Wednesday

(in which Seven submits and discovers her inner poet)

By jeny_nour

"Commander. You have the bridge."

Kathryn stood and stretched, her hand massaging her neck. It had been

quite a shift. As she headed to her ready room she paused at Seven's

station. "Before I forget, the astrometrics database, have you updated

it with the latest scans yet?"

"I am sorry Captain. That task is still on my list as needs to complete."

"Still."

"Yes Captain."

Janeway paused. Not pleased. She sighed, and slapped at her thigh,

started to speak, but stopped, deliberating. Then she turned and

pointed ahead of her to the ready room, "Seven."

~~~

"What do you have to say for yourself, Seven?"

The beautiful Borg remained mute, her eyes downcast. A rarity. "Well?"

Silence. It was after all Wednesday.

The captain reached into a drawer and drew out two objects. Laying

them on her desk, she kept her eyes on Seven's face and was please to

see those dark pupils dilate. Good. She reached for the first item.

Seeing the black gloves now in Kathryn's hands, and the quirt , a

fringe of taut black leather, where it lie on the desk, Seven nodded

and began quietly disrobing. Then she turned and kneeled, arms out

stretched above her head and her elbows on the floor, her alabaster

rear end offered to Kathryn, in submission.

The Captain smiled, knowing she had indoctrinated Seven well in this—

little game, she struck the first tingling blow. "I asked you a

question Seven."

Under Kathryn's skillful and unwavering quirt, Seven's logic seemed to

flee. A white hot need bloomed in its stead, like the red welts rising

on her heated rear, for some fresh— thing. Some stinging thing; a

novel, unique, and more intense thing to take Logic's place.

"Such a bad girl, Seven." the Captain purred, her gloved hand tracing

spiderweb light tracks along the Borg's tender flesh.

A need for— poetry sized Seven. She began chanting, low, lyrical, a

counterpoint to the quirt's steady rhythm of lashes.

At first she did not even recognize her own muffled voice beseeching

her Captain:

My Captain. My master.

Adoring and controlling this humble

Slave. Under your hands. I am but an

Open,

Clinging body. Yet, with each stroke— so much more. We are welded

...together by

Heat. Ride me, hard, while I submit all I am able to.

I am yours, all of me. Possess me, as I

Stingingly implore you for

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