The Monstrous More: #STAD for September 25, 2015

Yes, I’m out of sequence here. I’ve been wanting to revise and post as I go, but life’s been determined to fill me up with Other Things. So, I’ll post each day beginning today, letting you know if they’re unrevised, and work backward through the two weeks or so of missing posts.

Standard Disclaimer Rates Apply: Freely offered, out of passion. No monetary renumeration accepted; comments and criticisms always welcome!

Author’s Note: This scene takes place on Vulcan, after S4E3 “Home”, before either Trip or T’Pol return to Earth and Enterprise.  It’s a sequel- of- sorts to my 2014 story, “Views of a Wedding”, and my May 2015 story, A Sweet Wild Dream”. Spoilers for “Home”, as well as S3E19: “Damage”, and S1E23: “Fallen Hero”.

This story is rated R for sexual content, language, and adult themes. Reader discretion is advised.

The Monstrous More


He never would have guessed she had a monster living inside her. Sure, he’d seen her passions, knew she could lose that famous Vulcan control. He knew it was a hell of a lot more likely to happen when they were alone together.

But this monster made her nothing but endless, ravenous hungers.


“Pepperpot, I can’t….spirit’s willing, but the human’s weak – “

She stared into his eyes, and her pupils had swallowed up all the hazel. Maybe it was because he was really drunk, and everything was blurry. Tricky knowing where he ended and she started. Like she was in his skin, and he in hers….

“Moremoremore!” She moved frantically, but it was no use. She’d plumb tuckered him out, or pulled the Tucker right out of him or –

“Damn – way too drunk, if I’m mahing jokes about my own – yow!” Her grab was fierce. “Kroykah!” he yelped, and the sound or the word startled her into letting go.

The monster inside her didn’t understand. It reveled in pain. Maybe natural, maybe the damned fist-sized rock’s worth of trellium – and that was just what he could remember through the booze haze.

Was trellium-D the monster, or was it something else?

Didn’t matter. She was shaking. Damn. Where was her limit, anyhow? Could the monster ever get enough? He pulled her in close, stroking her back.

“Moremoremore?” she whimpered, staring at him, her eyes filling up. It did him in, that she still needed him so much she cried. Or the monster did.

“Sorry, pepperpot. Can’t, now. Need to rest – sleep -” So did she, but the monster wouldn’t let her.

“Drink more?” Was she was breaking out of her monster’s moremoremore? Or just trying to get him drunk enough to go again?

“More neuropressure?” He was going to get sick if he drank any more now.

“Mate more?”

“After sleep.” He kissed her; could still do that, anyway. “I promise.”

Moremoremore. Her heart beat it out, swift and strong against his belly. Her fingers moved to his face; two were burned, like his, from when they’d thrust them into the flame. Trip was a little scared – her plasma arc got stronger every time. Every time, he felt moremoremore. More of her. More of the monster inside, taking her over.

Would it possess him, too? What would happen, if it did?

What would happen, if he didn’t let it get any further…?

Too tired now….they were both so damned tired – even the monster must be, because her head settled on his chest, over his heart….

“So slow….so slow…so…slow….” she murmured, hot breath tickling his chest, and she smelled like walking through Grandma Tucker’s orange grove on a spring afternoon….

They’re sitting at the Cap’n’s table, in the grove. Sandalwood candles are burning, blending with citrus.

“On Vulcan, we mate only once every seven years.” So prim and superior. A righteous pain in the ass.

And she was lying. Cause this was sure as hell Vulcan, and they’d ‘mated’ seven times in the last seven hours. Maybe more. Maybe moremoremore.

She’s sitting on a branch, a plum slice poised at her lips. She’s just told Phlox, and he’s asked her why she did something so dangerous. She tips the fruit – not a plum anymore – to her lips. She knows it will change her forever, in ways she can’t predict.

“I wanted more.” She opens her mouth, gulps greedily, can’t hold it all. Sticky nectars run down her chin, and he licks and kisses them away, while she becomes something new. Is this the birth of her monster?

“I wanted more. Moremoremore.” So simple, her reason – But it wasn’t simple. It was all through her, this dangerous need for more. Not want. Need.

The flame, when she was a baby. The nectars, on the Forge, beneath T’Khut at full, in a crevice in the obsidian cliffs. She waited, trembling, until the ripened fruit fell into her hand, her scarred fingers  cradling it.

Need drove her. Need was the monster inside her. The need to know more. Moremoremore….forever, moremoremore.

Her mind was full of it, like a mantra. She was open and trembling here, too…poised to give him moremoremore of herself – all of herself? To let him share the nectars, and the flame. No. More.


He was her nectar, and her flame. She gave herself to him, as she had to them….she was changed by him, and she wanted more.


If he let her have all she wanted, her monster would gobble him up. What would happen to Trip Tucker? He could feel it, rising, preparing to swallow him whole, the way it had her…

He jolted awake. She was finally sleeping -deeply. He hadn’t woken her with his jerking away from the monster inside her….

“Moremoremore.”…monstrous, her need for more – it was there; he could hear it in her breath…

It had swallowed her whole, and he was next…


Not letting that happen!

Trip wriggled out from under, and stared at her sprawled across the bed. What the hell had they been doing, these last who the hell knew how many days – she was married, and not to him, but they’d acted like it was their honeymoon –

Where the hell was Koss, anyway? Her rightful, Vulcan husband?

Falling more than walking, he got to the door. He wanted to turn and look at her one last time– but he didn’t dare. To see her asleep in candlelight, to see the marks of their lovemaking on her copper skin – no, that way lie moremoremore madness….

Trip stumbled naked out of the room, chased by her relentless mind, and its endless plea, command, desire…which he felt, still, in the beat of his human heart.


“Tunnel of Love”: #STaD for September 10, 2015

Note: I envision this scene as occurring during the later part of the first year of Enterprise’s journey… somewhere between “Two Days and Two Nights” and “Shockwave Part 1”. There’s a teensy little spoiler for  S1E23:”Fallen Idol”.

Standard Disclaimer:  I don’t own them. I don’t make money off them. I just play with them, is all.

“Tunnel of Love”

“I don’t understand the meaning of the song.” T’Pol looked from the datapadd to him.

Trip chuckled. He wasn’t going to get anything more than that by way of greeting. She tried, but she still wasn’t any good at small talk and the type of social niceties that most humans took for granted. He supposed he should be happy that she didn’t just ignore him the way she still sometimes did.

He’d been right, at the beginning, and so had she. She was learning how to talk to humans, and he was learning how to listen to Vulcans. The Mess Hall, late into the night, when most of the crew was asleep, was their informal learning laboratory. She seemed to be able to share of herself more freely, when it was just the two of them. Trip wouldn’t tell her, but he felt a little honored every time she opened up to him, even the tiniest bit.

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got there.” He set down his sandwich and milk, and settled in across from her. He didn’t look at her directly; that seemed to close her down as often as not.

She passed the datapadd without comment, and, when Trip saw the song she’d selected, he rubbed his mouth, while the warmth of a blush started creeping up his face. How the hell was he going to explain this one?

“Your complexion has shifted, Commander. Are you all right?”

There was a time, not so long ago, when she would’ve missed that – when she hadn’t known blushing was a sign of possible distress. She learned fast.

“I’m all right. It’s just that there’s more than one meaning for that particular human idiom, and, ahhh, well….”

“At least one of the meanings has sexual connotations.” So damned blunt – she had no filter for sexual conversations, as he and the Cap’n had found out over dinner, a few weeks back. And she wasn’t asking; she was making a statement. The woman learned very, very fast.

“Matter of fact, it does.” Nothing he could do about the blush, so he was just going to take a page from her book and ignore it. “How’d you know?”

“I’m a scientist, Commander.” She sipped her chamomile tea, watching him expectantly, and there was that little shift in the way she held her eyes that made them catch the starlight. She was a scientist, but he was born to be an engineer, and he’d made it his personal mission to figure out how she ticked.

That look he knew.  He’d seen it a few times before. She was up to something.

Well, if he was going to embarrass himself explaining this to her, he was damned well going to enjoy whatever she had planned. Enjoy it – but not fall in right away. Nope. He was gonna make her work for it.

“That so?”

“It is.” Damned if she wasn’t baiting him. Well, he didn’t need to bite  just anything she dangled. He’d learned some things, as a kid, fishing for ol’ grandaddy catfish…

He put her padd aside, and raised his milk glass in a small toast. T’Pol made a tiny motions with her tea mug, and Trip swigged with exaggerated noisiness while she sipped delicately. Even the way she drank tea was controlled, but he’d gotten a taste of her wild side, and he wasn’t going to forget it, because it was just as much a part of her as this outer calm.

Trip exchanged the milk for his egg salad sandwich, and took a bite big enough to keep him from giving in to the urge to talk. In the game he played in his head, he got extra points for getting her to talk twice in a row, because it meant that she was getting impatient, even if she wouldn’t say so.

And that meant that he had her attention. Like the first time, when he’d played his harmonica for her, and her eyes had been so dilated, pulling him into her…

He chewed, looking at the sandwich more than her. He wanted to stare, to memorize every nuance of her face, those subtle shifts that he was starting to be able to read. He wanted to soak them into himself until he knew her as well as his engines.

But that would let her know that he was interested and waiting to hear whatever she’d say. Nope, not gonna do that. He couldn’t intrigue her if he was always trying, always ready every time she wanted something from him.

The silence stretched out, like a tunnel they were in together. Trip focused on the textures and flavors of his sandwich. He watched her from under his eyelids, and took a nice big bite just as she lowered her tea and opened her mouth, so that his would be full, and she’d have to wait for an awswer.

“I still don’t understand the song’s title, Trip.” Twice in a row, and a Trip. Touchdown!

“Mmn…” he said, chewing away good and slow.

“That is hardly informative, Commander.”

Two and a half, three if you didn’t count his ‘Mmn’. And her voice had gotten a little sharper, too.  This was more than a touchdown, more than a grand slam home run.  Maybe, just maybe, if he could hold out, he’d get a flash of temper.  A little scary, but empowering, to know he could get under that lovely copper skin of hers.

Yeah, that’s why he was chewing so slowly. It didn’t have anything at all to do with getting a few more seconds to figure out how in hell he was going explain the sexual connotations of the phrase ‘Tunnel of Love’ to his impatient and desirable Vulcan friend without turning so red she called  Doctor Phlox.

A Picnic with Pavane: #STaD for September 9, 2015


I don’t own Star Trek, but Trip and T’Pol own space in my imagination.  I don’t make any money from their stories. I just write what they tell me to…

This story takes place in the six-year gap after S4E21: “Terra Prime”.  Spoilers for that and S4E17: “Bound”.  This story is the sequel to my September 6 story, Across the Threshold, which follows shortly after the events in my May 2015 stories, “It’s the Little Things” and Artistry in the Aftermath.

A Picnic With Pavane

Trip rose from the dream, eyes still closed, drifting. Horns, low and melancholy. Lighter, hopeful notes and choral voices weaving through, with a softly insistent rhythm. Faure’s Pavane. “Never and always touching and touched,” he whispered, in sleepy amazement.

She was reaching for peace in the midst of sorrow.

Deep and unspoken, in her fractured soul, and his. So little time; barely enough to wrap his brain around the fact that they even had a daughter neither one of them knew about. Plenty of time to fall in love with her, to need to take care of her. To be a family, no matter how they’d gotten there.

“I grieve with you.” Didn’t matter who thought it. For their baby girl; for Lizzie and T’Les and Sim. Too many deaths, too much to mourn…

“Your bladder is uncomfortably overfull, t’hy’la.”

So many layers beneath the matter-of-fact thought; like the layering of the instruments in the music still moving in her. Once, he’d thought she was uncaring. But that was before she’d learned how to talk to humans, and before he’d learned how to listen to Vulcans.

Before they’d been bound.

Trip got up and took care of urgent business. She faded back, but he could still feel her. She was like his heartbeat and his breath, now, part of him…

“I await you.” Just three little words. So much meaning. Not just that she’d be there when he opened the door, or even here, in his head. She awaited him with all of herself.

He left the bedroom without dressing. She craved being naked with him. He had to admit that there were times when it was pretty damned efficient. Like when his wife was standing in the common area, wearing nothing but Lizzie’s little claddaugh ring, chin up and eyes wet, watching him. Pavane was still playing softly on a repeating loop, with its mournful horns, twining hopeful surges, and that rhythm that carried everything forward, without rushing. Like her, and the way she’d rearranged the furniture.

“It looks like a whole new room.”

The couches and table were now cozied up against the wall where her mother’s meditation candle had been. That was by the window, with a low table and two cushions, just like she had in her quarters back home.

“This is no longer my mother’s home. I wanted – I felt – “ She stopped, trapped by her inability to put tangled feelings into words. Vulcan kids weren’t encouraged to share their feelings; she’d been trained from babyhood to control, suppress, repress – and to do it all privately.

Her need, and the silent tears in her eyes, pulled him to her, and he gathered her into his arms. “I know,” he whispered. The bond surged up stronger than ever, needing no words. Her silent tears wet his chest.

“Thank you,” she said, after a minute or two. “Breakfast is ready.”

Trip’s body had ideas, but he pushed them aside, and let her go.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“I wanted to wait for you, t’hy’la.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic, pepperpot.” Trip grinned as inspiration struck. “Here, you sit down, and let me serve.” He settled her on one of the couches, taking a few extra seconds to brush his paired fingers lightly over the backs of hers – a Vulcan kiss, only more than that.

Once, she would have argued that this was illogical and pointless. But now he knew that he intrigued her when he was impetuous and unpredictable. It fed the bold and rebellious part of her that had broken protocol, hidden her ears under a cowl, and ventured into Fusion.

He dashed back to the bedroom, grabbed a blanket and pillows, and hurried back with the double armload. “Gonna make us a first-rate indoor breakfast picnic. Mind if I change the music? I’ve got something in mind I think you’ll like.”

“I don’t mind.” She looked so tempting, sitting there in just her skin and her wedding ring, watching him. Made him want to forget about breakfast – but she didn’t eat enough lately, not by a long shot.

In less than five minutes, he had everything ready, except the music. “Milady, may I escort you to our very own indoor floor picnic?” He bowed and reached for her hand, taking care not to grab her incredibly sensitive fingertips.

“You may indeed escort me.” Those fingertips found his, stroking very lightly, and they were quivering.

Trip led her to her place by their paired fingers, with pillows against the couch to make a nest, and breakfast laid out on their blanket. He put a cup of plomik broth in her hands as he released her. “You seem to like the classical Pavane -” He tapped a code into the padd she handed him.

“I feel it.”

“It helps, a little, doesn’t it?” He came to sit beside her; not too close, because Vulcans liked more space than humans.

“It helps. As do you, t’hy’la.”T’Pol wasn’t your typical Vulcan, anymore, if she ever had been. She scootched right up close, and let out a soft and pheremone-laced sigh.

“You do, too, you know.” He kissed her nose. “This arrangement’s more – well, I’m going to let you hear it for yourself. Remember, if you don’t like it, or it hurts these beautiful ears…” He caressed the point, and she shivered in closer to him, her scent shifting toward the mineral end of things. She had ideas, too.

“I’ll tell you.”

“Good.” She tipped her head, her eyes drifting closed, and relaxed into him. Trip and let himself sink into that nebulous place where she was….where they were.


“We Have EVERY Right!”: #STaD for September 8, 2015

I don’t own Star Trek, but  Trip and T’Pol own space in my imagination.  I make no money from telling their stories. I just write what they tell me to!

This story is part of the Not Jealousy story arc which occurs during the six-year gap after S4E21: “Terra Prime”.   This story is a sequel to Questions and Answers and Forest Grotesque.

This story is rated PG-13 for mild sexual content and language.

We Have EVERY Right!”

“What the hell are you doing, Trip?”

“Meditating. Please lower your voice, Cap’n; yelling hurts our ears.”

“’Our ears’?”

“Hers, more’n mine… a little hard to tell who’s feeling what, these days…was there something you wanted, Captain? We can’t take much more of the smell….yeah, I know, pepperpot. I’m working on it -”

“Stop calling her that!”

“The hell I will – damn. Didn’t mean to yell….meant to meditate. It helps her feel better, when I call her pepperpot.”

“What makes you the authority on what makes T’Pol feel better?”

“She’s in my head, remember? Says it’s ‘comforting, and soothing ‘– damn, not again -” He gagged, and grabbed at a bowl Jon hadn’t noticed at his side.

He strode past the retching engineer, and stared at T’Pol’s bed, rumpled, with her robes tangled in the covers, like Trip had been holding them close while he slept. Looking at that, Jon wanted him to puke his guts out.

“Sorry, Cap’n.You ‘re not hitting our nose damned sick of getting sick..” He sagged back against the leg of the desk, eyes half closed.

Jon was too mad to give in to pity. There were things that needed to be cleared up.“ I went to your quarters.”

“What for?”

“Looking for you.”

“That’s not logical. Computer would’ve told you I was here. You were spying on us.”

Us. He said it so naturally. Us. Him. And T’Pol.

It was getting way too hard not to notice these things, and that made Jon madder.

“Call it whatever you want. Why are there only a couple of uniforms in your wardrobe, Trip – and three very pretty little suits with matching boots?”

Trip shrugged. “Never know when there’s gonna be a tactical alert. It was logical to be prepared.”

“That doesn’t answer the question -”

“Hang on – gonna puke again -”

Serves you right,” Jon muttered, while Trip brought up anything still in him. ”If I don’t get some answers, I’m going to come from the gym, without a shower, and see how the hell your damned nose likes that!

“Please don’t.”

“How the hell did you hear that?”

“Told you – hard to tell who’s doing the hearing.”

“Tell me about the clothes.”

“Already did.”

It was like getting both of them at their stubbornest. He wanted to pound answers out of Trip. But he couldn’t – he was the Captain.

“Why are you sleeping in her bed, with her clothes?”

“Not your business where I sleep, or how.”

“I want answers – not more evasive action.”

“You won’t like ’em -”

“Start talking, or I’m calling the MACOs to drag you the hell out of here.”

“Thought we were friends – “ Damn him, he actually looked betrayed. Then his face went still, and he tipped his head slightly. “Captain, I ask very little. I’m asking you to stop seeking answers you don’t wish to hear. There’s no logic in it, and the potential for considerable pain.”

“Stop pretending you’re her!” Jon was across the room, leaning over Trip, wondering what he was going to do next.

“Not pretending anything.” Jon’s hand grabbed those damned robes. “Hey, let go!”

“I want you out of here – and her out of your head. Permanently.” He was shaking Trip, his fingers digging into his shoulders –

He slammed back, into the deck plating, before he knew Trip had twisted free.

“Aww, hell, pepperpot, now you’ve done it- Cap’n, you OK?”

Jon refused to notice Trip’s bewildered concern. “Soon as I start the court martial.”

“Don’t move, Captain.” Trip crouched over him; one hand was poised to block another grab, and the other hovered over his shoulder, in the right position for a neck pinch. He watched Jon without blinking.

“You’ve got no right -”

“We have every right!” That damned ‘we’.

“The hell you do!”

Trip pinned him down, his face close and angrier than Jon had ever seen him, even with Degra.

“She’s my wife, Cap’n. My wife! Whoever these bastards are, they took her right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop it -” He made a sound like a sob, and he was shaking.

Jon’s head was spinning, and not from being hit. “Your wife? T’Pol?!”

“Yeah. Sorry we clobbered you – she’s sick, hurt, and scared. She needs me, and oh hell do I need her! I’ll do anything – anything, you understand that? – to bring her home -” His voice broke, and he half-crawled to the bed, crying.

Jon lay there, listening, stunned by the second, more potent, blow. It hurt in places he didn’t want to think about. “You and T’Pol – married? Prove it.”

Trip stopped crying and went to the corner cupboard  while Jon pried himself off the deck and leaned his back against T’Pol’s bench. Trip came back, and knelt at the meditation table, across from Jon. He set a double picture frame there, silently.

On one side, a marriage certificate, and on the other – T’Pol, in a white dress that flared out at the waist to float around her legs, and a translucent white lace cowl, one ear visible beneath. Trip, in a beige linen suit with his Hawaiin shirt. T’Pol was up on tiptoes, one hand wrapped around the back of Trip’s head, pulling him close. Her eyes were wide and dilated, liquid and lovely.

What hurt most was that look in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you want her, and can’t accept she never wanted you back. We didn’t want to hurt you.””

“You’re wrong, Trip.” All this time, all the things he’d tried not to notice –

“Just help me find her.” A gulping swallow. “And get out, before you make us sick again.”

Jon went. He stood staring at the door, shut out and trying not to notice how much it hurt.

“Mission Accomplished”: #STaD for September 7, 2015


I don’t own Star Trek, but Trip and T’Pol own space in my imagination.  I don’t make any money from their stories. I just write what they tell me to…


This story takes place in the six-year gap after S4E21: “Terra Prime”.  Spoilers for that and S4E17: “Bound”.  This story is the sequel to my September 6 story, Across the Threshold, which follows shortly after the events in my May 2015 stories, “It’s the Little Things” and Artistry in the Aftermath.

“Mission Accomplished”

“A killer is on the loose, having broken into the home of a wealthy woman and left her for dead. He absconded with a few items, then left the initials, ‘M.A.’ ” Trip lowered the padd to watch his companion.

“Is this all the information we’ve been given?” She returned his gaze over her mug of mint tea. Steam curled up, fragrant, blending with citrus, minerals and sandalwood. That said she had other ideas about how to spend the next several hours.

He was tempted to turn the pad off, and let her lure him to her quarters, where candlelight could shine in her dilated eyes, and glow softly on copper skin.

“Commander, although I find it illogical , the Captain has ordered us to ‘play along’, and I’d like to be finished as quickly as possible.”

Formal as ever…except, three days ago, she’d decided that wearing clothing in her quarters was ‘illogical and inefficient’. Trip wasn’t at the point where he could just peel down as soon as the door closed the way she did, but maybe tonight…


“It’s your own fault for being so damned sexy.”

“I fail to see the correlation.”

“Arguing wastes even more time.”

She sighed, and sipped. “Is there any further information?”

“That’s it. Why are you scowling?”

“Vulcans don’t scowl- ”

“Bullshit. You’re wasting time.”

“These clues lack specificity, or corroborating evidence.”

Trip read it again. The little stopwatch in the corner of the screen said that they’d been talking for three minutes and thirty-three seconds, already. Damn. She could be naked now…by the smell of her, she would be all over him, if they were free.

Focus, Tucker. Be logical. Stow the fantasies. “It seems pretty cut and dried to me.”

“We can’t assume that the home invader was a killer.”

“It says he’s a killer on the loose.”

“We weren’t told that the woman died, therefore,  she may have recovered. Nor can we assume the perpetrator has killed in the past, from this clue.”

“I see your point.” Damn, he loved the way this woman’s mind worked.

“You’re losing focus, t’hy’la.” T’Pol’s fingers surged across the table, captured and twined with his.

He let her keep her prize. Where her fingertips went, the rest of her would follow, sooner or later. Resistance was completely illogical..

“OK, maybe we don’t have proof that the burglar is a killer – but how will that help us figure out who the hell he is?”


“ ‘He absconded with a few items’.”

“Is there evidence to support that assumption that the perpetrator was male?”

“Not that it says. We also don’t know what ‘few items’ he, she, or it absconded with.”

“Or that the ‘M.A.’ was left by the invader-”

“Or that it was initials. Could’ve been a code, or something totally unrelated to the crime…”

“If there was a crime. Perhaps the ‘victim’ staged the scene to procure some benefit. Wasn’t that common practice, in Earth’s recent past?”

“I think so. But the Captain said we had to use these clues.” Trip paced to the window, looking out at the streaking stars, and feeling his engines’ happy hum. For once, everything was going smoothly – except for this damned mystery.

T’Pol slipped between him and the window, and caught him up in her web of kisses that tasted like mint tea and desire.

“Hey, pepperpot – we’ ve got a mystery to solve -”

“I’ve solved it.” Her fingers cradled his face, played with his ears.

“You say the sexiest things -but kissing’s dangerous here, pepperpot… anyone could walk in…”

“Then come with me…” It was a sultry whisper, and her body pressed up tight against him. If he didn’t go along, all her control might go out the airlock. Once she was revved up, she wasn’t even close to subtle.

“All right. But you gotta let me go, until we’re in the turbolift. Tell me what our report is going to say, while we walk.”

She released him slowly. Trip didn’t waste time waiting for his body to stop protesting; he just stayed a half- step behind her, and held the pad so he could use it to hide the evidence if he needed to.

“It will detail the inadequacies and presumptions we’ve discovered, and posit that further investigation of this fabricated ‘mystery’ is an unwarranted waste of time and resources.’”

“In other words, ‘hearsay evidence isn’t admissible in the Court of T’Pol.’” Trip could almost feel her spiraling toward her breaking point. She was moving more than briskly. Hurrying. Because she wanted him. Needed him. Made him damned proud – but it didn’t help him get ‘down in front’. Nope, not in the slightest.

She pressed the lift button almost desperately, and sighed when the doors opened right up for them.

“As a mission, or a game, it fails. I suggest that –  indulging ourselves is a far more logical means of ‘recreation and cooperation’.” That’s what the Captain had said, when he gave them the datapadd.

“It does sound pretty logical.” Trip entered the code for C Deck, and, before he took his hand of the control panel, he was wearing his own amorous Vulcan…

They made it to her quarters without seeing anyone – lucky as hell, because she never let go. She was tearing at clothing, frantic, before the door closed behind them, shoving him at the bed, falling on him. The mineral-scent of her passion was almost overwhelming. She was relentless and completely goal-oriented.

When he dug the padd out from under the pile of clothes, six hours and fifty-two minutes were gone. “Want to write that report now, pepperpot?”

“No.” Her voice was a low, sleepy purr. “But the Captain ordered it. What meaning should we ascribe to the letters?”

Trip traced a hand over the curves and dips of her body , which was all tangled up in him and the bedding. He smiled.

“How about ‘Mission Accomplished’?”

Across the Threshold: #STaD for September 6, 2015


I don’t own Star Trek, but Trip and T’Pol own space in my imagination.  I don’t make any money from their stories. I just write what they tell me to…

This story takes place in the six-year gap after S4E21: “Terra Prime”.  Spoilers for that and S4E17: “Bound”.  This story follows shortly after the events in my May 2015 stories, “It’s the Little Things” and Artistry in the Aftermath.

Across the Threshold

“Hang on a minute, pepperpot. I want to do this right.”

T’Pol stopped, one hand still on the gate, and turned to face him, weighing her options. She could pretend not to understand, but there was little chance it would dissuade him, and it would certainly cause greater delay.

T’Pol yielded, and dropped her bag next to his. “There’s no logic in carrying me when I’m stronger than you.” She circled her arms around his neck.

“Someday, pepperpot, we’re going to need to have a long talk about the fragile ego of the human male. For now, though – maybe you could just pretend I’m the big strong man you’ve been looking for, and let me carry you across the threshold?”

“You may carry me, husband.”

“I love the way you say that, wife.”

He lifted her into his arms, and T’Pol relaxed into his comforting presence. There was solace in his touch, in the way he’d been always near, these last days, offering a blend of close contact and space, as she needed them. Perhaps he needed this, in this same manner. Perhaps, there was a logic to it that she didn’t yet understand. There often was, with humans.

Trip carried her across the sand garden, and to the front door.“Aww, hell. Tactical error. I don’t have whatever you use for a key – hey!”

The door swung open. “I keyed it for your voice at our last visit.”

“Efficient as ever” He carried her into the common room.”Where to, milady?”

“I’m quite capable of walking.”

He just smiled, and sat on the closest couch, still holding her on his lap. Perhaps he knew that she was unsettled, unprepared for this re-entry into her mother’s home, and her Vulcan life. She turned her face into his chest. She didn’t want to face the empty room. The soothing slow beat of his heart helped her to anchor herself against emotions that crowded in so thickly that she couldn’t differentiate between them. She focused on his heartbeat, his breath moving steadily in and out, the feel of his body supporting her, his scent.

She was home, here, in his arms.

Trip’s fingers stroked softly through her hair.“Tell me what you need, pepperpot.”

T’Pol scanned the room from the shelter of his embrace. Everything was as Mother had left it; as though she was simply away. “I’m uncertain why I wanted to come here.”

“Maybe you needed to see the place again. To accept that she’s really gone -”

“I held her as she died, Trip. I felt her death.” And yet, she could imagine Mother walking in, addressing the illogic of leaving the door and gate open, in the heat of the day…

“Not here, pepperpot.” Trip brushed his lips over her forehead, then drifted a hand down to her side. “Here.”

“My heart is incapable of thought or understanding, t’hy’la.”

“I’m in your head, remember? Not just when you’re awake, either. Maybe, when you love someone, and you lose them, it doesn’t matter what species you are. I know that I told myself again and again that I knew Lizzie was gone – but I didn’t really know it until I stood on the edge of that damned Xindi Canyon and saw that everything had been obliterated…” His voice was thick with emotion, and trailed off into his own pain.

“I grieve with you, Trip.” She brushed her fingers over his in a brief ouz’hesta, then rose, restlessly, and moved about the room. There was Mother’s meditatition candle; the same one that had been burning when they had last argued here – about Koss, and Trip, and her uncontrolled emotions. Mother had never seemed to find her presence truly agreeable, despite her words, and T’Pol had felt that keenly; their discord had been a determining factor in her decision to leave Vulcan after her father’s death.

Would she stay, if she could have the opportunity to say and feel all that had been left unsaid and unfelt between them?

Illogical. T’Les was dead.

“My T’Pol…”

Trip had stayed on the couch; he understood her need for space. “What’s that, pepperpot?”

“The last words she said to me. ‘My T’Pol.’” She turned to him, as tears formed in her eyes. “I miss her, Trip.” Her arms moved to cradle a baby who wasn’t here. “I miss them.”

“Me too.” He rose, and lit the candle, and then went to the kitchen, where he moved about purposefully. T’Pol came to sit at the counter as he made tea. There was always peace for her in watching him work.

“She terrified me a little, your mom. I could tell she didn’t like me skulking around her daughter. And then she blew me away when she came right out and told me she knew about us.”

”You never mentioned it.”

“I was sitting right there where you are, fixing the stasis unit. I’ve gotten the third degree before, when I was a kid, picking up a Saturday night date. I was always polite and friendly, and I got through. But your mom – I’m a grown man, Chief Engineer of a starship, just helped you save the whole damned galaxy, and she had me feeling like I broke curfew and felt you up in public or something – and then, while I was still trying to get my bearings so I could make my case and defend myself and your honor, who should come to the door but – Koss! Speak of the tall, dark, handsome devil -”

He was staring past her, to the door he’d left open when he carried her in. T’Pol turned, and there was her ex-husband, standing on the threshold, watching them..

Forest Grotesque: #STaD for September 5, 2015


I don’t own Star Trek.  Trip and T’Pol own space in my imagination.  I don’t want to make any money off telling their stories. It’s just easier to write what they tell me to…they’re very stubborn, after all!

This story is part of the Not Jealousy story arc which occurs during the six-year gap after S4E21: “Terra Prime”.   This story is a sequel of sorts to Questions and Answers.

This story is rated PG-13 for mild sexual content and language.

Forest Grotesque

“Trip! Commander, stand down! That’s an order!”

“Can’t. Stop. Have. To -”

“Liuentenant Reed, stun grenade!”


“Now, Malcolm!”


The words, make no sense. Another place, another life. Not here.

Where am I?

Nothing, no one, answers. Should there be such silence, in a forest? Surely there had been life here, yesterday. Yes. You remember. There was a bird, and it sang to you, and you – both of you – listened.

Your hand goes to your abdomen – low, protective. Not both of you. All of you.


“What happened, Captain?”

“He left her quarters -”

“I strongly suggested a guard -”

“You didn’t suggest they wear combat armor, Doctor, but it would’ve been a good idea.”

“In what way?”

“Neuropressure and mind melds aren’t the only Vulcan skills he’s picked up from her– she’s taught him that damned neck pinch, too!”


You peer at the trees. Their leaves are swollen. There is a human word; you learned it from his movies, and a series of images in his mind. Grotesque. The leaves are grotesque, like a setting detail in a horror movie.

Once, you didn’t understand horror movies, or him. Now, you don’t understand this place, how the forest where you walked in the sunshine, and in the light of his small silver moon, could be this fetid, festering place, reeking of decay….

“The smell, the smell -” Your whimper is stolen by the chill damp fog, which forces sinister tendrils down your throat. You retch, vomit bile – yet again, yet again. But you won’t complain. Worth any price, these new lives you carry within you.

For them, you must find your way…





“What precipitated the use of a stun grenade, Captain?”

“He was trying to steal a shuttlecraft. No – he was stealing it. If we’d been a minute later, he would have been gone. What the hell’s wrong with him, Phlox?”

“Perhaps a great deal, Captain. Or perhaps nothing.”



Candlelight playing across his skin, your fingers reading the bioelectric signature that is his alone….minds blending, moving closer to Attunement, to oneness….”never and always touching and touched…home….”

In the stillness, you hear the bird – only it isn’t a bird. No…the music twists into and through the fog, like it did that night in San Francisco, when it compelled you to follow where it led…

To him.

To a different kind of home.

To a new life…

Two new lives…


“This isn’t the time for Denobulan riddles, Doctor. My best friend’s incoherent and seems bent on getting himself killed, when he’s not loitering naked in my abducted First Officer’s quarters, or trying to wear her underclothes. What I need are answers, not more riddles.”
“Captain, I’m not trying to be cryptic, only to state the possibilities. Commander Tucker may have been affected by T’Pol’s illness in some way I didn’t anticipate, or there may be another cause for his current behavior. The imaging scanner will offer insight, but we must allow it time to complete its scans.”

“I’m sorry, Phlox. I’m not trying to rush you – it’s just that I feel so damned helpless!”

.”I would say that’s quite natural, under the circumstances, Captain. I understand your impatience.”

“You said there might be nothing wrong with him. How’s that possible, with the way he’s acting?”

“These symptoms may also be a response to the danger T’Pol is in. My hand scanner indicated that they were melding at a deep level when she was taken. Given the prevailing attitudes about such activities on her world, I can only make conjecture here, Captain – but it does seem possible that this link has endured the separation, and that what we see as irrational behavior on Commander Tucker’s part might, instead, be portions of Commander T’Pol’s current situation, ahhh– ‘leaking through’, if you will.”

“You’re saying that they might still be melding?”

“Not necessarily. It may be only lingering echoes of the contact they were engaged in -”


“Captain, the abduction, and the activities it interrupted, occurred in Commander T’Pol’s personal space. I believe both Starfleet policy and human mores allow for the right to privacy and discretion in such locations?”

“Point taken. So, if Trip’s somehow picking up T’Pol’s mind – how does that fit in?”

“There may be damage related to the suddenness of the separation. The imaging chamber will tell us if that is a concern. But I think it’s more likely that the Commanders are pursuing T’Pol’s rescue with their typical determination, and using every resource available to them.”


It wasn’t a bird. It was a harmonica, silvery and welcome, calling you, leading you….

But what of this rotted forest, and the place you remember, in sunlight and moonlight?

“Trick of your mind, pepperpot. Or maybe mine. Ignore it…ignore everything but me, and the babies, and the music….can you? So I can feel you?”

You didn’t know you were running, tripping on roots, falling, tangling in thorny vines, until you stop. “The smells..”

“I know, I know. Can you remember what home smells like?”

“Mating. With you, and the candles…I remember….”

“Aw, hell, pepperpot, me too….gotta get to you…”

“Parted from me, and never parted…”


“What’s that alert, Phlox?”



“Their minds, Captain. See here, on the scan….”

“I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”

“This is a composite brainwave, Captain.”

“Composite? Of what?”

“The Commanders have, essentially, become one being, with the skills and memories of both. If I am correct, this may make it possible to find Commander T’Pol, and bring her home.”


Home. We gotta get home.

Home. Out of the sickened forest, out of the dark sucking fog and the shadows that meant to consume….


“A Helluva Nightmare”: Story a Day for September 4, 2015


I don’t own Star Trek.  Trip and T’Pol own space in my imagination.  I don’t want to make any money off telling their stories. It’s just easier to write what they tell me to…

This one’s rated R for sexual themes, violence, and language. Proceed at your own discretion.

This story takes place in the six-year gap after S4E21: “Terra Prime”.  Spoilers for S4E17: “Bound”.  This story is a prequel to my May 2015 story, “Phoenix Time”, and the sequel to Lost in A Burning Maze”.

“A Helluva Nightmare”

Trip Tucker was having a helluva dream.

Her panting scorched his chest and arms. Her teeth grabbed him over and over, and she was shaking so hard, Trip thought she might fall over, if she wasn’t holding onto him.

He traced one beautiful pointed ear, whispering about just how sexy she was, like this, how much he wanted her. She gasped, her body arching back, her hips rocking forward into his. Her mineral-sharp pheremones let go, and she moaned.

“That’s right, beautiful. You can let go now. I’ve got you, and I’m not going anywhere…” She wasn’t going to last much longer before she had her Vulcan way with him…

But T’Pol yanked away, crashing back into the bulkhead. Scared. For him. Of this thing happening inside her that she couldn’t control.

“Fire – you’re made of flames. You Burn through me…. it’s illogical to assume you’re safe -” Her rationality was already out the airlock. He tried to hold onto reason, and to get close enough to let her see she wasn’t going to really hurt him. Nips and strained muscles, scratches and bruises and bites, carpet burn and exhaustion – those were all par for the course with her. Sure, he’d get a little beat up, but he also planned on having a helluva good time –

He grasped her shoulder, gently turned her, and she let him. Almost time, almost time – apprehension and anticipation twisted in his gut, and she had him at full attention – all hers –

The slam of the first impact jolted Trip awake – or maybe he was still sleeping, and this wet dream was morphing into a nightmare, Suliban-style. He hoped that’s what it was, because breathing hurt like hell, and he was on fire….

“On fire…Made of flames…”

His voice slurred, pressing its way out through split lips – but this was too important to worry about that knife someone twisted in his side every time he breathed. On fire…it meant something…the dream…

T’Pol biting him, frantic, arching back for him like she couldn’t get enough, fast enough…slamming him into the deck plating, herself into the bulkhead, fiery mazes, and him the monster, making her burn, stealing her logic…Vulcans didn’t have monster myths, so she’s stolen his, making him a minotaur – no, a dragon, breathing the fires that trapped her…

“Helluva nightmare I just had, pepperpot -”

No answer. And no hot curvy body all tangled up with his….where was she?

Trip tried to open his eyes; couldn’t. Tried to roll over – that damned knife wasn’t part of the dream, it was a broken rib. He coughed and that got him grunting and pressing a hand to his side, trying to hold things steady as he got up to his knees, swaying, his head feeling like he’d been in three bar fights, followed up by a run-in with an angry warp reactor…he almost pitched over onto the deck plating before he caught himself, bracing.

New levels of pain.

Deck plating? “Why th’ hell was I sleeping on the deck..?”

Heat….something about heat, and fire – and T’Pol…

Trip got one eye working enough to slit open…yup, deck plating. Mats,…feel of open space, glint of a mirror…not their quarters….no candles here…

“Oh, hell. Oh, damn! Damn,.damn, damn!” He forgot about his rib, bolted up, staggering into the mirror, almost sliding down it, except there was no time to collapse, no matter how much he hurt…

T’Pol was Burning. She needed him. Now.

He let the wall hold him up. Remembering. She couldn’t see the illogic of hurting him to avoid hurting him…she didn’t give any warning, and she was fast – he was on the deck, before he even knew she’d moved. Stupid, to let his guard down,  to forget that she was stronger, and combat trained…

“Gotta get to her…. Her life depended on him, and she thought he was a dragon; thought he was the problem and not the only possible solution. She was a madwoman loose on a shipful of humans who had no idea what she might do.

“Gotta find you, before you go over the edge. Why’d you run, pepperpot? Gotta stick’s Phoenix Time.”

But he was sick and dizzy: his heart felt like it was going three times too fast. His blood was hot, and he was panting, like she’d been – every breath searing agony into his side. Trip pressed his burning forehead to the cool mirror – and got a bleary look at himself through his one good eye. He stared at the wreckage.

“Aww, hell, Tucker – had to go for the lethal type, didn’t’cha? You look like hell, and she hasn’t even gotten started…” She’d done a number on his eye and lips, but, somehow, she’d missed the nose. “Wish she’d missed th’ rib, instead…” He sniffed; sharply pungent minerals, and a touch of citrus and sandalwood.

“Can still smell you in here, pepperpot. Means you need me, and now….” Her flames made it hard to think. Sweat stung his eyes and lips and all the places she’d bitten him. He had to get to her. But he couldn’t blame her love bites on sparring, like he could the face and rib.

“Hide the ev’dence. Logical…wish you were here to help with my shirt – but you’d be wanting to get me out of my pants. Course, that’s what I’d want, too…cept for this damned rib…”

It hurt to talk, but not as much as moving did, and it gave him something to focus on so he didn’t pass out again.

Trip got into the damned shirt after half an eternity of trying; It was soaked with sweat before he tugged it down, gritting his teeth against the knife blade in his side.

He staggered out, feeling his way, his mind full of her, Phoenix Time, mazes and monsters and pyres. And, burning through it all, the flames.


Lost in a Burning Maze: #STaD for September 3, 2015


  • Trip, T’Pol, and Star Trek: Enterprise belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them…

  • This is an extrapolated story, occuring after the events in S4E20 “Demons” and S4E21; “Terra Prime”, but before  S4E22: “These Are The Voyages…”:.Spoilers for those episodes; also for S4E19: “Bound”, and S3E15:Harbinger”, and potentially a few others.

This story is rated R for sexual and adult themes.

Lost in a Burning Maze

T’Pol pressed him into the padded deck plating, straddling him. She pinnd his arms up over his head when he tried to embrace her.. “You know nothing of it!”

“Oh, woman.” He shifted so that she felt the hardening ridge of flesh beneath her, but he didn’t try to free himself. Why was it that she wanted him to resist her, to struggle so that she could prove her strength and dominance over him? “Shoulda known you’d be stubborn about this.” He chuckled low in his throat; she wanted to bite at his lips, catch the sound and the emotion beneath it for her own. “C’mon, pepperpot, admit it. You’re lost in a maze, here, and you’ve got to get through phoenix time, before you can find your way back out.”

“I’m not stubborn. You are, however, incorrect.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how’s about you let me up now?” He grinned at her. “If you can, that is.”

Panic, sharp and uncontrolled, pulled her breath into a pant. Not yet. She wasn’t ready.

And he was human.

T’Pol rolled away, ignoring the pulsing protests of her stavril, which wanted him. Illogical, this human way of ascribing emotion to genitalia. She turned back to him, to find him reclined at his ease – except for his stavrit, which wanted her as her stavtil wanted him.

“You’re staring, pepperpot, and biting your lip. Sweating and panting. No need for all that; I’m all yours, as soon as you accept it’s phoenix time and let me tell Phlox and Hoshi so they can take care of the details.”

“I’m not Burning!” But there was heat, in her heart, her soul, her mind…

“Have it your way, then. You won’t have long to hold onto that fantasy – but by then, you won’t care.”

“If you are correct, you should be terrified.” She came three steps nearer; he didn’t move, only watched her.

“T’Pol. I love you. We’re bondmates. I married you. And I’m going to be here for you, however you need me to be.”

“I will kill you….”

“No you won’t -”

“How do you know, human?” She spat the question.

“You’re fighting mad, t’hy’la – you need to get rid of some of that energy.” He rolled smoothly to his feet, and peeled off his shirt. T’Pol stared at his chest, his arms…“Since you’re not ready to admit it’s Phoenix Time, how about we spar some more– hey!”

She dragged him into her arms, bit at his shoulders, his chest. He tasted of clean sweat, and himself, and he raised two fingers to trace her ear. T’Pol shuddered, and her back arched, her pelvis thrusting forward, into his; as involuntary as the pheremone release that brought forth a moan.

“That’s right, beautiful. You can let go now. I’ve got you, and I’m not going anywhere…” Murmurs, soft and soothing, and then he kissed her.

He had no idea what awaited him. Neither did she, but flames licked at her soul, demanding….

“You arre human!” She tore away, backing off, crashing into the bulkhead.

“That’s not exactly news, pepperpot.”
The man was a monster. She saw him through flames – he was the flame. Yes. It was he who made her Burn so, he who held her back from logic and reason.

He spoke of mazes. He had taken her to several – thorny hedges, distorted mirrors, in a corn field, with wooden walls, and a ‘haunted house’. He was a monster – he’d trapped her in this maze.

“Tell me what you’re feeling, T’Pol. You’re getting lost and all tangled up – I can feel that much. Let me help you figure this out -”

Help me? You put me in this labyrinth! YYou’re the phoenix, made of flame, and you hunt me….you won’t be happy until I kill you – ”

“If you kill me, I won’t be anything. But that’s not what’s going to happen. You’re going to wear me out, and give me a hell of a workout. I might not walk normally for a month or two, once we get you through this…but you aren’t going to kill me, T’Pol.”

“Fire – you are made of flames. You Burn through me…. it’s illogical to assume you’re safe -” Flames rose up, the walls of a maze, impenetrable….

“There’s no logic in killing me. You need me to survive, so I can impregnate you – or at least try like hell.”

“There’s no logic in this maze – this Burning!” She whirled; she couldn’t look at the places she’d bitten him – the brands and proofs of what she would do –

“I think it’s more logical than you think. So does Phlox. You’ ve always been aggressive, pepperpot – I love that about you – that you know what you want, and aren’t afraid to show it.”

“I want to consume you, in the flames -”

“Now you’re catching on. I’m all yours, pepperpot. Burn with me.”

He came closer, his mind, opening, waiting –

All part of the maze. He wanted to trap her, force her to feel the roaring fires, wanted her to be burnt to ash –

He was a monster – minotaur. Dragon.


His hand was reaching for her; she could feel his breath, quickening with arousal, still far calmer and quieter than her panting, as flames rose, and rose, searing her, filling her –

Was he the monster, or was she?

Were they?

Green fire blinded her, engulfed her mind. It consumed everything but him, reaching, his fingers above her shoulder, opening to grasp –

Green fire, consuming all. leaving only need, blasting through all logic, all control.

He had done this to her. He was a dragon, breathing the fires that Burned through her.

His hand closed over her shoulder, and spun her gently around – and then she slayed the dragon, left him there, groaning, and fled before he could give chase..

The Thrill of the Hunt: STaD, September 2, 2015


  • Trip, T’Pol, and Star Trek: Enterprise belong to Paramount, even if Paramount has forgotten all about them…

  • This is an extrapolated story, taking place in the days before the Season 3 Xindi story arc, and containing mild potential spoilers for S4E20; “Demons” and S4E21; “Terra Prime”.

The Thrill of the Hunt


“Just keeping in practice,” he murmured, slipping three palmed credit chits into his pouch, He slid into the booth and scanned the datapadd.He brushed his hand over the vials to be sure they were still secure. The tingling in his fingers had nothing to do with the chill of their frozen contents.

It was the thrill of the hunt. Even back when he would have starved, if he hadn’t learned the pickpocket’s art, it was there. It’s what kept him coming back, again and again, despite the risk of losing his career and enough credits that he wouldn’t ever have to go empty-bellied and homeless.

He could never quite let go of.the thrill of the hunt Even deep-space exploration, or the possibility of a suicide mission, couldn’t compare.

That’s what brought him here, with these precious vials, to this dive bar in Toledo, Ohio. He’d never been here, and he’d never come back; that was part of the deal.

He didn’t ask questions, either. That was a good way to lose thish gig, and the thrill that went with it. No business of his why Josiah’s cohorts wanted these samples, or any of the others. No business of his what made the Chief Engineer and the First Officer’s genetic material so valuable. It was his business to get past the Denobulan doctor, and deliver what was ordered. That was the thrill. He could get in and out of the cryo storage in less than a minute, now, and he had ideas to shave another twelve seconds off that time, if he was asked to make another pass.

He was still untangling the delivery. That was the sticking point, and it rankled him that there might be nothing he could do about it. He’d managed to send one order back to Earth with a packet Amabassador Soval himself had consented to carry. No one even suspected that one of the items in that packet contained DNA from every member of Enterprise’s command crew, painstakingly gathered and preserved.

He didn’t know if they’d want anything more from him. They’d narrowed the scope each time, and wanted more specific material. It had been down to Trip and T’Pol, this last time. Was that all they wanted, or would they focus on another two, the next time? Always a male and a female, or was the gender simply accidental? He hoped so – women only made up a third of the crew, so, if they were looking for bigendered pairings, he’d run out before he’d gotten through most of the men, if they didn’t want repeats…

But this new mission might bring new opportunities. It was rumored that the Captain was negotiating hard for a military assault team. That would mean new blood, maybe even a few more women…

All conjecture,but it was a way to pass the time, while he waited, and he knew he’d look like he was brooding . Thrill of the hunt.

“Hey, baby. You look lonely – want some company?”

He looked up, and there was the signal, red, white, and blue buttons, in sequence, on the mules wide-open neckline. He grinned – she was what his mother would call ‘a working girl’. If he played this right, he might get to make another kind of delivery tonight, too.

“Yeah, baby, I’m lonely. Can I buy you a drink?” He held out a hand, which she took, and let him pull her down into the booth beside him.

He took her order and tapped it into the padd along with a refresher for himself, enjoying the way her generous curves fit against him, and noting the tiny swell at her hip where she kept her credit chits. Thrill of the hunt….

She didn’t ask about the goods – no, that would come later, when they were alone. He figured she’d tuck the vials into her large handbag, and no one would see anything more than a paid sex worker leaving one satisfied traveler, and moving on to the next.

They drank, chatting about nothing, flirting and touching, getting more brazen as they went along. She was talented; when her hand crept into his lap, he knew he was going to enjoy carrying this hunt through to the end.She was pretty, and personable, and she was a professional.

It was like dancing, or picking pockets. She added the thrill of another hunt to what might have been a simple transfer of goods.Time to take this hunt somewhere more private, and glut on the spoils…

“Wanna come back to my room, love?” He toyed with a credit chit, and spoke just loudly enough to be heard by those at neighboring tables, or passing by. Even if it wasn’t necessary, he was going to play it as if it was deadly serious, for the practice, and the thrill.

He slurred his words as if he’d had a few more than was wise; likely everyone would think he was just another businessman about to learn that liquor and working girls didn’t mix. An everyday event, in places like this, not even worth noticing.

She smiled, and played with his fingers, pulling them to her low-cut top, stroking them over the bared upper swell of her breasts as she urged him to drop the chit into her cleavage. “Nothing I’d like more, baby, and it’s going to be a hell of a night!”

He led her to his room, happy that the samples were frozen and in a stasis tube. He only had twelve more hours before he was due back on Enterprise to prepare for the Xindi mission, and he intended to use every one he could in this thrilling second hunt.