Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!in.100proofnews.com!in.100proofnews.com!news-xfer.newsread.com!yellow.newsread.com!news-toy.newsread.com!netaxs.com!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: <41D572D0.1060505@gmail.com> From: Odo's Girl MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW DS9: Touching Silence (O/K) [NC-17] 1/1 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 212 Date: Fri, 31 Dec 2004 17:55:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1104515705 209.198.142.218 (Fri, 31 Dec 2004 12:55:05 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 31 Dec 2004 12:55:05 EST Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:86574 X-Received-Date: Fri, 31 Dec 2004 09:55:07 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Touching Silence Author: C. Zdroj Email: OdosGirl at gmail dot com Website: http://odosgirl.tripod.com/ Series: DS9 Part: 1/1 Rating: NC-17 Codes: O/K Warnings: Explicit sex, including changeling sex and weird gender-bendy changeling sex; angst Archiving: Bajorarama, ASC*. Others please ask. Summary: Sex with a changeling, from two points of view. Author's note: In my own head, this story happens in Alternate Reality II from my earlier story, "Five Things That Never Happened to Odo," where Odo and Kira have been lovers since before Sisko arrived on DS9. However, there's actually nothing here that flatly contradicts the series canon. So I'll leave it to my readers to imagine the where and when. An earlier edit of this story appears on my (Odosgirl's)livejournal, but I hope to replace that in the near future with a link to this version, which has been more closely and thoroughly copyedited. ~~~~ Touching Silence by C. Zdroj (aka Odosgirl) She closes her eyes as she sits on the bed, naked, her legs folded under her. It pleases her to wait this way, to meditate on the act of waiting, on the anticipation that flows through her body. She senses the moment when she is no longer alone, despite the utter silence of her rooms. His presence changes the very air, makes her skin prickle and the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She opens her eyes to a viscous sheen of silver that seems to flow from the wall and the ceiling both, a curtain of shimmering movement, a sheer veil of watery silk. She raises her arms and lets that veil wrap itself around her. She shivers at the coolness of his liquid touch, gradually warming as he begins to absorb the heat of her body and radiates it back to her. Still kneeling, she turns up the palms of her hands as if in prayer, closes her eyes once more. She breathes in as the silken wrap molds and shapes itself to her form, cocooning around her in the dark. There is a momentary thrill of panic and primal fear, an echo of the first time they did this, when she did not know what to expect. Even now, there is still something about their skin-to-skin contact that unsettles, if only for a moment. She breathes out, releasing spirit from body. In that moment, she is fluid too. He spills down along her torso, upward over her arms and into her hands. She feels his fingers begin to take shape, twining with her own. There is another soft intake of breath--and this time she cannot tell if it comes from both of them or just from her. She feels the brush of a kiss at the base of her throat as a not-quite-yet humanoid form shapes itself to her body's contours. Then, as suddenly as snapping her fingers, he is there in the form she knows best, warm, solid flesh pressed to her own as he kneels behind her on the bed. For a long moment they remain this way. His chest and belly pressed to her back; his thighs bracing hers. His hands make trails of heat over her shoulders, down her arms and her sides before finally coming up to cradle her breasts, taking one in each hand. There is even now something fluid in the touch. She leans back as he squeezes the soft flesh, lightly pinching her nipples into hard, aching points. She gives voice to a low moan as she becomes aware of a second pair of hands that slide down along her back to caress her buttocks and then grasp her thighs, easing them apart. She lets her body melt and spill, responding to his exploration. She arches and opens herself, gasping, feeling weightless as he holds her up. Semi-liquid fingers stroke, massage, and probe her all over, everywhere. She moves her hips and groans. Her neck and back muscles relax and soften. The moisture between her thighs expands; her pleasure swells under caresses that are alternately hard and soft: warm, liquid tongue-strokes followed by skillfully probing fingers; fingers discovering and massaging the hot point of sensation deep within her. Lips and tongues caressing and sucking there, at her breasts, everywhere, in a hundred places at once. She thinks she can hear herself groaning, then screaming, but those sounds seem far away. His body has become diffuse and multiple, melting against her skin and fanning out to bathe her in touch. She rakes her fingers down her chest, through the fluid that covers her, and she feels his responding shudder, can almost imagine that she hears his deep groan, even though he has no vocal chords at present, no way of producing such a sound. The passionate, formless form that is her lover trembles around her. She both loves and fears the feeling of desperate need that vibrates through him, threatening to swallow her up. Hunger, his hunger for her, becomes hunger itself, their joining the essence of sex. Her own pleasure is amplified by her awareness of his need, and she reaches out to hold the warmth that surrounds her, as if she could encompass it in her arms. And then he, or some part of him, gathers itself into a knot of heat that enters her at last, sliding into the deep hot well between her thighs, and she gasps and thrashes with abandon. She flings her arms wide and simply lets him have her, lets her body react as it will, twitching and writhing. She does not resist or try to guide the flow of their two bodies. For this moment, she gives up control, lies whimpering and moaning on the bed as her alien lover pleasures her almost to the point of torture. He moves within her, caressing, touching, pulsing in her depths and all around her. It is like being wrapped in a blanket of pure sensation. For a moment she thinks she is going to die. And she doesn't care. **** It is a long time before he recovers, drawing himself slowly, almost painfully, into his accustomed form once more. His body is sated, but he still tingles all over with a sense memory. He gazes down at her sleeping form. Curling himself into one corner of the bed, he concentrates on building the details of his humanoid shape once again, slowly, focusing on individual fingernails and strands of hair to bring himself back to calm. He does not know how long he sits there before her light touch comes once more to rest on the shoulders he has so recently created. It is like being gently shaken from a dream. He reaches up to cover her hands with his own. This is part of the pattern of their lovemaking, almost a ritual. She kisses his shoulders which, in point of fact, are always bare, but which now look the part. His flesh, still raw and sensitized to even the lightest touch, absorbs the warmth and texture of her skin greedily. He leans his head on her shoulder and lets out a low moan as she strokes him all over in a kind of unspoken communion that certainly is sexual, but in a gentler, less frantic way than what they have just done. She never speaks during such times, even though he knows that part of her reason for touching him is her own anxiety--about him, about his needs, her own uncertainty about what the two of them are to each other. They never speak of their relationship in front of the others. It is their secret, barely mentioned even when they are alone together. He has come to realize that his shape--whatever shape he happens to be wearing--is not, as he had once asserted to her in a fit of pique, simply a borrowed form. For he has, in truth, no "natural" state. What is natural to him is, rather, a play with shape and texture. Sometimes it becomes a game with them. He changes his texture to invite the exploration of her hands, creating feathers, fur, branches and foliage, stone, silk and velvet, and in this she can join him, for her body, as he has long since learned, is fully as changeable as his own, prone to its own particular idiosyncratic shifts: changes in pulse, in temperature, moisture. He knows what her tears and her musk taste like. He knows the shape of the inside of her mouth, and which dreams make her cry in her sleep. She knows how to touch him in a hundred different ways that give him pleasure. They are naked to each other--always. He half-turns to kiss her, and their bodies seem to melt into each other, primed by all the endless touching. This time he creates a row of feathers down the inside length of one arm--iridescent blue feathers that echo the color of his eyes, and her hand strokes downward over their silken expanse, and then gently moves back up, reaching between the oddly soft quills, tweaking them playfully ... The feathers melt, becoming blue whorls of pigment painted on his pale humanoid skin, resembling some exotic tatoo. Then both arms and his whole upper torso are covered by these patterns, that lead her eye up to his nipples as the flesh around them swells, becoming a woman's breasts, and she lets her lips fasten on those breasts, lets her hands trace those swirls of color up along his arms. Her hands slide over the surface of his skin, slip between his thighs. Her fingers stray inside his substance, trail through it as it grows liquid and solid, moving back and forth between those states. He is clay in her hands; she kneads his flesh, and he in turn responds to the changes he creates, caressing different surfaces in different ways. Her lips brush marble, taste water. He is all textures, wrapping her body in his liquid self and devouring her again, slowly now, pulsing around her. It is a dance that never seems fully over because, for him, all her touches are pleasurable. He wants to be her clothing and the air she breathes and the bed that cradles her and the humanoid lover wrapped around her body. And none of this is false or pretense--because his desire to touch her is real. Eventually they exhaust themselves, and it is easiest to be fluid, spilled across her body. She raises a hand, palm-out, and he forms a hand to touch it, fingertip to fingertip, aligning with and copying her gesture as he forms the rest of his humanoid shape. Is this what he is? he wonders. A copy of a humanoid? A facsimile? Her touch is not less real against his hand when it is solid. The form comes between them as words come between them, both revealing and obscuring emotion and meaning. Is a naked body more truthful than a clothed one? Nerys's clothing hides scars. His scars are not on his body, yet she has seen most of them. "You're beautiful," she says, and he believes her. Their eyes meet. "So are you," he replies. ~30~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: