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She is pacing the floor in her quarters.
She has a few hours to rest, but she is pacing the floor.
Tuvok has the bridge. He will alert her when they are close to overtaking the Equinox. She hasn’t slept in three days and should be resting now. While she can.
As if she could.
She is still in full uniform, donned fresh before taking Tuvok to consult with the Ankari. She doesn’t remember her last shower, her last meal.
She continues walking the length of her living room, her stride deliberate and rhythmic.
Eyes left as she moves to starboard, right as she moves to port. Staring out the broad viewport, her own personal observation lounge.
The captain’s quarters are in the bow, two decks below the bridge. If she looks hard enough, she thinks she may spot Ransom’s ship before Tuvok calls her back to duty. She knows that is a delusional thought.
She should be resting.
On this pass her steps halt before the replicator, and she begins to order reflexively. “Coffee, b—.” But then she notices the rasp in her voice and the racing beat of her heart. She sighs. She needs to rest, but first she needs to relax.
“Bourbon, neat.”
The tumbler materializes, and she tosses back the warm amber liquor in one go. Recycles the glass. Pivots. Paces.
The glow from the synthehol spreads rapidly from her empty stomach to her limbs, loosening them. She shrugs away the reason why no one has made sure she’s eating.
Three laps later, she finds herself recycling another glass. She licks her lips and tastes the drink on them. Now her hips are loose too, and the warmth in her belly has moved lower.
The bottle she’s been saving is secreted away in the back of a desk drawer. No need to dirty a glass. So much better than the replicated stuff, if a little more dangerous. Real booze will make sure she sleeps: just what the doctor ordered, surely.
She flexes certain muscles and suddenly knows what will help her relax. What has often helped her at the end of a tough day out here in the Delta. Another swig on her way to the bedroom, and then she sets the bottle down with exaggerated care. She’s not sure where she left its cap. It doesn’t matter.
She opens a drawer, tests the charge on her vibrator. Fully functional.
Ordinarily she would take it into the bath, or at least shower first and slip into something more comfortable. She doesn’t want to take the time for that. She wonders if she can get off through the uniform. That, she muses, has always been the issue, hasn’t it?
She kicks off her boots and stretches out on the bed. For all that she is bone-weary and perhaps just a little bit drunk now, drowsiness has no hold on any part of her.
Her arms twitch, fist clenching around the device she intends to use for her own pleasure, and suddenly she sees herself smashing a fist into Rudy Ransom’s remorseless face. He grunts—she packs a meaner punch than he’d expected—and it feels good, sounds good. Exciting and satisfying. She hits him again with the other fist and he reels, off-balance.
He staggers back a step and looks at her, rubbing his jaw. “Is this what passes for Starfleet justice on your watch, Captain?”
She chuckles mirthlessly. “Not remotely, Captain.” She rubs the sting out of her knuckles. “This? Is personal.”
Then she’s behind him, his wrist in her grasp, wrenched hard between his shoulder blades. He’s not a large man, and he hasn’t been eating well these last months. For all that she’s tipsy and he must outweigh her by at least fifteen kilos, she has the advantage.
Not that he’s fighting back. Apparently her fantasy is going to make this easy for her.
She shoves him hard in the small of the back, and he topples forward clumsily, only half-catching himself on her bed.
He rolls onto his back but makes no move to rise. “What is it with the strong women on your ship?”
“What do you mean?” She is removing her jacket. She’ll keep the turtleneck on, with its four pips.
“The stories Max tells me about that half-Klingon engineer … feisty. And Seven. I’ve had the pleasure of her acquaintance for more than two days now. Wow—almost makes me wish we’d had our own run-in with the Borg.”
“Shut up,” she hisses, and climbs on top of him. “I’ll kill you if you’ve hurt her.”
“You’re going to kill me, anyway,” he points out grimly. “Handing us over to be slaughtered? In the name of peace? Tsk, tsk, Captain. Those pips are looking a little tarnished now, aren’t they?”
But as she straddles his hips and grinds her pelvis down, she finds him hard. This will do. It will do nicely.
She drags one of his hands to her breast and uses his fingers to pinch her nipple. She pulls the other to her crotch, pressing his knuckle hard against her nub. The two points of pressure curl her toes, hurting just enough to let her feel fully alive for the first time in days. She rides his hand and his dick, writhing and arching. Even through clothing this is pretty damn good, she decides. Good enough to get the job done, she hopes.
Apparently he can read her mind—of course he can; he is from her mind—because he says, “It won’t though. You won’t sleep tonight until you get plowed good and deep.”
“Shut up,” she grinds out, but the emptiness inside her is growing. Even as she forces a small, muted peak of sensation from this dry-humping, she knows it won’t be enough.
He continues in a more obviously mocking tone, “So you’ll commit sexual assault against a captured enemy but you won’t stoop to actually fucking him. Even in fantasy. Talk about bending regulations. You go just this far but no further, and you convince yourself that means you still have morals. That’s the secret to your survival out here, isn’t it, Kathryn? Not the letter of Federation law. Not even its spirit. Just plausible deniability in your own pathetic brain.”
“Shut. UP!” she howls, and then her hand is at his throat. He starts to sweat; he’s giving in to his own arousal. He unfastens his pants and shoves them down far enough to release his cock.
“How about this, Janeway?” he growls. “I’ll give you what you want. We’ll do it rough and angry and a little bit dirty, the way you never let yourself imagine it with him.”
She flinches.
He’s stripping her of her own pants now. “I’ll take you the way you wish your first officer would.” He claps a hand over her mouth before she can protest. “Don’t bother denying it. It’s written all over your face when he's around, how badly you want him to fuck you.”
He turns her around to straddle him, facing away now, and raises his knees for her hands to clutch for balance. “Here. I won't even make you look at me while you wish I were him.” He keeps talking as he lies back, his cock pressed to her entrance. “The irony, of course, is that I could be. It's your fantasy, Captain. But when you need something raw and unlovely, you turn to me, not him.” He squeezes her ass and lifts, urging her to rise up and mount him. “How miserably afraid you are of letting him see who you really are. Well, I guess today took care of that, didn’t it?”
In her rage and arousal she doesn’t even bother arguing with him. With herself. She just wants to use Ransom to come, and then she can lock this whole degrading little scene deep away in her twisted mind. She pulls herself higher on her knees, reaching below to position his cock.
Then Chakotay’s voice interrupts, and she freezes.
“Dammit, Kathryn!”
He’s there, in her quarters—he must have left his, gotten past security, used his override on her door. Caught her in the most compromising of positions. She should be furious with him for this invasion, for all of his betrayals, but what she feels most powerfully is shame that he should find her like this.
She can’t find the words she should—Get out! Security! You’re out of line, Commander. She meets his eyes, silently, as he takes in the scene before him.
His face clouds with contempt. She can’t bear to see it and drops her gaze down his body. Then she stares as a bulge forms under his uniform. He’s getting hard, watching her get off, and he’s not leaving.
He’s moving closer.
Chakotay’s large hand grips her jaw, forcing her head up so that she has to look again at his face. Stone, carved and graven in judgment.
“Noah Lessing is dead.”
His words fall on her like an avalanche, burying any protest she might have made. She stares at him in mute shock, the room spinning around them.
“He suffered a severe panic attack. A reaction to your torture. He spaced himself.”
Ransom’s body convulses beneath her. Dying in the cold agony of vacuum is every spacer’s worst nightmare.
Her fantasy is going all wrong; where is this coming from? Kathryn’s stomach roils, and she begins to rise from the bed.
Chakotay’s hand moves from her jaw to the back of her head, where he quickly wraps her hair in his fist, holding her in place.
“You’ll be charged with a war crime. Tuvok will convene the court-martial. You’ll be relieved of command.” He studies her face, as if searching for evidence of remorse, of redeemability. His eyes harden. “But now that I’m here … a more direct punishment seems fitting.”
She is shaking. From anger, from shock—she doesn’t know. His fist pulls her hair tight, tugging strands from her scalp. It’s outrageous, that he should presume to lay hands on her, to speak to her in this manner—
His next words are addressed to the man behind her.
“You first. I’ll keep her busy on this end.”
Ransom chuckles darkly and suddenly shifts out from under her. He kneels on the bed behind her and grips her hips. “This should be fun.”
Kathryn finally realizes that she is a small woman held between two angry men who each have reason to hurt her. “No!” she cries, and tries to fight her way free.
She is too slow, and they are too strong. Ransom’s knees land on her ankles a second before he shoves his cock inside her. He goes in smoothly, up to the hilt, because she was so wet from before, but she no longer wants him there, and she howls in protest.
Her hands scrabble on the mattress to twist away, get away, but then Chakotay seizes her throat with his other hand, pulling her upright again. Her cries are choked off and she goes still with terror.
Ransom starts to thrust.
Chakotay speaks again. “Grab her arms.” Ransom pauses long enough to bend forward and seize her wrists. He straightens again, pulling her arms behind her with enough force that one shoulder pops with pain, threatening dislocation. The shock and the pressure of Chakotay’s hand on her windpipe are making her vision tunnel. Her face is contorted with fear; tears stream down her face.
Chakotay finally makes eye contact with her. She pleads silently with him to release her, to help her, to have mercy.
“Not this time, Kathryn. This time you get what you deserve.”
He releases her throat, and she sucks air painfully into her lungs but still can’t get away. Chakotay moves quickly to open his uniform fly; she stares in horror as he pulls out his cock and shoves her head down to meet it. She tries to recoil but Ransom has her pinned in place.
Chakotay’s voice is horrifyingly matter-of-fact. “You will open your mouth. If you bite me, I’ll break your neck.”
She refuses through gritted teeth. “No!” He hits her then, his heavy palm to her jaw, hard enough to wrench her neck against the grip he still holds on her hair. Then he pinches off her nostrils and crams the head of his cock against her lips.
Pain, rage, and terror make her sob, and her traitorous lungs draw air so forcefully that she has to open her mouth. Chakotay’s penis shoves inside, and then he seizes either side of her head, fingers pressing her cheeks in between her open teeth, He scowls a fierce and wordless warning at her and starts to fuck her face.
She is helpless in the face of this dual violation, unable to escape, counterattack, or even scream, barely able to breathe as Chakotay’s thick cock repeatedly blocks her airway. Apparently content that she has been subdued, he breaks eye contact with her at last and looks over her head.
Some wordless signal seems to pass between the two men, because they fall into sync, fucking her in steady rhythm. In—out-in—out-in, every stroke jarring her spine and battering her most tender tissues between them.
Her lips are stretched wide and abraded with every thrust, and the back of her throat is swelling under the blunt pummeling of Chakotay’s dick. She is choking on tears and snot. Her cunt is dry now; Ransom’s cock burns a path of raw agony through her flesh. How much longer can they last? she wonders, knowing that she has no choice but to endure this abuse.
Ransom, behind her, jerks to a stop, growling. “Let me!” he orders curtly. He sets a new pattern, grasping Kathryn’s elbows to rapidly piston her body forward and then back. On the pull, he impales her so deeply on his own cock that her cervix is bruised, pain stabbing through her abdomen. On the push, he drives her so hard onto Chakotay’s cock that her nose brushes pubic hair. She gags, bourbon-flavored bile rising, and she fears asphyxiation.
Perhaps it is the obscene visual of her head and torso brutally pumping back and forth along their two cocks that finally sends Ransom, at least, over the edge. He releases her arms and pulls her hips abruptly against him, twitching, as he lets out a guttural moan, the first truly uncontrolled response he’s made. He collapses forward, covering her body.
Chakotay backs away from him and finally exits her mouth, her saliva strung grotesquely from the head of his cock back to her lips. She hangs her head, retching onto the mattress, struggling to catch her breath. After a minute, she is able to close her mouth, but she can’t seem to stop whimpering.
Ransom lifts his head from her shoulder blades. His laughter comes loud and long, then, drowning out the sound of her own wet breathing. Chakotay stands silent, still a towering presence of brute intimidation.
“Your captain,” Ransom chuckles. “She talks a tough game. But it turns out she is one sweet little fuck.” He rises, pulling out of her sore abused pussy, and slaps her ass with a casual sense of ownership. “Too bad you had to hear it from me, huh?”
Chakotay smiles dangerously, one fist around his huge glistening cock. “We’re not done here yet.”
“Please,” Kathryn moans. “Please, don’t.”
He backhands her without even looking down. She grunts and sways to the side. He catches her by the shoulders and then tosses her backwards against Ransom, who grips her upper arms, steadying her against his chest.
Chakotay yanks Kathryn by the knees onto her butt and drags her hips to the edge of the bed. As she struggles weakly, Ransom shoves her onto her back and plants his knees on her shoulders. Semen drips from his softening penis onto her face until he sits back on his haunches, holding her wrists above her head.
Chakotay goes to his knees then and presses her legs up and apart. Two long fingers dig harshly inside her. She watches with bewilderment as he smears fluids on his dick and then repeats the gesture.
Ransom snorts above her, “You don’t strike me as a guy who enjoys sloppy seconds.”
Chakotay doesn’t look up from his work. On his next pass along Kathryn’s core, though, he moves from her cunt directly to her anus and pushes a slickened finger inside. She shrieks and bucks, and one heel catches a glancing blow to Chakotay’s cheekbone. To Ransom’s renewed laughter, he snarls a single word — “Bitch!” — then grabs both her feet, muttering, “I guess that’s what I get for trying to lube her up a little. Fine.”
In the next moment, the head of his cock is pushing mercilessly into her, stretching, burning, tearing, as he invades her virgin ass. Kathryn has never known this pain, never come close to it. Now, at last, she is free to scream, and scream she does, long wailing panicked cries of torment and agony.
Every time she stops to fill her lungs with air, she hears Ransom laughing and urging Chakotay on. When at last he is fully sheathed inside her, Chakotay stops, waiting. Eventually Ransom runs out of lewd commentary and Kathryn, exhausted, stops screaming. As silence fills the room, Chakotay looks Kathryn in the eye again.
Her real punishment begins.
He slowly pulls out. “I've been waiting to do this for a very long time, Kathryn.” He stops short of withdrawing completely, the head of his cock held just inside her tight ring of burning muscle.
He slams into her with a grunt, drawing a choked cry of pain from her. Then he slowly withdraws again.
“Never on the ship. Protocol above all else.” Slam. She weeps but can’t look away from his face, tense with hatred and flushed with pleasure at her suffering.
He pulls back, still talking, spewing venom with every phrase. “Never on New Earth. Still too high and mighty to dirty yourself with my touch.” Slam. She feels herself ripping with every merciless thrust.
“For five years I’ve shared your burdens and pulled you through the dark times.” Slam. “I’ve gone along with every obsessive scheme, kept the crew in line, put a good spin on your worst decisions.” Slam. “Today I stopped you from committing murder, and the sad truth is I didn’t do it for Lessing. I did it for you.” Slam. His thrusts are gliding more smoothly now. She knows the lubricant is her own blood.
“If you would just have let me love you!” Slam. “You’ve kept me so pathetically desperate for a little tenderness, a little affection.” Slam. “Stringing me along with gifts and promises, like I don’t know what a bonding box means? Like I won’t notice we’re decades away from fucking Venice?” Slam. That one cut out her heart; her own good intentions used against her, her hopes for the future ground like broken glass into her flesh.
“And you wonder why I turn to other women when I can? Riley Frazier saw it all during our link. She seduced me with her pity.” Slam. “I wouldn’t have looked twice at Marla Gilmore if I’d had you to come home to.” Slam.
Ransom laughs again. “Ah, Marla. I’m glad you had her while you could.”
Chakotay and Kathryn ignore him. They are locked in a dance of horrific retribution, ripping open old emotional wounds as surely as he is ripping her apart physically. All the pain, all the resentment and jealousy, all the repressed emotions left to twist themselves into knots are pouring out of Chakotay, and Kathryn is so broken by his utterly callous betrayal of her trust that she can, at last, only lie there and be filled by his vitriol. It courses through her physically, dissolving her certainty and resolve like acid, dismantling the structures of her very identity.
He finally begins to fuck her faster, like a man seeking release. He closes his eyes briefly and then opens them again, shaking his head in disgust. “You’ve had this fantasy before. Of course you have. Except it went a little differently. Me in leather, overpowering you out of passion, unleashing your own. A real soft-focus little fake-rape scene.”
Ransom chuckles. “Fuck, you’re right. One of her favorites, apparently.” He seems to have gotten bored; he shifts position, coming onto his stomach with his face above hers, his elbows pinning her upper arms to the mattress. It doesn’t matter; she’s too exhausted and bereft to even struggle by now. He looks up at Chakotay. “How about we really piss her off?”
The two men share a smirk. “Sure,” Chakotay agrees. He lowers one of her legs, limp with defeat, and finds her clit with his thumb.
Ransom strokes his fingernails gently down her face and chest and begins to caress her breasts.
Kathryn’s face crumples. “No,” she whispers. “No. Please. Don’t.”
They ignore her pleas, and her body likewise ignores her mind’s will. Sensation builds from her erogenous zones.
Ransom pulls her turtleneck up to her armpits and deftly slips each breast from its bra cup. As he nuzzles her ear, his fingertips find her nipples, teasing and rolling them into hardened peaks. She turns her face away from his in disgust, but that only gives his questing mouth easier access to her sensitive neck.
Chakotay slips a finger, then a second, inside her, still slick with Ransom’s cum. His thumb continues to work her clit, producing a pleasure as devastating in its own way as his brutal rape of her ass.
Now, stretched and slick and full, mind broken, heart shredded, Kathryn is indeed as overwhelmed by his power as her old secret fantasy had always promised she would be. And, to her horror, she is fast approaching her peak along with him.
Chakotay has one last eviscerating message. “How dare you dress me in Maquis clothing for your little rape fantasy. The uniform you hold so dear is no barrier to atrocity. Look at the man you have sucking your breasts.” Ransom is doing just that now, drawing sobbing gasps from her with each careful rasp of his tongue. “Look at me, violating the woman I still somehow love.” Her eyes are pulled back to him against her will. He is in a torment of rage and guilt and ecstasy, rivulets of sweat and tears coursing down his flushed face.
He pumps into her harder, shouting as he comes. “Look at yourself!”
Kathryn raises her gaze directly above the bed, where somehow a mirror is suspended from her ceiling. And she sees. She sees the two men, writhing fiercely upon her, violence etched in their every muscle and motion. She sees herself, scratched, bruised, and bleeding, yet arched in pleasure against their mouths and hands and punishing cocks.
“I’m sorry!” she sobs. All conviction within her, all dedication to her cause and mission, every principle around which she has shaped her life and being for decades … all dissolves and floods forth from her in regret and despair. “I was wrong!” she screams. “I was wrong!”
She comes so hard she blacks out.
-----
Kathryn rouses to the sound of her communicator.
“Tuvok to Captain Janeway.”
“Ungggghhh….”
“Captain Janeway, please respond.”
Her head clears marginally. She is in bed. She slept, apparently. “Go ahead, Tuvok,” she grates, throat painful.
“We have the Equinox on long-range sensors. One hour to intercept.”
She knows she ought to feel satisfaction at this news. Anticipation. “Acknowledged. I’ll join you on the bridge in half an hour.” She feels hollow and blank. “Janeway out.”
She lies in bed another minute, taking stock, reorienting her mind to this reality.
She is naked from the waist down, covered over with a sheet.
The vibrator lies next to her, sticky, fouled. Idly, she presses its power switch. It buzzes only weakly.
When she rolls over, she winces with pain. Sitting up draws a groan. She aches all over and stings badly in places she shouldn’t.
Bite marks are visible on one hand. The wrist of the other arm aches from overstrain. She stops looking at herself.
But one hand drifts unbidden to the collar of her turtleneck.
She counts to four.
She still wears the pips.
She still has her mission.
Or rather, perhaps, it still has her.