FISHING
by arachne
DISCLAIMERS: Lucky, lucky Paramount owns the characters. I’m not making any money, just having a little fun.
WARNING: This is a C/P NC-17 story. For the unitiated this translates to Tom/Chakotay/sex, if you are underage or your first thought is ‘Ew’ you may wish to bail out now.
FEEDBACK: Please. Silence is not golden.
This story was originally concieved as part of the 500 word challenge on the CPSG. It’s short, but *g* not at all sweet.
Thanks - as always - to the flamethrowing betas of SAB.
“No Tom, that’s not it. You’ve got to sit still, all that bouncing around is just scaring the fish.”
Sit still. Don’t scare the fish. I swear to God if I’d known the true depths of boredom that a fishing expedition entailed I’d have bitten off my tongue before I agreed. Yeah, right, and Chakotay would probably have picked it up and threaded it on the end of his line for bait. Instead I felt myself getting all happy and excited, still in control enough to drawl out, “Just fishing, Chakotay?” but not to stop the big cheesy grin that slid all over my face. He wanted to spend time with me. Time out of bed.
Imagine.
For a moment happiness slugged it out with apprehension; a brief skirmish, then the latter delivered a knock-out blow and happiness stayed down and out for the count. I hesitated, fumbled, bit a lip, then heard my voice, sulky, “Can’t we just stay in and fuck?”
Was that disappointment on his face? Hard to tell. Chakotay does impassive like an art form.
Even at the point of climax, when he’s grinding his cock into my ass, pressing me down until it seems that the very molecules of our skin must have merged, he’s in control. “Come,” he orders and I do, trembling obediently at his touch.
I try to imagine what it might take to make him scream, cry, fall apart and can’t. I wonder if he even knows himself.
The first hour was fine. I lay on the bank and watched the big man swing his rod, so to speak. Then I got bored. The urge to move is just too damn much. The grass is tickling my skin and the summer sun is making me sweat.
Chakotay stares at the water, as if sheer will power can ensure success.
“Let’s swim,” I say, unbuttoning my shirt.
“Good idea Tom, that will really give the fish an incentive to bite.”
Laughter bubbles unbidden. He sounds so serious. “Shit Chakotay. Let’s face it, it only thing around here that’s going to bite you is me.”
“You’ve never done that.”
Something in his voice. I pause for a heartbeat, force a casual response. “You’d like that?”
“Yes.”
Reality stops, dissolves, and reforms. Inverted.
“Strip,” I command and he does.
Out here, in the open I can admire the firm lines of his body. Heavy but not overweight, with the strength of solid muscle. I feel powerful, certain in a way I have never been before. I want to make him feel like I feel. I want to make him lose control the way I do when I'm under him. I want to make him beg.”
And I do.
“No fish.” I say at last.
“No.”
The single word is a study in containment. Suddenly I know, before he even realises it himself. No arguments, no recriminations, just regrets. I guess it was inevitable.
Fishing.
The biggest catches are always the ones that get away.
Finis.
April 99