MELD

(...a continuation)

By jeny_nour

It didn't take long. Once the Captain realized that resistance was

futile.

The two women had been at it since the previous 0400 hours and now at

1900 might well continue on until the watch rings the next shift's

bells. Kathryn wakes from a light doze, Seven is sucking her breast.

"No more. Mercy. I give."

"Give." Seven smiles. Yes. Another one. "Please, Kathryn, do give.

Give everything you can."

Kathryn reflects a moment then shifts from beside her lover to sit

back on her heels, between Seven's legs, stroking at Seven's inner

thigh, noticing a new bruise on her own forearm. She says, "I want us

to go— a bit farther. If you think you can trust me."

The Borg merely nods, most words are not required. Her trust is

complete and needs no verbalizing. Their thoughts are one. So Kathryn

leans over to the nightstand and brings out a tube of lube.

Her hand moves to the shape of a duck's bill, tucking her thumb into

her palm, she slathers the sticky stuff up to her wrist. In for a

penny, in for a pound, she murmurs.

Seven vows to ask about that phrase later.

Kathryn starts with a circular move, knuckles faced down, just the

tips of her long fingers entering Seven. "Tell me if you want me to

stop. Keep your eyes on mine. I want us both to be at the same place

here." Then it hits her; they are in the same place. Even if Kathryn

takes the lead, the echo plays in her mind: our thoughts are one. And

soon, their bodies are as well, as Kathryn sinks her full fist into

Seven, and begins the round and round movements, touching all of her

lover, soul to soul.

When Seven begins to come she lets lose a noise that most Borgs have

purged from their collective memories as non-relevant. And knowing she

is the one to elicit that sound from Seven makes Kathryn savor its

rough elongated syllable all the more. She rolls her fist once more, a

figure eight pattern now. Knuckles randomly grazing the interior of

the Borg's soft moist vault.

Seven stiffens and groans again, "I'm coming. Oh. Kathryn!" going

ridged in the tangle of sheets and sweat, as Kathryn's hand waits,

feeling the pulsing throbs, and then finally, slowly is withdrawn.

Seven's feet— one planted on each of Kathryn's shoulders— now

effortlessly hold her lover aloft over the bed, the sensation of

Kathryn's slicked and inventive hand finally too much to bear for the

uninitiated Borg. Some distance is a must.

"Seven?"

The words take a moment to form from the dryness of Seven's throat,

"Yes?" she whispers.

"Put me down, dearheart."

The Captain holds back the chuckle in her own parched throat, as she

draws back from Seven, the smile on her is face reminiscent of a cat,

contented at finishing off a saucer of cream. "You are a wonder."

But she doesn't move far, as the Borg's long legs, now wrapped around

Kathryn's waist, not wanting to lessen the contact, pull that auburn

head back down toward her. Seven plants a decidedly non-essential

kiss on Kathryn's lips, before announcing in Borg fashion, "I would

like you to be aware that I am now fixed in my intentions in speaking

these next words to you. Consider both the context and subtext."

The Captain smiles, "Oh?"

"We, you and I— are ravishing."

Kathryn's smile blooms at both the intention and the word; she reaches

again for Seven, "Oh, yes. That we are. And that we shall be, well

ravished."