Number One lay back on the beach, the rough sand pressing into her shoulders and back as Daaril loomed down towards her. "Oh, yes," she moaned as he eased his strong hands beneath her, lifting her effortlessly into a searing kiss. She ran her hands into his shimmering lion's mane of white hair, luxuriating in its almost surreal softness, quivering as he crushed her against him. She buried her face in that mane, the scent of him fueling an animal lust which went straight to the core of her being. Slowly, cruelly, he released her, forcing her to abandon that gold-mine of sensual pleasure as he lifted himself over her and removed the white tunic which had caressed his sculptured body.

Daaril towered above her, an angry god, his elegant torso bare before her like a pagan idol. His smooth chest rippled in classic synchronism as he leaned down to place a single kiss on her trembling breast. His lips seared into the sensitive flesh surrounding her nipple, setting it aflame with that one gentle touch. She felt an almost aching hunger between her legs as he placed kiss after torturous kiss down her stomach. She wanted him. She needed him. Just as she thought she would die with the agony of desire, he--

Julie Margaret Colt awoke to the smell of satin. It had a rather unusual smell--soft and delicate like flowers you didn't know were there until after you'd passed them. She opened her eyes, looking up into a swirl of pastel colors, straining upward through the opaque layers of fabric, trying to figure out where the hell she was. She felt a dull throb in her head, as if she'd slept too long, and stretched luxuriously against the satin sheets.

The sound of tiny bells in her ear made her blink. She turned her head lethargically to the right, noticing for the first time the tiny golden cuff around her wrist. Delicately wrought with emeralds and pearls, the cuff was no thicker than a lock of hair. Connected to the cuff at the center of her wrist was a fragile gold link chain. Colt strained her head backwards, seeing that the chain led to a matching gold loop on the bedpost. A gentle tug at her left arm assured her that it also was securely bound.

Colt lifted herself as much as possible. Her feet were encased in similar cuffs, chained together by stronger golden links. She was nude, covered only by the gauzy material which canopied the bed. A chain spanned her slim belly, its perfectly-balanced golden expanse broken only by a precious emerald at her navel.

Despite the oddness of her appearance, Colt knew she was safe. She knew no harm would come to her in this place as long as...

He was there before she knew he was coming. Master Daaril, with his alien face set in that look of knowing authority, parted the canopy above her. Colt shivered in anticipation. His dark eyes were seething; the negotiations had not gone well. She knew he would use her brutally tonight. Her slim body quivered in delight.

Colt said nothing, knowing that to speak unbidden would only serve to fuel her master's anger. A sly, rebellious ember sparked within her. Had she not feared his disfavor so desperately, she might have been tempted to invoke that anger, to force his hand into a deliciously torturous punishment. Master Daaril knew better than any how to make pain a delight. However, incurring his disfavor might only get her thrown from his presence. That, Colt knew, was far worse than any punishment he could devise.

So she remained silent, each moment passing between them like sheer agony. Master Daaril simply looked down on her. He towered above her, a monolith of sensual authority. Colt lowered her eyes demurely, wriggling her hips only in the slightest movement of invitation. His nearness had aroused in her an almost painful desire. While Daaril could have done that through sheer force of will, the pheromones his race released in the presence of the opposite sex compounded that natural desire with an almost animal need in her.

After what seemed like an eternity, Daaril reached down to touch the cuff on her right wrist with the barest brush of his fingertip. The contact was like wildfire through Colt--her pulse increased tenfold, her flesh sensitive to his touch, her breath coming in ragged heaves. She no longer tried to contain her need--she pulled at the cuffs, her hips moving in an agonizing plea.

Master Daaril smiled down on her in pleasure. Colt drank in that smile like the last drop of cool fresh water before an endless Sahara. At his encouragement, she loosed a tiny moan, wriggling her hips in open invitation. Daaril smiled again, still silent, and reached down to loosen the chain linking her ankles together. With a deftness born of much practice, he gently spread her ankles, hooking the chain on each cuff to its respective bedpost. Colt groaned in agony as her moist, sensitive sex was exposed to the cool air. The gauze teased cruelly at her skin, fueling the already electric nerve endings with the barest touch.

Stepping back to admire her fully, Master Daaril nodded with a look of pleasure. Pulling the white tunic over his head slowly, he allowed Colt the privilege of viewing his stunning body. Her eyes devoured the slim, muscular chest, the powerful curve of his arm, the terrifying mane of white hair which (she could never decide) made him look like either a demon or god.

The Deltan took his time removing his clothes, carefully folding and placing each garment somewhere outside of her field of vision. It was almost as if he knew her tremendous need and was purposely postponing the act she knew to come. When he finally parted the canopy completely, slowly clipping each flap to the gold clasp which held it open, Colt was biting her lip in agony. She wanted to draw him to her, but her wrists were securely fastened. She wanted to scream at him, to beg, to plead with him to take her--now--but this would only incur his wrath. When he casually positioned himself between her legs, she frantically wanted to wrap her legs around his powerful thighs; but her ankles could move no closer together than the limits of a tiny gold chain.

Daaril lowered himself atop her, allowing his hard manhood to brush teasingly against the wet opening of her sex. Colt bit down a frustrated moan as he pressed the head lightly against her portal, inching only a fraction of a centimeter into the opening before pulling out again. In vain, she lifted her hips to invite further penetration, but this only earned her a scolding pinch of the nipple from Master Daaril. She turned her head in disgrace, cursing herself for her lack of control. Daaril retrieved her gaze with two fingers on her chin, lifting her face into a gentle kiss. Colt gorged herself on his taste, putting the entirety of her desire into that one moment.

Obviously pleased with her response, Daaril condescended to enter her a little deeper than before, allowing the head of his cock to stretch her lower lips wide. She moaned in pleasure, reveling in the feeling of being wide open to him, the complete lack of inhibition gained from absolute powerlessness. Daaril placed a kiss on her throbbing nipple, rolling the tender bud between his flaming lips as his cock pressed even further into her. Colt forced down the urge to buck upwards, to force that magnificent organ deeply into her, to completely surrender herself to the built-up, raging inferno within her sex. Daaril, as if knowing the sacrifice she'd made, eased more of himself into her, all the while nibbling and licking her aching nipple.

Colt could not believe it when he'd finally reached the hilt. As many times as he'd used her, as varied as his tortures had been, this had always been the worst--to unleash the holocaust of need within her, then take her at his leisure, prolonging her torment. She knew better than to make any movement as Daaril contented himself licking the hollow of her throat. Every instinct told her to thrust, to squirm, to establish that beautiful friction which would bring her to the release she so direly needed. But she contented herself with the feel of him within her, with the commanding expanse of flesh which seemed to cleave her insides as a warm knife through butter, with the animal smell of his hair and skin against her cheek. Colt almost thought she could achieve that blissful release from the sensations she was receiving, but she could not--not quite.

Just as Colt was about to cry out in anguish, Daaril burst into a frenzy of motion. His hands wrenched outward, literally ripping the golden chains which bound her wrists from the bed post. Suddenly finding her arms liberated, Colt rushed to grasp him, twining her fingers in his silky mane as he crashed down upon her in an inflamed kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth in perfect sync with his cock, which began an angry invasion of her sex. Colt felt the first orgasm racking her body as his strokes grew harder, faster. She wished he would have released her ankles. Her thighs ached, and her legs were twitching in a desire to wrap themselves around his slim thighs. But she was already arching her back, the moans loosing themselves from her throat like animal cries, her head thrashing, lips pulling on his invading tongue like a lifeline. She felt Daaril loose his orgasm within her, never slowing his rough pace as he released a gush of warm nectar into her deepest reaches.

After what seemed like perfect eternity, Colt felt his breathing slow, felt the gentle tapering off of his thrusts long after consciousness left him. It was as if he were inside of her, his thoughts her thoughts, his passion hers. She smiled dreamily as she cradled his head against the pillow of her breasts. She had pleased him. Everything would be--

"This is Mr. Spock. The captain will require your assistance on the delegates' tour in five minutes."

The Deltan smiled slowly, sensually. "Turbo, halt," he said calmly.

Number One felt her stomach melt into her knees as the tiny lift slowed and stopped, effectively trapping her in close confines with the Deltan. "Uh, Mr..."

"Ruul," he whispered, a hint of amusement in that single intonation. "I hope our presence aboard this ship is not making you uncomfortable," he added. He took a single step closer to the shivering woman, his nearness a charge of electricity between them.

"No," she managed to breathe through the lump in her throat. "Not at all."

Ruul smiled, and Number One had to hold onto the railing for support. The assistant reached out a single hand to catch her, pressing her even harder against the rail as he did so. "Excellent," came his feather-light response. His hand trailed against her arm, sending chills of agonizing delight up her entire body. "It is our sincerest hope to have a long, fulfilling," he paused, pressing even closer to her. "Association with the Federation."

Number One's voice tried to sound commanding, but his nearness left her with all the inherent authority of a dandelion in a hurricane. She licked her lips, that damned dryness coming back to haunt her as she aimed for a light tone. "Of course, I want our association to be long and filling, too." She gulped at the slip, turning a full shade redder as the Deltan smiled knowingly.

His body was practically radiating sensuality; Number One felt more insecure than she had on her first date. Errant sensations played havoc with her body--she felt her breath quicken, the hard thrust of her nipples against the thick fabric of her dress tunic, the unbearable dampness between her legs. Obviously, Ruul was aware of her responses as well, for he pressed her against the turbo wall in a rough kiss, practically lifting her off her feet as he held her captive in that single breathless moment.

Ruul swallowed her completely in that embrace, effortlessly raising her until the hard bulge of his cock nudged against her clit. Even through two layers of clothes, Number One could feel the searing heat of his organ, the blood coursing through it, the hard, powerful flesh so invitingly masculine and foreboding. Her own opening softened against it. She wished she'd been wearing one of those god-awful mini-uniforms, if only because it would facilitate his taking her right here in the turbolift. She squirmed against his manhood, sending a torrent of sensations through her body as it rubbed her engorged clit. She wanted--

She shivered, turning the corner with an expectant air. It was too dark, too cold. The streets of the city were dangerous at this time of night, and Julie Colt knew she had no business being out here. But it was cold, and the shortcut through the alley meant a full five minutes less back to Rubie's place.

She hated Chicago at night. She hated the smell and the noise and the dirt. But work was work, and Rubie would have her cut, even if it was only a few torn bucks. In the grand scheme of things, in this new day and age, whores fell pretty low on the scale.

Colt pulled the damp red scarf she wore tightly around her, but it did little to protect her against the cold. She focused her mind backwards, to a time before the pollution, before the poverty and supermen and Rubie's sixty percent cut. Colt's mother had lulled her to sleep with stories of the old days, when there had been fancy malls of steel and glass reaching straight into the sky, when there had been lots of food to eat--so much that the government paid the farmers not to grow it. Her mother had crooned of days in the park filled with music and sunshine and towering green trees. (Though even her mother didn't remember a time when it was safe to walk there at night.)

Colt's heel caught in a muddy crack in the sidewalk, shattering her memory into a million pieces. She leaned down to pull at the heel, which was wedged between the dull concrete and a clump of wilted weeds. She tried to picture the huge Southwestern Sequoias her mother had described. Colt didn't even know exactly where the Southwest was, except that it was a zillion miles away from Chicago. As her heel came loose with a start, Colt shook away a chill. Mother was long dead, and the only Sequoias left on the god-forsaken planet Earth was a clump of stinking weeds growing in a crack in the sidewalks.

The hand on her shoulder startled her. She whirled on the stiletto heels of her scuffed black boots, blinking her eyes against the city pollution. It hovered in the air, particles catching the light of the dim street lamp at the end of the alley in a swirling, shimmering column. Some might have thought it pretty, in other times. But beauty was as dead as Colt's mother now, thanks to the supermen.

Chuckie Braverman hovered over her, a grimy sneer on his too-thin face. "Givin' up so soon, Beautiful?"

Colt smiled tightly though her painted lips. "No cash, no fun, Chuckie. You know the rules."

"Aw, come on, baby. You know I'm good for it."

"No credit," she said firmly, wiping his dirty hand off her equally dirty clothes. "Rubie has strict rules. If you can force them through that tiny little space you call a brain, you might be better off."

Braverman's smile vanished, twisting hard into a cold, straight line. He caught her shoulder again, pulling her off balance. She stumbled on the towering heels she wore, and the man took advantage of her imbalance to force her roughly into his arms. "Nobody likes a smart-ass whore," he said sharply.

She pushed away hard, anger fueling her where caution had failed. "In fact, the only thing smaller than your brain, Chuckie, is that itty bitty piece of silly putty you call a dick."

One step too far. Braverman's hand came hard across her face, spinning her to the ground, scraping the palms of her hands and tearing through the worn fabric of her stockings to expose her knees. He towered above her, rage darkening the unshaven face. "You think you're funny, don't you?" He stepped over her, blocking her rolling attempt at escape with one muddy boot. "You're gonna pay for that insult."

The logical part of Colt told her to just keep her fool mouth shut and take it like she had so many times before. But the picture of towering fancy malls and Sequoias kept superimposing itself over the bleak reality before her eyes. There was a better life than this somewhere. Maybe it was gone. Maybe the Eugenics War had destroyed any chance of Earth ever being anything more than this miserable excuse for a planet. But Julie Margaret Colt was better than this. Better than being raped in an alley by a dirty man with one tooth missing and an attitude from hell. The stiletto heel of her right boot arced upward, lodging itself directly in Braverman's crotch.

His yelp of pain and subsequent dance of agony were more than enough opportunity for Colt to escape his capture. She whirled onto her feet, pushing him against the wall with a force she didn't know she possessed. She'd almost made it to the end of the alley when she saw the dim shadows blocking out the street lights. A moment more and she knew the shadows belonged to Jose and Luke. She twisted back, hoping to find an escape route where she'd come from, but Braverman was already on his feet and mad as hell.

A small, self-possessed part of her knew that she could survive this. She knew she could make it, but panic was licking at the base of her spine. She wanted to curl inward, make it all go away. The thud of three pairs of boots echoed down her back.

Braverman was the first to reach her. Her scarf ripped in the steel vise of his fist. The other two made it just behind him. Too many hands were pulling at her, and the little flame of self-esteem which guided her and protected her sank into the safety of the trees and fancy malls.

She didn't know what was happening when hell broke loose. One minute they were at her, then bodies were flying everywhere. At the center of the chaos was a tall man in black, his gleaming white hair glittering like angels' wings against the dirty night. Colt pulled into a ball against the alley wall as the man fought off the men, his hard body more than a match for the three underfed street hoods. A niggling thought broke through the relief in her mind. Any man strong enough to fight three men was more of a danger to her than Chuck Braverman and his gang.

She pulled herself out of her shock, scurrying towards the light, trying to take advantage of the confusion and get the hell out of there. A warm hand on her shoulder stopped her. It was him.

She turned around, looking up at him like the dutiful whore. There would be no escaping this one. But his eyes looked down on her in kindness. He seemed to glow, his white hair a halo around his perfectly formed face and body. Colt felt a shiver through her, some emotion she did not understand playing havoc with her body.

The man lowered to his knees next to her, his hand sweeping gently across the bruise on her cheek. He was a superman. She needed no prompting to know that. There were rumors that some of the genetic criminals had survived the war, stalking at night to prey on innocent women and children. Some had even claimed to know of their hideaways, but angry search mobs had only revealed drug houses and rats. Still, despite the horror stories she had heard, Colt knew instinctively that this man was good. He was clean and strong, above the dirty habits of the common trash like her that littered the streets of Chicago at night.

"Are you injured?" he asked. Colt had never heard the sound of church bells before. Her mother had described them once, long ago, but until now, she'd never known what they could sound like. She strained her ears, still hearing the echo of his baritone against the damp alley walls. "Did they hurt you?" he insisted, carefully examining the scraped skin of her hands and feet.

She couldn't answer him. Any hurt Braverman had ever caused, any hurt anyone had ever caused was wiped away by the magical sound of his voice. She shook her head quickly in the negative.

The man smiled quietly, looking around the alley again. "They're gone for now. He'll probably come back with more friends--that's the way cowards operate." He took her chin in his hand. "Where is your family?"

She shrugged, suddenly ashamed of who and what she was.

There was no condemnation in his eyes, only sorrow. "Would you like to come with me?" he asked gently.

Her heart stopped in her throat on its way to the stars. She couldn't speak, couldn't even nod her head. She merely looked up at him in what she now knew was adoration, the tears cleansing the makeup from her cheeks.

The man stood up before her. He was like the silver fancy malls, like the towering Sequoias. Colt gulped, lifting her shaking hand to his outstretched one. "My name is Daaril," he whispered. "I'll take you to a place that's safe."

As the stewards began removing the desert plates, Number One felt a sense of ease filtering through her system. Aside from a few minor mishaps, the dinner had gone amazingly well. Thanks to the rules of basic etiquette, the Deltans had spoken mostly with the guests opposite them, only questioning her once or twice on the basic operations of the ship.

Ambassador Daaril leaned behind her to whisper instructions to Ruul. The younger man pardoned himself, rising with dignified grace. As he stood, his hand brushed Number One's bare shoulder ever so slightly, sending shivers of desire throughout her body. She swallowed, moving her chair a fraction of an inch towards Daaril to allow the assistant room to leave. This small shifting of her body was like torture to Number One--Daaril's breath tickled the back of her shoulders, her elaborately-styled hair no protection against that erotic tingling. When Ruul cleared the table, she pulled her chair hurriedly back to her original position.

Ruul walked quickly to the far side of the room, retrieving a silver wrapped package he'd placed there earlier in the evening. As he returned to the table, Daaril cleared his throat to speak.

His elegant voice halted all side conversations. Number One could hear the very sound waves of his baritone penetrating to her very core--a palpable, steady vibration she could see and touch and caress. She held her breath as her entire body trembled with the force of that musical sound.

"My esteemed colleagues," he began, nodding purposely to Pike. "It is my great honor and privilege to accept the gracious welcome you have bestowed upon the peoples of Delta Four. It is my fervent wish that tonight signals the commencement of a long and mutually beneficial association between Delta Four and the Federation." He paused to allow the polite applause, then nodded to Ruul. The assistant stepped forward, handing the gift to Pike. "We offer our most hospitable hosts this token of appreciation."

Pike nodded his head in gratitude, accepting the package from Ruul with a polite, though bewildered smile. For the first time that evening, Number One found herself in total sympathy with him. The background data on Delta Four had said nothing about gifts--Number One knew Pike had no gift to give in return. So much for the evening going amazingly well.

As the captain removed the delicate wrapping, she felt herself joining in with the rest of the guests in a stunned `ooh.' Pike carefully removed one, then two exquisite crystal goblets from the package. Tall and curved, the fluted goblets were ornately decorated with the most delicate strands of silver Number One had ever seen.

"Goblets," Daaril explained, "Which are used in our most sacred and cherished rituals. One for the captain," he nodded to Pike, then placed a single hand on Number One's shoulder. She felt a flame-like thrill course through her body at the contact. "And one for the lady," he added in a voice so soft she almost thought she'd imagined it. The first officer held her breath, the blood rising steadily into her shoulders, neck and face as the guests smiled and nodded in her direction.

Pike paused, obviously searching for the correct response. He glanced quickly at Number One, as if probing her flushed cheeks for the right reaction. She averted her eyes. This time she was absolutely not going to allow him to force her to cover for him. The captain cleared his throat and said, "I believe I can speak for my first officer in saying that such a beautiful gift will not go unappreciated." He paused again, as if in that momentary silence some well-refined person would speak up and give him some clue as to what to say next. When the gathering remained quiet, and was obviously waiting for more, he added, "It is our hope that we can...repay the deed with...appropriate gratitude."

Number One shot him a confused look. What the hell did that mean? From the almost desperate flicker in his eyes, she was fairly certain Pike didn't know what it meant either, but hoped he'd phrased it delicately enough to bluff his way through.

Daaril turned to Ruul, then back to Pike, nodding slowly. His hand slid across Number One's back to cup her other shoulder as he said, "Delta Four accepts your most generous gift, Captain."

Pike lifted an eyebrow, flashing a quick, questioning look. She shot him back a look just as questioning, but said nothing. She could concentrate only on the soft, probing pressure of Daaril's hands, unmoving, yet still caressing the sensitized flesh with near-maddening tenderness.

"In the tradition of our people," Ruul said formally, "We shall now consecrate the union of our two cultures."

A low murmur spread throughout the room as both Daaril and Ruul stepped away from the table, speaking quietly to each other. Number One was as surprised as the rest when the two men moved behind her, each placing a hand on one of her naked shoulders. A knotted pit of comprehension formed in her stomach as both men beckoned her upwards. An insane thought formed in her mind-- was she the gift? The blood flooded her cheeks, the panic she'd contained earlier returning full force. The constricting bodice of her gown suddenly seemed a tourniquet, forcing the air from her and leaving her breathless.

"Woman of Earth," Ruul said ceremonially, turning her to gaze deeply into her eyes, "Do you accept the conditions of the covenant?"

Her stomach turned to jagged rock. Number One turned frantically to Pike, who shrugged uncomfortably, his blue eyes as big as saucers. She looked back at Ruul, her breath quickening as he stretched one hand upwards to touch her cheek. A desperate little voice inside her was screaming for her to run, not walk, to the nearest exit, but the depth of the dark Deltan eyes held her immobile. She didn't know where the tiny `yes' came from, but as soon as she said it, Ruul broke into a broad smile.

"Then let the ritual begin," he said triumphantly. Before she could say anything else, Number One found herself pulled into a passionate embrace. Ruul's lips pressed hard against hers, his hands cloistering themselves in the rich russet folds of her hair. With remarkable deftness, he removed the dozen or so pins which held her tresses in place, freeing the soft auburn curls to tumble in reckless abandon around her shoulders. The ribbons floated to the floor in a maroon haze.

After at least a half dozen near misses that day, Number One felt her knees finally collapse beneath her; she flailed helplessly for support. Ruul's strong arms caught her, balancing her with his great strength, never releasing her for even a moment from that single, soul-stopping kiss. When she believed her heart would explode from the blood pounding through her veins, the Deltan released her. She was allowed only a moment's respite before Daaril turned her around, taking advantage of her confusion to envelop her in his own embrace. When he kissed her, she felt herself lifted off the ground. Her eyes shot wildly upwards into his face, then down to the floor which wavered foggily at least a foot below her dangling high heels.

A full-blown wave of panic traveled the length of her spine as her eyes flickered wildly from one guest to the other. She felt the stares of everyone present--from the lowest yeoman to the captain himself--boring straight through her. Even Spock had lost his mask of indifference, his dark eyebrows jetting upwards into his bangs.

Daaril had captured her with his lips, his powerful hands running the length of her torso with tantalizing softness. She gasped for breath, only to be pulled again into that whirlpool of lips, tongue, body, and hands. The Deltan ambassador smoothed his hands back up her spine, tangling his long fingers in her unruly curls, urging her against his hard body with an uninhibited groan.

Trapped in that steely embrace, there was nothing Number One could do but comply. She felt her mind tumble, free fall, to a place where there was no Enterprise, no captain or duty. Within the realm of the Deltan's embrace, there was only exhilaration, only the wild abandon of complete surrender to one's senses. She forgot where she was, throwing herself into his passion, snaking her own hands into the softness of his gleaming white hair, her body undulating against his with a reckless rhythm she'd never before achieved. All the unsatisfied desires she'd felt that day, all the unfulfilled needs she'd ever had, came rushing en masse into her body at that moment. She arched herself against him, hips and groin gyrating with animal desire.

When he finally lowered her, wobbly-legged, to the floor, she almost screamed with disappointed rage. Daaril put a single finger to her lips, and she kissed it hungrily. With a gentle nudge, he turned her towards the now clear table. She only partly saw the looks on the others' faces--ranging from calm approval to downright shock. Her eyes were riveted to Ruul, who stood at the far end of the table. The assistant had taken advantage of her distraction to clear the edge of the table, moving the guests closer together in order to make room. The two chalices had been filled with a dark red liquid, wine of some sort, and a candle burned in the center. Ruul had removed his tunic, his chest covered with a fluffy white down that flickered golden in the candle glow.

Number One leaned back against Daaril, her head swimming, heart hammering madly against her rib cage. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lowering his lips to gently lick the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. Number One felt her knees going again as Ruul reached one hand out to her, and Daaril bade her go to him.

How she traveled the seemingly endless distance to the Deltan was a mystery to her. She moved as one in a dream--Ruul stood before her like an oracle, the muscles in his chest and arms flexing sensuously, the candle glow illuminating his angel-white hair to a glimmering gold. He reached out his hand to her, and she took it like a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline. Tumbling into his arms, she pressed her lips into the muscular expanse of his chest, feasting hungrily on that spiced flesh as her mouth roamed of its own accord upwards to his lips. Ruul smiled at her, a mesmerizing warmth emanating from him as he reached down to lift her into his arms. She cradled against him, still intent on his warm skin, her arms reaching behind him to draw herself even closer into that fragrant embrace.

As Ruul placed her gently on the table, Number One felt a surge of distress. But the Deltan had placed his fingers on her lips, trailing them down her chin, her throat and collarbone, until they blazed a tingling path to her breasts. The woman's nipples, already erect, rushed with blood at the touch, her chest rising to greet his welcome fingers. With supple grace, Ruul unfastened the catch on her bodice, smoothing his fingers under the material, his unbearably soft fingers turning velvet into sack cloth in comparison. Number One felt the color rise to her cheeks as Ruul carefully eased the dress from her body, then ran his hand down the curve of her leg to remove first one, then both highly-arched slippers from her feet. The Deltan, seemingly oblivious to the torturous pleasure his touch caused, slipped the sheer white hose from her long, shapely legs. Then, to her utter mortification, he removed the filmy undergarment she wore, leaving her naked and vulnerable before the entire gathering.

Number One closed her eyes, tilting her head back to rest in a pillow of auburn waves. Her throat was tight and dry, embarrassment and desire working in unison to strip the very breath from her. She felt her pulse quickening as her lungs begged for air, her chest rising and falling frantically in the effort to breathe. Ruul, sensing her need, stepped to the side of the table and leaned over her, touching a goblet to her lips. Number One drank gratefully, warming the chilled liquid in her mouth for a fleeting moment before allowing it to trickle down her throat. It was a rich burgundy, spiced with flavors both familiar and exotic. Number One could feel it burning a path to her belly, where it radiated a calming warmth throughout her throbbing body.

She began to relax slightly as the wine took effect, slowing her thoughts to a surreal, blurry haze. Ruul splashed a bit of the wine on her collarbone, startling her wide-eyed. The liquid had been cool enough in her mouth, but against her blazing skin it stung like icicles, shocking her flesh all the more as he continued to pour tiny droplets of wine on her breasts, belly, even in the flaming hollow between her legs. Number One could feel the first drops evaporating, a sticky residue tightening the sensitive skin of her nipples. A tiny moan escaped her as Ruul stepped away, abandoning her there to her own desires.

Daaril took his assistant's place however, positioning himself at the edge of the table and gently pulling her until her knees straddled his hips. The ambassador had not only removed his tunic, but his trousers as well. He stood in glorious nakedness before her. Number One tried to lift her head to see more of him, but the wine had left her dizzy. Her head was heavy, swimming with desire and wine and a blurry mixture of fantasy and desires. She lowered her eyes to look down the length of her body to him--his torso rose from behind the edge of the table like a pillar of sensuality, arms outstretched, eyes closed in silent offering. She could see the tip of his cock, turgid and proud, just rising into view.

Number One gasped at the sight of him. She could feel the tension rising in her as he began to murmur a slow, musical chant above her. "You have been anointed in the Eyes of Calimiir. Joy and happiness to she who follows the Dance." He lowered himself ceremonially, pressing his lips to the place where the wine had sweetened her throat. Number One's muscles contracted violently at his touch, and a rush of adrenalin surged through her. Daaril continued to explore her, inching his lips down her quaking body to lap tenderly at the wine. When his lips finally reached the opening between her thighs, Number One thought she would die of agony. Daaril paused only momentarily, then lowered to his knees before her, lapping at the soft skin of her sex with gentle enthusiasm.

His tongue flipped at her, first hard, then with smooth long strokes, never remaining the same for more than a moment before establishing a different, more exciting rhythm. Number One felt the orgasm rising in her, so close to reality. But Daaril controlled his actions masterfully, allowing her to come down from that height, only to bring her even higher once more.

She was about to scream in frustration when Ruul, with graceful agility, lifted himself onto the table, straddling her. Number One's eyes glazed over at the sight of him, almost forgetting Daaril, who had slowed his assault on her throbbing sex. Ruul knelt above her, his manhood solid and erect, jutting upwards in full view. He took a sip of the wine, then lowered the cup to her lips again. A slight smile spread over his face as she stared with amazement at his cock. "You do know how to pleasure a man thus, do you not?" he asked in a low animal tone.

Number One didn't answer his teasing question. Rather, she found inside her the strength to lift her head to that magnificent organ, kissing his heavy balls with a passion she didn't know she possessed. His skin was smooth and tight, the taste of Deltan flesh mingling in heady combination with the spices and wine on her tongue. She savored the feel of him against her mouth--his soft skin, the tiny wisps of hair, the hard length of his shaft brushing against her cheek in open invitation. As she ran her tongue along the length to wrap her lips around the bulging head, she felt Daaril's tongue attack her clitoris, finally bringing her to the orgasm which had eluded her until now.

She thought she would have screamed, that her body would have arched and spasmed and wrenched a barbaric howl from deep within her, but the orgasm came in heavy waves, silent and furious, striking her dumb with its very intensity. She held to Ruul's waist for support, forcing her mouth around his cock with a savagery--

"Please, sir," she cried as his rough hands tugged at the bodice of her gingham dress, "Please, I am--"

The heat was blistering in the rain forest. Dr. J. M. Colt, Nobel winning anthropologist, turned to her guide and barked out a series of commands in his native tongue. The dark-skinned native smiled white through his thick lips, then nodded and darted off into the jungle. Colt brushed a sweaty strand of copper-colored hair from her face and returned to her cataloguing. They had stumbled upon the remains of a prehistoric village, teaming with priceless artifacts dating back to well before the rise of the Sumerians. A find of this nature would redefine age-old beliefs in archeology. It would also make Colt a household name.

A rustle in the bushes brought her out of her daydreaming. It would be Napu, returning with the... A strong hand across her mouth startled Colt to wide-eyed attention. A stocky native male, dressed only in skins, had snuck up on her so quietly she hadn't noticed, grabbing her with his dark, meaty hands. Colt tried to scream, but the native covered her mouth, dragging her with a strength that belied his size.

A sharp voice in her mind forced her to calm herself. Colt relaxed as much as she could, offering no resistance as the man pulled her deep into the village, past the huts, and into the forest. When he pushed her towards the mouth of a dark cave, Colt considered bolting towards the encampment; but one look at the native's muscular legs told her he could outdistance her easily. She stumbled into the cave, which was illuminated by only a shaggy torch. The native moved quickly towards the light, motioning for her to stay where she was. In the shadowy light, Colt could see the outline of the native's torso, a tell-tale bulge rising in ominous largeness from his loin-cloth--

Number One sat in the deserted mess, lingering over her last cup of coffee. In her present condition, perhaps caffeine was not the best thing to be ingesting, but she swallowed it anyway. Perhaps the mess wasn't the best place to be, either; but the confines of her quarters had become almost unbearable as the computer-generated night lingered on. When the ship's time told her it was the middle of the night, Number One had slipped out of her cabin. At this time, even most of the off-duty night owls had returned to their quarters for a few hours rest before morning shift arrived. The corridors and mess had been mercifully deserted, and Number One had been able to eat at least a little bit of supper in relative peace and quiet.

The opening door was like the call of doom to her. Number One felt her heart sink as she saw Tyler and Pimental heading straight for her. Damn, couldn't they even give her one night to pull herself together before getting their revenge? Number One raised one hand to ward off any smart-ass comments which might come her way, but, to her surprise, Tyler and Pimental assumed a strict `at ease' position at the side of her table. When neither man said anything, Number One prompted, "Gentlemen?"

Tyler and Pimental maintained strict position, wavering only once to exchange quick glances. Tyler drew in a deep breath and said, "Ma'am, request permission to assist First Officer in current difficulties, sir."

For the first time that day, an feeling besides frustration hit Number One--confusion. She folded her arms tightly across her waist, an uncomfortable smile flitting across her lips as she tried to force her voice into a casual tone. "At ease, gentlemen. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Again, the two men exchanged glances. Tyler was the first to lose his strict countenance. After all, he'd spent months at her side on the bridge, forging a familiar affability with Number One that transcended rank or status. He breathed deeply, unable to meet her eyes. "We're talking about the Deltans," he said in a rush. "We heard what happened, and we want to help you out."

A flush of anger shot through Number One, and she pushed herself away from the table. "I'm in no mood for `I-told-you-so's,' Jose, so you might as well--"

"No!" he insisted, placing a single hand on her arm. "We thought it was funny at first. But it isn't. At least, Luke and I don't think it is."

"We figured if it can throw you out on a limb," Pimental added quickly. "What would happen to normal people?" As quickly as he'd said it, Pimental's face flushed with embarrassment. "Not that you aren't normal," he amended quickly. "It's just that--" He turned to Tyler in desperation.

"You have more control than any of us," Tyler finished gallantly. "If the Deltans are...a distraction to you, there's no way we could..." He let his voice trail off in defeat. Try as he might, there was no way to make this situation less embarrassing for any of them.

Number One smiled ruefully, pleased with her junior officers' respect and concern, but still unsure of their intent. "Well, I'm glad we all learned a lesson," she said in her best maternal senior officer voice. "Let's just forget it happened, okay?" She started to leave, but Tyler's hand on her shoulder stopped her, sending a shiver throughout her entire body. She turned to see a gentle look of understanding on his young face.

"We mean no disrespect, ma'am," he said softly. "But we would like to volunteer to assist you." His hand slid up from her shoulder to touch her hair.

Number One felt the now-familiar sensations threatening to overwhelm her as Pimental placed a hand on her other shoulder.

"Either of us, ma'am," the young Filipino said, his dark eyes unwavering.

"Or both," Tyler added.

Her throat unbelievably tight, Number One frantically considered her options. It was insane, of course. She didn't date junior officers.

But then again, they weren't exactly asking her out on a date. She looked from one man to another, her eyes clouding over with the possibilities. A wave of desire fogged her mind, pushing out all thoughts of rank and status. She ran her tongue slowly across her lip, blinking her burning eyes slowly. When her gaze met Tyler's, there were no words necessary. She raised her hands to his face, slowly tracing all her fingers up his jaw. As Pimental started to leave, she reached for him quickly, eyes locking with his in silent invitation.

Without a word, Tyler pulled her into a slow kiss, his body pressing against the length of hers, both hands wrapping around her to caress her hair, the long slope of her spine, the curve of her buttocks. Number One found herself dissolving into that embrace, starting only when Pimental embraced her from behind, kissing her hair and neck intensely. When he curved his hands between Number One and Tyler to gently stroke between her legs, Number One lost all track of reality. She moaned deep in her throat, forcing her tongue between Tyler's willing lips, reaching behind her with one hand to tangle her fingers in Pimental's ebony hair. The two men responded with vigor, pressing closer together until Number One was nestled in a cocoon of male flesh, lips and tongues and hands working at every part of her body until she thought she would suffocate, or faint, or simply bypass all that and go straight to heaven. It was as if there were some sort of unspoken competition between the two men--each seemed determined to give her more pleasure than the other; their combined efforts were a whirlwind of erotic rivalry.

Without warning, Pimental removed his hands from between her legs. Number One was about to cry out in protest when she felt a hard mound of flesh press against her. Her breath caught in her throat as Tyler replaced Pimental's wandering hands with his own hard shaft, straining against the prison of cloth that held it in his trousers. The lieutenant undulated against her, imitating with his cock the tantalizing patterns Pimental had traced only seconds before. Number One felt her mind shattering as Pimental's hard shaft pressed against her backside, evicting Tyler's hands from between them. If not for the two male bodies supporting her, Number One would have collapsed from the sensual input--two mouths working in unison on her lips, throat and neck, four hands caressing her, two hard cocks working at both of her orifices in mock copulation. Her mind went blank as orgasm hit her. She clutched forward for Tyler, holding onto him for support as he and Pimental continued to rock and sway against her, pulling the climax from her with ease.

When the shuddering finally subsided, Tyler lifted her chin off his shoulder, placing a tender kiss on her swollen lips as he lifted her into his arms. She held onto him gratefully as Pimental quickly cleared her tray from the oblong table. Number One wasn't sure what was happening; she was too dazed to think clearly. But Tyler lay her carefully atop the table, pressing one finger to her lips to silence her incoherent questions. Without a thought for security, he deftly removed her uniform, pausing only to cast an appreciative glance down her bare torso before quickly removing his own uniform. He climbed atop her without preamble, easing his cock into her wet sex carefully, beginning a slow rhythm in and out of her fiery channel.

Number One almost purred as his thick shaft penetrated her. She'd lost the sharp edge of her desire. Now she could enjoy the feel of him inside her, the weight of his slight body above, the soft murmuring of his voice in her ear. She wrapped herself around him, her legs circling his hips to welcome him even deeper within her. She gasped when he rolled her over to lie atop him, a tiny laugh escaping her as she lowered her lips to his, hair tumbling in chaotic waves around his face.

She didn't hear Pimental approaching. She was so engrossed in what Tyler was doing, she'd actually forgotten Pimental was there. When he began smoothing a slick liquid between her buttocks, Number One almost jumped. She looked behind her to see Pimental standing nude, his erection jutting outward in anticipation, one hand moving back and force to cover it with a shiny, oily substance. His dark eyes were gleaming with desire.

Number One didn't think about it. Her mind had already taken too much today for even fear to bother her now. She simply lowered herself onto Tyler, relaxing her body as much as his thick cock would allow. When she felt the nudge of hard flesh against her anus, Number One breathed deeply, forcing a wave of calm over her body. Tyler shifted beneath her, easing his cock out just a bit to allow Pimental a fraction of an inch deeper into her ass. Number One shuddered as, bit by bit, Pimental eased his way into her, stretching her with a tantalizing, delicate stroke which just bordered on painful. When he had finally filled her completely, Pimental poised motionless above her, allowing her to adjust to the size of him. Tyler, on the other hand, had never ceased his probing kisses. After a moment, Pimental began a slow, outward stroke, which Tyler matched, sinking his cock into her vagina at the same time as Pimental liberated her ass. The two men quickly established a steady rhythm--one in, one out--working in unison to make sure the woman never experienced a moment's emptiness. Number One sank against Tyler, completely filled, her body shivering. She lost track of time. It was seconds, centuries, before the wave of release overwhelmed her. The world was a dream--moist flesh, hot breath against her face and neck, and always that incredible pressure inside of her. She didn't remember losing consciousness.