, pliant, waiting for you to read her need.

You tell her to kneel.

Hands looped behind her back, she kneels on the padded mat you indicate, her perfect bottom resting on her heels. You step out of her line of sight, but she knows better than to follow your movements. Her eyes lock straight ahead. As you come up behind her you see the tension quivering in every line and muscle, her every sense attuned to your soft footfalls and the displacement of air as you move.

You lower the lights.

Her soft intake of breath is the only involuntary sign of her anticipation, but you read it in the way she holds herself taut and perfectly still. The longer you draw this moment out – this moment balanced on the knife-edge between the promise and the beginning – the more she’ll need to trust you, and the farther she’ll fall when the time comes. When you let her tumble over the cliff of built-up layers of arousal, and into the ecstasy she craves.

So you make her wait.

You watch her, and you wait, and you’re rewarded by the faintest of moans.

It’s a sound that says I need you, and touch me, and please.

It’s the sound of her giving over her control, completely and unequivocally.

You reward her with the caress of your hand over her shoulder, enjoying the fine quiver of bone and muscle. The cord criss-crosses her silken skin, its lines both frame and painting.

And tonight, they will add yet another dimension to the work of art kneeling before you.

You rest your palm between her shoulder blades and apply just enough pressure to encourage forward motion. She tips, widens her knees to adjust her balance, and you press her upper body until her cheek rests on the floor. Your palm slides beneath her body, flat and firm on her abdomen until she raises her hips; you wait until you’re sure she understands that you expect her to hold this pose, and then you take your hand away.

You take a few moments to admire the picture she presents: eyes closed, hands bound, ass raised, thighs spread. Standing behind her, you can see the tremble in her thighs, the silvery cord bisecting white skin, the wet petal-pink flesh between her legs.

It’s a picture of such beauty that you breathe deeply, reminding yourself that it’s going to be a long night.

In your hand is a slender wand.

You’d prefer that Tuvok never learn you accessed the section of the database in which you found the specs for this interesting little tool. Upon discovering it you were intrigued; you had never come across anything quite like it, though its predecessors have been used on Earth for centuries. The inventiveness of humans never ceases to amaze and amuse you.

Time and technological advancements have quietly improved its design, and you’re satisfied it’s safer than ever, although safety is one quality on which Kathryn has never placed much importance.

Which is why it’s so important to you.

You press the button on the wand’s base and it hums, glowing indigo. Her eyes don’t open – she’s too well-practised for that – but the faintest flicker of a frown crosses her brow.

Again, you wait – both of you holding your breath – this time until the faint tension leaves her muscles and she accepts, once again, whatever you decide for her.

You hold the tip of the device close to the rope where it lies knotted against the nape of her neck, and purple lightning arcs out from it with an audible crackle. The charge races through the rope in every direction, a sizzling, shimmering streak that prickles her skin everywhere it brushes against the bonds.

Kathryn yelps, her body writhing until the charge exhausts itself, then sinks back to the mat. Her breath comes in quick, unsteady gasps and her fingers clench together at the base of her back.

But she has resumed the position you placed her in. And when you’ve checked her over and returned your gaze to her exposed and upraised ass, you smile. Her cunt is pulsing, a fresh rush of moisture dampening her folds and glistening on the delicate skin of her upper thighs.

You murmur approval as your finger strokes between the cheeks of her ass, spreading her wetness. She moans something that sounds like please and more.

The second touch of the wand makes her arch and cry your name, her thighs spreading helplessly apart. When the sparks dissipate you soothe her with a palm in the centre of her spine, but as soon as she relaxes, you remove your hand.

You shock her again.

Again, and she whimpers; again and she sobs. Between jolts with the wand, your fingers pinch her nipples, drift between her legs, slip just inside her grasping, sodden pussy. She tries hard to hold still – you can feel her wire-strung tension – but as each shock brings the pleasure of pain, she begins to lose her control, pushing back onto your impaling fingers, pressing herself into your hands.

When her breathing grows harsh and her legs tremble constantly, you tuck the wand into your belt. You release her hands from behind her back and guide her torso gently upright.

She assumes the habitual position of the submissive: kneeling, ass resting on her heels, with her palms downturned on her thighs and her head bent.

You can’t help but admire her. Her hair is tangled and stuck to her neck with perspiration. Her skin, so white, is marked livid with patterns where the electric charge ran through her bonds.

As you watch her, she takes in a thin shuddering breath and exhales slowly. Her fingers curl into her palms and she shifts her position, wriggling in apparent discomfort.

You crouch before her and tip her chin up with one finger; you ask her if she wants to stop, but her eyes are clear with focus and she shakes her head, frowning faintly.

You fetch her some water, which she sips before handing you back the half-empty glass and resuming her position. She appears more relaxed, but you need to be sure.

So you question her again, and her brow creases in irritation as she answers smartly that she’s fine.

Not discomfort, then. Impatience.

You gaze into the water glass, considering. Then you toss the contents of the glass directly at her face.

Kathryn gasps, eyes blinking in shock as the water drips from her chin and trails in rivulets down her chest, raising gooseflesh in its wake and puckering her nipples into sharp little points. Pulling the wand from your belt, you flick it on and touch it to the knot between her breasts.

The current arcs and crackles along the ropes that bind her, sizzling where they make contact with damp skin, and she cries out sharply. She rises on her knees as though she wants to stand, but you place your hand firmly around her throat and she subsides.

Coating your tone in glib indifference, you ask if that was too much for her. Meekly, responding to your condescension, she shakes her head, and you reward her by cupping her cheek and brushing your thumb across her trembling lips.

You ask if she would like more.

She inhales shakily and gives a single nod. You wait until her thighs shift apart in anticipation, until her breath is coming in short, needy gusts, until her hands rise from her lap to cup and squeeze her breasts.

This time, you touch the wand to the knot just above her pubic bone. A violet spark ignites the cord looped loosely between her legs and Kathryn shrieks, body twisting, neck arching. Listening to the catch in her breathing as she rests one palm on the floor for balance, you intuit that she’s drawing deliciously closer to climax.

Not close enough, though. And the last thing you want is for tonight to end in her disappointment.

You turn off the wand and lock it carefully in its box. You don’t hurry, and by the time your attention returns to her Kathryn’s brow is crinkled again. She opens her mouth, but before she can speak you crack out your displeasure at her insolence.

Her eyes go wide and her spine taut. You amble over to her, unzipping your pants as you move and freeing your cock to rest on her lower lip. Obediently she angles her neck, her eyes trained on your face as she licks at you slowly, methodically, like an ice cream cone.

You’re already hard, but as her lips form an ‘o’ and her cheeks hollow as she sucks you into the warm cavern of her mouth, you feel yourself lengthening, blood pulsing in the thick veins tracing your cock as she tongues them. She hums low in her throat and the vibrations pulse along your length, pulling an answering growl from your own lips.

When her fingers drift up to tweak at her nipples and her eyes start to close, you pull back, tucking yourself back into your pants with not inconsiderable difficulty, and order her to stand up.

She obeys without hesitation, linking her fingers behind her back, but you take her hands and raise them gently above her head. There’s a length of rope suspended from the ceiling; you fashion the lowest half-metre into handcuffs with the ease of long practice and loop her wrists into the restraint, testing that it will hold her secure without undue discomfort.

Satisfied, you step deliberately out of her range of vision and prepare the other two devices you’ve replicated for the occasion.

The first, you slip inside her, listening to the change in her breathing as it shapes and moulds itself to fill her perfectly. It pushes into her depths, presses against her front wall, and when you activate it with a quiet command it flutters and throbs and extends clever tendrils to wrap over her clitoris and into her ass.

You watch as her focus tunnels down to the subtle pulsing of the little toy inside her. Her thighs are quivering, her lips parted, her nipples rosy and tight, and you smile in satisfaction.

The second device appears more conventional, or at least more the kind of thing she’s used to. But as with everything else you’ve brought her this evening, it comes with a twist.

You can tell by the taut lines of her body, the way she holds herself perfectly still, the way she’s barely breathing, that her eagerness is ratcheting up with each incremental moment that you delay.

You strip off your shirt and move up close behind her, knowing she’ll feel the warmth from your body, so near to hers. Knowing she will stand motionless for as long as she can, until her need for skin-to-skin contact overwhelms her.

Silent and still, you wait for her cue.

And when she moans – quietly, so quietly – and relaxes back until her shoulder blades brush your bare chest – you take one step away, pull back your arm and snap it forward so that the cat o’ nine tails makes contact.

The neon crackle as the flogger impacts the rope bisecting her back wrenches from her a shriek of pain, like a hurt animal.

And – as always when you strike her – there’s a moment when you are forced to close your eyes, to breathe deep and squash with ruthless ardour your natural impulse to rush to her, to free her from the bonds you’ve so lovingly wrapped her in, to soothe and stroke her and beg her forgiveness –

– but you know, as bizarre and twisted as you once thought it, that this is what Kathryn hungers for: to be bound and controlled, lashed and scored, thrust into an ecstatic hell through which only you can guide her.

Stopping now, when she’s trembling with erotic tension and focused utterly on the sensations you’re wreaking from her, would result only in her frustration.

And what you hunger for, what you’ve always hungered for, is to give her anything she desires.

As the shock and the pain subside, the little device inside her hums and throbs, bringing pleasure back to the fore. Softly, she moans, and you draw back your arm and lash her again.

The tips of the flogger impact in a dozen places, showering sparks across the unprotected flesh of her back, sizzling along her bindings. Kathryn cries out, writhing, and you strike her again, and again, until the conductive rope leaves livid marks on her pale, beautiful skin and each cry she gives ends in a plea, or a sob.

And between each lash of the flogger, the toy inside her flutters and pulses and twists, driving her arousal higher, ever higher, until finally she bursts over the summit with a tortured, rapturous wail.

Breathing hard – exertion, emotion – you order the little device to switch off and detach so you can assess her. She has relaxed into her bindings, arms suspended well above her bowed head. Small, sporadic shivers race uncontrollably along her limbs. You murmur her name, gently at first, but when she doesn’t respond you inject iron into your tone to hide the sudden worry.

Seizing a handful of her hair, you force her head up and order her to answer.

The sound she makes is guttural and raw, and when she looks up at you her lower lip trembles and her eyes glisten with tears.

Alarmed, you switch off the flogger and toss it away, cupping her face in your hands and whispering apologies for hurting her, for pushing her too far.

But she gives a breathless laugh and turns to press her lips to your palm, whispering, Please, I need you.

You loosen the cuffs and ease her wrists free, and with the loss of that support she sags into you with a sob that’s part relief and wholly surrender.

Gathering her in your arms, you dictate a command to the computer and a vast white bed appears. You cradle her close as you carry her over to it and lay her gently on the covers. Arms stretched above her head, thighs lax, she gazes up at you; her eyes are still tear-filled but calm, a blissful smile on her lips.

This is the moment when the chaotic lust that has gone before transmutes into something quieter. The ritual of freeing her from her bonds is symbolic of the way you stitch her back together. And in doing so, makes you whole as well.

You rest one knee on the bed between her thighs and release the first knot, pulling gently on the rope so that it slides easily through its loop. She gives a contented sigh and shimmies deeper into the soft bedding. As the cord slips free you pause to admire the livid red marks it has left, darkest where the charge gathered and sparked most strongly.

The pattern of rope and knots inscribes her pale skin like a tattoo. Like a brand.

You reach for the bottle of lotion on the table beside the bed and smooth it over the marks and she stretches languorously, a low purr humming in her throat. Each knot is carefully untied, each criss-cross of cord pulled away, each centimetre of reddened, abused flesh soothed, until she lies bare and tranquil and aroused beneath your hands.

She is so beautiful, and you are so grateful that you are the one she has chosen to be what she needs.

And right now, her outstretched arms and flushed, parted lips convey, what she needs from you is to love her.

It’s only now that you start to shake with emotion, now that you can loosen the iron grip you’ve kept on your control. You sink onto her, into her, and she welcomes you sweetly with eager sighs and slender limbs wrapped around you in an echo of the bonds you’ve freed her from.

She’s the one who brings the two of you back, who resolves the dissonance of her desire to plummet over the very edge of the life to which you so desperately want her to cling, into a softer, sweeter harmony.

She cradles your face in her hands as you move inside her, holds your eyes with her gaze, lets you see how deeply she feels the words she’s mouthing, over and over until you can hold on no longer and you surge inside her with a groan that affirms your own surrender.

When the storm passes you blink your way back to awareness, shifting to pull her close. She rests in your arms as your heartbeats synchronise, knitting you together in an intimacy from which you have no power, and no wish, to recover.

That power is and always has been all hers. Because you may be the one who binds and constrains her physically, who directs the shape and structure of these depraved and sacred nights, the one who dictates when and how often and how fiercely she comes: but she is always the one in control.

You spread your hands across her back, a symbolic renewal of your vow to protect and cherish her, and Kathryn leans up to kiss your lips sweetly, lingeringly, before murmuring the words that make everything that’s gone before, at its essence, an act of worship.

The words you hunger for.