Fan Friction #1: Sex Trek!

Fan Friction #1: Sex Trek!

Jun 21

“Seven of Nine, I need you in my ready room,” Janeway barked.

She had one of those looks in her eyes, one of those looks Seven of Nine recognized all too well. One of those secret looks the two of them shared. A sultry, forbidden look, tinged with longing and smoke. The look…of love.

Seven of Nine made her way off the bridge of the U.S.S. Voyager and into the nearby ready room. Janeway had already entered and seated herself at her chair. Seven noticed the heaving swell of Janeway’s supple yet aged bosom, already fermenting like a fine wine, perhaps a merlot. She also hoped Janeway was noticing her own supple bosom, hanging from her chest like a pair of ripened apples waiting to be plucked from her sexy tree of sexy apples.

“Seven, I need you to do something…”

“Yes, Captain?” Seven’s lips parted slightly, seductively, with a slight seductive pout.

“We’ve been having some problems in the transporter room…I’ve cleared the staff from the area…I need you to make your way down there and…inspect the problem.”

Seven gasped slightly–she knew exactly what that code phrase, “inspect the problem,” meant. It meant that she was to perform secret nude repairs on the ship while Janeway enjoyed the show from her quarters through a closed-circuit camera.

“I’ll get right on it,” Seven sighed.

“I know that you will,” Janeway replied.

Seven stepped out of the ready room. Seated behind the desk, “Janeway” morphed…into a sinister Suliban.

“I know that you will,” he cackled before vanishing into time itself.

Seven of Nine stepped into the empty transporter chamber, keying in the code that would lock the door behind her. Gingerly, she stepped out of her exosuit, her heaving breasts heaving heftily with bulging, throbbing heft in the cold of the chamber. Quickly, her nipples firmed, hardened like two ex-convicts made bitter by the indignities of the U.S. penal system. She looked up toward the location of the camera and massaged her body slowly, the wet of her lips glistening like ripened cherries might glisten if made wet with water or spit.

Suddenly, a vortex of energy crackled just a few feet away from her. Seven turned away from it, instantly panicked, rushing in shock to the keypad, her slender thighs jiggling from the exertion like Suzanne Sommers’ breasts on an old episode of Battle of the Network Stars, perhaps one where she’s running a tire course. She pounded the code quickly into the keypad–

But it was too late. She was gone.

Centuries into Seven of Nine’s past, T’Pol slipped quickly out of her jumpsuit in the decontamination chamber, just off the transporter room of the NX-01–the Enterprise. She piously grabbed a tube of decontamination gel off a nearby shelf and began rubbing it expressionlessly over her breasts, her legs, her buttocks. The gel glistened on her body–her very skin seemed to glow, seductively, slightly, with a slight and seductive glow.

She knew she wasn’t to take pleasure in the exercise–she knew she wasn’t to take pleasure in anything. She was a Vulcan. She wasn’t supposed to feel at all–unless, of course, she was portrayed by Larry Luckinbill. Then it was okay.

Yet at times, while she rubbed the smooth gel over her tender skin, she was overcome with an urge to rub harder, to rub everywhere, to steal the gel and take it to her quarters and…

T’Pol pivoted quickly, her breasts bouncing against one another like the heads of Larry and Curly between Moe’s frustrated hands. She could hear a crackle of energy inside the decontamination chamber–it had appeared suddenly behind her, and it was growing fast. It quickly became large enough that it matched her own ample height.

Then, a body fell through the energy field, landing on its feet right in front of T’Pol. And as quickly as it had appeared, the energy field was gone.

The creature before her–T’Pol noticed it was a humanoid female, with strange metal implants in her face. But more than that, T’Pol couldn’t help but notice the female’s figure–the massive pendulous globes adorning her naked chest, the smooth silky goodness of her inner thigh, the graceful sweep of her fabulous hairdo.

“Fabulous”–an expression of feeling. T’Pol couldn’t resist the urge, the impulse, the emotion. It filled her chest with a meaty glow, like a million firenarfs from Xarnon Alpha XV. She looked upon the slender, erotic figure crouching naked before her and she felt. She felt…desire.

The figure stood.

“Where am I?” she asked. “I am Seven of Nine. Who are you?”

T’Pol noticed a glimmer in the woman’s eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought maybe this Seven of Nine wanted her too, felt the same intoxicating tangle of emotions flitting about her own brain.

“I am T’Pol of the Enterprise,” she said. “May I apply gel to your milk receptacles?”

She was still unsure of how to communicate with humans, especially where intercourse was concerned. But she knew how to act. She filled her palm with gel and pressed it against Seven’s hefty, heaving bosom, heavy with heft and heave. Seven gasped and moaned slightly, reaching her hand down between her legs to infulgrate her Borgified womanhood.

“This…is not…logical…” T’Pol whispered. But she could not resist. She pushed Seven up against the wall and they kissed, lip upon lip, flesh upon flesh, shameless fanboy fantasy against shameless fanboy fantasy.

“I have no clue,” Harry Kim said.

He was down in a deserted engineering corridor of the Voyager; he was inspecting the area with his longtime companion, Tom Paris. The two were crouched beneath a console next to each other, their ample buttocks lifted upward toward the ceiling, as if praising the gods of manhood for crafting such perfectly firm and rounded monuments to defecation.

“I don’t either,” Tom said. He stood and leaned on the console; Harry joined him. Tom couldn’t bring himself to admit it, but he loved it when Harry got frustrated–his eyes narrowed, and his lips curled up in the most adorable way.

“It makes no sense,” Harry said. “The Captain wakes up unconscious down here, she comes sprinting up to the bridge looking for Seven of Nine, Seven’s gone, and we get stuck inspecting every square inch of the ship for clues? No sense.”

“It’s not so bad,” Tom replied, his heart leaping into his throat at the merest hint toward his feelings for Harry.

“No, it’s not,” Harry said. But how could he tell him what he really felt–that working with Tom was the most exhilarating thing he could imagine? That being near Tom fulfilled him so much, stirred feelings deep inside him that he’d never known were there?

The ship shook violently–Harry was thrown into Tom’s arms. Their eyes met–their gazes locked. They stood in an impromptu embrace, but neither could shatter its sanctity.

“Asteroids,” Harry whispered, looking up into Tom’s gorgeous eyes.

“Yeah,” Tom whispered back. He felt the tension, and he had to act–he reached up and brushed his hand against Harry’s stubbled cheek. Harry’s eyes closed and he sighed.

“Oh, Tom,” Harry said, running his own hand down Tom’s hunky chest, reaching between his legs and plucking at his ample manhood. It throbbed like the pulsing beat at a downtown techno club, one where Thursday is ladies’ night and well drinks are half price.

They kissed, tumbling with passion around the engineering corridor, man meeting man like no other men had ever met before.

Next time: Still at work on their nefarious plot, the Suliban drop Uhura and Major Kira into an unexpected Menage a Troi! Plus, aching and lonely without Seven of Nine, Janeway turns to the only comfort that will satisfy her–the Doctor’s holographic schlong!

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