Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsswing.news.prodigy.com!prodigy.net!prodigy.com!newsread.com!newsstand.newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "lyrastarwatcher" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW DS9: Bike Week 1/1(K/f, O/K)[NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 430 Date: Fri, 31 Dec 2004 01:55:11 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1104458111 209.198.142.218 (Thu, 30 Dec 2004 20:55:11 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 30 Dec 2004 20:55:11 EST Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:86539 X-Received-Date: Thu, 30 Dec 2004 17:56:17 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Bike Week Author: Lyrastar Series: DS9 Rating: NC-17 Pairing: K/f, O/K Contact: Lyrastarwatcher at yahoo dot com or www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher Disclaimer: Yeah, Paramount started it, but Quark's was never like this. Thanks: to Cait N. for the beta. Summary: Everyone needs a break now and then, space station BIKE WEEK Kira stepped out of the shower and ran a towel briskly over her hair. The Roxatarium was a little pricey for her budget, but every special touch, from the full body massage, to the pinnalweave sheets, to the fluffy white hotel robe she tossed on was worth it. Running a space station took a lot out of a gal, and the next five days might be the only chance she would have to recharge her batteries for a long time. The choice of where to go had been a tough one. So many decadent playgrounds, so little time. She had opted out of Bajor, as much as she missed home; she was too well known now, almost as conspicuous there as she was on her station. What she wanted was some casual anonymity where she could really let her nose unwrinkle and have a ripping good time. Not that her command would be in jeopardy, but some antiquated ideas lingered on as vestigial appendixes in the collective societal brain. It just wasn't--seemly for the station commander to be caught with her skirt up. Or her date's skirt up for that matter. Odo had been the perfect solution and a perfect dear. She had loved him as deeply and as fully as she had ever loved Bareil--as she had ever loved anyone--and she missed him every day. That side of their relationship was so often overlooked by others. He was so alien that he was generally perceived as asexual instead of the omnisexual gender-neutral being that she knew him to be. She smiled to her self at the private life they had shared. Odo may not have been so great with faces, but Prophets, he could make a pussy! He could make a pussy deep enough that she had only wished her arm were longer. He could make a pussy she could literally crawl into, curl up and stay the night. He could, and had, made endless pussies on the same body--one for each hand, one for the mouth, and one or more left over to dangle in front of her eyes and drive her half insane with desire and frustration. Each night it had been something different. Sometimes it was bouncing breasts everywhere she looked and touched. Sometimes a hundred tongues licked her skin, or sometimes just one particularly muscular one went to work. It reached her cervix and clamped on with tiny suction cups, each one tugging her insides and begging them to let loose. Sometimes it vibrated, shaking her from inside out or sometimes a gentle microelectric current ran around, circling her clit and holding her in tetany until she thought she would die from the endless, shaking orgasm. Odo could make his outer membrane alternately cold and hot, wet and rough, unyielding or supple as Rigellian rubber fresh from the tree. He could sprout long, wavy hair or silken fur she could nestle in to her heart's content. He could be smooth and frictionless as gel, letting her glide and move as she would, or he could bind her in immalleable cuffs, holding her helpless for hours until his next reversion. In his primal form he had flowed over her and into her. He had been places no one else could or would ever go. He had been every woman's every woman and he had been a handful of men as well. Anything she had wanted he would form for her. The only thing she had missed was the smell. There was something about the smell of a woman ripe for plucking that drove her utterly wild. At times she could raise her fingers to her nose and the whiff of her own womanhood sticky on her fingers was enough to make her come all over again. She could catalogue every woman she had ever bedded from their smell. The olfactory memories came more easily than the faces. There was something so visceral about the smell of a woman in heat, a primal survival mechanism of the species she presumed. Although it was probably meant to attract fertile men, she had never been an average girl and it worked on her just as well. It short-circuited every pathway of her brain and made her think of just one thing. She wouldn't have traded her time with Odo for any gift of Bajor or Temple, but this week, by Prophets, she was getting herself some pussy juice! She'd narrowed it to a sampling of resorts where the beer was cold, the sun was hot and the women could work up a wonderfully stinky sweat. What had decided it for her was the pamphlet for Women's Bike Week on The Western Key of Elanara VII. 1.2 million rambunctious women crammed onto one tiny island. She commed in her reservation the same day. She dropped her towel and examined her body in the mirror. Holding up pretty well, if she did say so herself. She could still pack a uniform with the best of them. He stomach was flat; her hips and butt were not. Her breasts were still utterly fabulous, but she had to think her pussy was her best feature. It was the perfect shade of pink, like a budding fressalius in the morning dew. Chestnut curls layered around it, not too many, not too few. They parted coquettishly in the middle providing a favored few with a fleeting peek. She didn't depilate; she didn't have to. The hair stopped right where it should. And the smell--she stroked herself and sniffed and shuddered. Her smell was a treat beyond compare. The women who would get her this week had no idea how lucky they were. She ionized her hair in place, then rummaged through her bag. She picked a hot pink micromini and white off-the-shoulder demi-halter. No point in being too trashy the first night out. The mini was a size too small and rode up her butt if she didn't walk just right. Perfect! She positioned her nipples to show through the top just so. For jewelry she picked neck and wrist chains to match her ear cuff, with an old-fashioned padlock in the middle. The handcuffs she hung from her silver chain-link belt, resting against a back hip. They clinked together almost musically whenever she jiggled her ass. Stilettos or thigh-high boots, that was the perpetual question of vamps on the prowl. In honor of bike week she went with the boots. Besides, she liked the friction of them against her skin. They kind of turned her on as she moved. Only one thing missing: the bike. She checked herself in the mirror and decided she should have no trouble getting a ride. She picked a place called The Fourchette. "Where lips come to meet," it read in kelion laser light underneath the name. Her anatomy had always been better than her French. It sounded good any way one read it, so she went in. The bouncer looked her up and down for an unnecessarily long time, then dosed her with the standard humanoid decontam. "They real?" she asked with a nod toward her chest. "Does it matter," said Kira, "as long as they feel good?" "My tongue can tell the difference," said the bouncer and stuck out a muscular tip. "They're real," said Kira, placing the woman's hand on one as proof. "I said, my tongue." The tongue came out again--this time all the way out. It must have been 20 inches long. It crawled down her neck and snaked down her shirt circling one nipple and tightening it to a juicy peak. "They sure are," she said. "They're real, and they're fabulous!" She flicked her tongue a couple times in evident appreciation. "You stained my shirt," said Kira, looking down at the spreading wet spot. "I could lick it clean," the offer came. "It's not possible to lick someone clean." The wet white fabric revealed every wrinkle of her nipple. She adjusted he breasts in the halter to accentuate it more. "I'd give it my best try," the bouncer said. She watched openly as Kira handled her own boobs. Kira couldn't identify the species, or if it was supposed to drool like that, but common sense dictated her total effect was working. She considered her hypothesis confirmed when the woman flicked her tongue out and licked around her naked thigh. The tongue was hot and slick and wet and she was well on her way there as well. Rough little buds went too high and not high enough. She could really use a good one right now. She parted her legs a little more. The tongue pulled back. "I'm supposed to be working her. I'd quit on the spot, but I need the money." The women nodded ruefully to the line beginning to form behind. She flicked out the tongue for one last taste. This time, had Kira been wearing panties, she would have tasted them too. Kira shivered. It had been too long since she had been touched. "Look for me when you get off," said Kira, moving into the club. "I hope to be looking at you when I get off," said the bouncer, but Kira was already gone. Pushing past the inner door was like a re-baptism into the faith. She had loved Bariel, honest she had. He had understood her in a way no one else ever could. Her brothers and sisters in the militia had been just that--family united by the blood. They would kill for her and die for her and she for them--any one, every one. But when the war was over, the blood was dried and they were free to do as they pleased, they had all found they had no reason to stay. What she and Bariel had shared was spiritual. It transcended death and became stronger after his transition. Prophets willing, it would after her own as well. But stepping into this thick forest of verdant womanflesh packed trunk to trunk, she was brought to sharp awareness of why there were separate words for love and lust. "I told you we should come early," said a Lessican to her partner with a nod towards Kira's ass. Kira smiled politely and moved on. Lessicans were nice enough, but the feathers tended to stick in one's throat. As she made her was to the bar, a hand fondled her ass. She looked behind. A Devian shrugged two of her eight arms helplessly as if to ask, how is a woman supposed to keep track with all of these? After Kira had passed, she sniffed the fingers of the offending hand and sighed. Kira sauntered up to the bar. A busty brunette with legs up to her neck served up drinks and patter, making one look as easy as the other. A leather clip held back waves of hair and her whole demeanor reminded her acutely of Jadzia. Kira ordered a Love Canal--straight up. Funny how the worst embarrassments of any world seemed doomed to go down as cultural icons through the ages. The woman plucked a highball glass and cheerfully began to mix. "Nice nipple," she said with a gesture to the stain on the halter. "Thanks. It's a matching pair." "Lactating?" she asked and licked her lips, "I like milk-- a lot." "Not lactating, but I'm making plenty fluid further down. What do you think of juice?" Kira tried for boldly coy--a complex combination. She couldn't tell if it worked. The brunette grinned and added the dash of Vulcan bitters. She topped the glass off with a segment of white picket fence on a swizzle. "Look where I work. What do you think? I'm always on the lookout for a new, exotic mix." She passed the glass across the counter. The chemical reaction was taking nicely; it was beginning to bubble gently from the bottom up. Kira grinned and pushed her payment across. The glass was still cold, but the drink was slowly beginning to heat. She took a sip. The burn on the way down was perfect. "Thanks," she said. "Thank you," the brunette stressed. Kira didn't think she was talking about the tip. The bar was full, but a Bolian chivalrously gave up her seat. Kira took it and positioned her self just so. She left her legs uncrossed and calculated the thigh gap just so, going for that glorious question: is that dark patch I can see panties or-- The Box? Her new Bolian friend was doing her best to investigate. She needn't have bothered. Had the woman asked, Kira would have told her she had left all her undies back in her room on the station. The woman leaned over and caressed her breast. "Do you spank?" she asked, peering as far down the halter as she could. "No. In the resistance we used weapons on 'kill' or nothing, but I can bake a hell of a meritzberry pie." "Pity," the woman said and left with a last enthusiastic squeeze. "It would have been magnificent." Next she dodged a Caitian--crimeny, one hair in the mouth was bad enough, but fur? The Caitian had whispered something about the handcuffs, a tribble and a bottle of fresh Denebian plushoil--with herself on the receiving end, of course. She refused two more similar offers, one from twins with matching collars and Harley nose-rings, one from a barely-legal Hessarian who assured her she had been bad--very, very, very bad indeed. Upon reflection, maybe she should have gone with the stilettos. Could be the boots gave off the wrong idea. She worked her ass off on the station. The last thing she wanted was more work as a dom. What did a decent girl have to do these days to get to lie on her back and eat stinking, dripping, heated womancunt until her brains blew into the next quadrant? She checked her chrono and drained the Love Canal. If not finished within 15 minutes, the chemical mixture progressed to the point where it became toxic to Bajoran physiology. Already her fingertips were beginning to tingle, her face felt numb and the most delightful sensations ran through her crotch. Better living through chemistry all right. She gave up her seat and moved to slide through the crowd. She considered abandoning the boots and/or the halter, but the rub of the damp fabric was making her even more horny, and that seemed like a good thing considering the surroundings. Nothing like being totally famished when sitting down to a buffet. She adjusted her belt to hang in front of her crotch, pointing purposely down. She was on the verge of ordering another drink when she heard the sound. It was as if 47 ships were all coming in to dock at once at once and she were in the middle. Only one engine in the universe emitted that patented, bone-jarring roar: a Harley D. Silver Series personal flitter--the Special Edition. She pushed outside to see. A healthy looking Klingon pulled off her respirator and shook her hair. She was several inches taller than Jadzia had been and dressed all in body armor. She wore a silver breastplate and gauntlets. The rest of her was sheathed in the low-impact spray-on type. It was bronze and glistened in the light of the moons. Upon second glance Kira's eyes widened. It wasn't body armor; it was oil! Kira made sure her nipples were nice and hard, then sashayed over. "Nice seat," she said. "Thanks, I had it custom made." The Klingon reeked of sex. Kira smiled. "Oh, yeah? You're right. The bike seat is pretty nice too." She ran her hand over the synthahide. It was warm and damp. She raised her fingers to her nose. Oh yes, hot, freshly oiled pussy fresh off the range! "Name's Kira Nerys," she said, extending her pussy hand. The Klingon laughed. "What's so funny?" "K'yrha'h is a children's toy in Klingon." "I think we're going to get along fine," Kira said and took the crook of her arm. She noted with satisfaction that the Klingon was trying to look down her shirt. She shifted her shoulders to make it easier. "We could go in, dance, and make small talk, or I could fuck you silly and we could decide on more from there." There was nothing in the world like a horny half-naked woman with body oil and a stinky crotch who got right to the point. "Do you have a room?" asked Kira as she played her hand over the taut and slippery ass. "Sort of," the woman said. "I'm a regular. Come with me." She pulled her through a back door marked "Keep Out." Around the room women ate women. Women fucked women. Women tortured women to the point of ecstasy and beyond. Hell, women did anything they pleased. And the whole goddamned room reeked of pussy. Something wet and sticky dripped down her groin as if in a rush to join the fun. There was Andorian pussy, Tellarite pussy--there was the stench of every pussy from A to Z. There were some she didn't recognize, but she was a quick study and more than eager to learn. "Afraid?" the Klingon asked her, as a shudder ran through her body. "You must be kidding. I supervise a Ferengi bar 24/7." The Klingon whistled. "A professional. In that case, I won't hold back." "I'm counting on it," said Kira. Before she knew what had happened, she was flat on her back, bolted trunk and wrists to a stone slab with her skirt around her waist and her ankles chained to the ceiling. "Okay bitch, tell me if your Ferengi can do this." The Klingon re-oiled her arm--all the way up. "Bring it on," said Kira with a smile. She spread her hips and freed her mind and suddenly all was right with the world. The Klingon fucked her feverishly, but the limb restraints held strong. "Pussy, give me pussy!" Kira screamed. "I want a dripping, stinking, soaking pussy in my face!" From the sidelines, an Ocampian girl approached. She wore a sort of leather harness, made for easy access anywhere. She hopped up on the table with enviable ease. Kira arched her neck and grabbed her ass. She pulled the girl down and began to suck. The girl toyed with her own tits at first, but Kira Nerys was good! Soon the girl forgot herself. She leaned back on her arms and arched her back and began to face fuck in earnest. She made little cries that jiggled her body, her boobs. The room watched entranced. Her cries grew higher and higher. She dropped to a kneel and curled forward slamming herself into Kira's hungry mouth. She arched her ass and craned her neck. This looked like it was going to be it. Kira let loose the last of her discipline and gave over to the absolute pleasure of primal, anonymous sex. The fist plowed her pussy. The pussy suffocated her face. The girl threw herself forward again, pushing her pussy into the tongue and arcing her cute little body over Kira's head. Kira was dizzy with sensation and some mild hypoxia to boot. It felt so good to have no responsibilities, no higher purpose, no one to please or impress. Bajoran men had never learned to appreciate this kind of anonymous no-ties sex, much to their great loss. Now that most of her life was tied to the station and to propriety, she treasured this chance to blow-off steam more then ever. And, Prophets, was she ever going to blow! She blinked and tried to focus on nothing but the moment of her incredible, bone-shattering orgasm that was certainly mere milliseconds away. She was going to scream like a banshee! Her eyes rolled back and her vision dimmed. At the upper edge of her vision she saw the Ocampian's face staring at her intently. The girl's movements had stopped. Bent over Kira, she seemed to freeze. Her face formed into some kind of recognition. "Hey, aren't you Colonel Kira from Deep Space Nine?" ~Lyra October, 2004 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: