Disclaimer: Not mine. Thank god.
Summary: Drabbles of pornish nature, of varying pairings/more-ings.
Notes: Once upon a time, before she was the BNF she is now, teh nos' had a porn challenge. I was named and I shamed myself. Some of the badness is deliberate. I swear.
He hadn't quite expected that being two hours late (the specs had to be finished, after all) would lead to him being the only officer still fully clothed. A celebration in the captain's quarters had somehow turned into the ensigns merrily fucking in a corner and Phlox taking notes on the logistics of a threesome. It occurred to him that perhaps their regular dinner was merely an excuse. He stood by the door, achingly hard at the sight of so much writhing flesh, the broad expanse of Trip's back as he pumped into T'Pol...
And Porthos started humping his leg.
The only surprise, when he sees them together, is that it's Trip on his knees. Not that Starfleet Officer Captain Archer had been wondering, thinking, fantasizing about two of his subordinates (and friends, he reminds himself) in a sexual relationship.
He hadn't pictured Reed deep-throating the Chief Engineer, swallowing around his cock and lubricating it just enough that the fucking could commence almost as soon as Tucker ordered him to hands and knees.
He hadn't flashed on those two well-toned (and, seeing them, they are) bodies locked together in a passionate tangle whenever he heard their names connected.
I suppose their noses aren't as good as mine. That's the only explanation.
If they could smell the signals they've been giving off, they'd have been fucking long before now. And probably on the floor.
So obvious. All the little touches and long looks, and the scent of them... bitches in heat for each other.
It's filling the cabin now, and I don't see how they could not smell it, Blondie with his nose to God's groin and the pair of them breathing so loud, so harsh...
What does a dog have to do to get some sleep around here?
She has heard the word - "menstruation" - but she was not prepared for this. Her tongue sweeps across Hoshi's cunt and she analyses the taste... a mixture of coppery salty blood and the fishy musk of arousal.
It seems most inefficient that human women should suffer this indignity every twenty-eight days. But Hoshi tells her that an orgasm is an effective cure for cramps, and so T'Pol pushes her fingers inside the ensign's body and works diligently at her clit with a flickering tongue.
Above her, Hoshi whimpers and fingers her nipples, forcing her body further into pleasure until she screams.
He bends her over the nearest surface and fucks her hard. He fucks her from behind because he cannot bear to see her face, but he never asks to fuck her in the ass.
On this ship, it's bad enough that he's British. He can't possibly be gay as well.
She lies across the table and braces herself against his thrusts. Her breasts scrape painfully against the unforgiving surface and she bites down on her fist to stop her involuntary squeal from escaping.
She doesn't mind that he prefers her to stay silent. She talks too much in her job.
"Stop," she tells him. He pulls out, and steps back. She lowers her legs to the ground and stands to face him.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks. She smirks, and sinks gracefully to her knees. He looks down to see her staring at his cock, streaked as it is with the pink womb lining and blood that is flowing out of her body.
"Hoshi?" he asks again. She smiles up at him.
"Malcolm," she replies, amusement filling her voice. She leans forward, extends her tongue, and delicately laps at the blood.
She has earned the title of "woman".
The old-fashioned handcuffs chafed Trip's wrists as he writhed, tearing off strips of skin from his torso with every movement on the grated floor. The lash beating down on his back raised welts, and he cried out.
"Do you want me to stop?" his captain asked. Trip thought this was a stupid question, but sobbed out a "yes" anyway.
"I'll stop if you promise to suck me off," Jon told him. He pulled his subordinate up to kneel and forced his cock down an unwilling throat.
Pulling on the short blond hair.
Enjoying the way Trip choked around him.
Malcolm woke to the music of Hoshi's scream.
She stood in the doorway, staring at the bed - Tucker's bed, he recognised, vaguely wondering what had brought her here so early in the morning. A distinctly unmelodic snore emanated from the pile of bedding next to him, and he thought to wonder what had brought him here.
A symphony of moans and gasps resonated in his mind, his own tenor mingling with Trip's baritone, rising in a crescendo of pleasure. His wrists ached as he pushed himself upright, and he remembered the handcuffs.
"Hoshi," he said. She turned and ran.
The pistol presses into his neck, and he gasps. It is an antique – mechanical weaponry, so destructive, he muses. It is his own, and it is cold against his skin as it trails down his throat and along his clavicle. It moves down again, and his nipple hardens almost instantly as the muzzle scrapes over it. This should not make him hard. But it does. Still it continues in its relentless downward path until it caresses his cock. It pauses only long enough to become slick, then moves further back between his legs. It enters him. He screams. And comes.
Boomers spend a lot of time on ships. Funnily enough. So when you're on a ship that's run entirely by close family, your options are somewhat limited.
Incest or bestiality.
Travis was never too keen on his family and when the opportunity to get away from them came, he took it. But he didn't forget their sexual mores.
And one day he was asked to exercise Porthos. It was a common chore on Enterprise. He doubted, however, that the other crewmembers would set the dog on a stool and encourage it to give them oral sex.
He liked rough tongues.
"Leave us to it, Doctor, we can cope with decon."
"So, Jon, how long do we have this time?"
"Not long, so get that uniform off, Commander."
"Because we have to be... oh god, Jon... we have to be clean all over."
"Clean everywhere that was exposed on the planet."
"I like you exposed."
"Well, no, I... oh, right. Yeah."
"What do you want, Trip?"
"Want... want your tongue."
"Where? Dick or ass?"
"Ass, please, please Jon, rim me. Oh god. Please. Harder. Please. More. Fingers, fingers, please Jon, please, fuck me, fuck me now, fuck, harder, harder, JON!!!"
Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was discovered in his quarters at 0530 hours, by Ensign Hoshi Sato.
Initial examination indicated he had been dead for some time and was far beyond resuscitation, and so his body was left in position for the investigation.
The corpse was fully naked, excepting the thongs fastening his ankles to the chair-legs and the Navy-issue tie wrapped around his neck, presumed to be the cause of death. The corpse's penis was also fully erect, leading to the suspicion that the deceased had been indulging in auto-erotic asphyxiation.
There was no explanation for the orange between his legs.
"Do you want me to call you Captain, or Jon? Or would you rather I sucked you off without a word? It's not like I can say much when your cock is filling my mouth, pushing down my throat, when I'm licking my way around the head and slowly pushing a finger into your ass... I love the way you look, legs spread wide for me, flushed and panting... God, you're such a slut... two fingers in you now, stroking your prostate... come for me, Jon, come for Uncle Tucker... lips sealed around your cock, swallowing it... there you go."