Transposition
Part Six
"Let's have another!"
Chekov, at Dr Bashir's 'request', had submitted to a medical examination, and afterwards the doctor had insisted on dragging him to Quark's, 'to get a better idea of his psychological health', Bashir had said. O'Brien had met them there…
That had been several hours ago, and all three men were somewhat the worse for wear. Now Miles O'Brien waved at the bar. The Ferengi behind it rolled his eyes and poured three more glasses of the least expensive spirit he could find while adding the price of the most expensive to the bill, figuring that the three at the table had already drunk so much they'd not be able to tell the difference.
He'd reckoned without Chekov.
Spluttering, the navigator glared at Quark. "Vhat is dis... moosorh?"
"Finest Denebian brandy, Lieutenant."
"Svyatataatstva! Vhat hef you done to it? I hef tasted Debeni... Denbia. I hef tasted dat before. Dis is not it!"
"I think he might have had enough." Bashir muttered to O'Brien.
"Enough? I think he's had one too many. Let's get him home."
"His, yours, or mine?"
"I don't think Keiko would appreciate me rolling up with a drunken Russian. Let's get him to yours. You must have something that'll sober him up..."
Chekov had protested that he didn't want to go home, that the night was still young, that he wanted another drink - but O'Brien and the doctor finally managed to wrestle him out of Quark's and along to Bashir's quarters, where they deposited him in a scowling heap on a couch.
"What're you gonna do with him?"
The doctor was scrabbling through a cabinet beside his bed.
"I know I've got some here somewhere... Ah, here it is."
He held a small bottle aloft triumphantly, grinning whitely at the engineer.
"What's that?"
"Detox. Tastes foul but it will sober him up quite quickly. Takes a few minutes to work, though. Could you hold his head while I pour?"
O'Brien raised his hand. "Sure. But let's have a little fun first..."
Bashir gazed curiously at his fellow officer.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Well, I've always been curious about just what our resident Cardassian and his little blue-skinned plaything get up to."
"Isn't that really their business?"
"Are you going to tell me you've never wondered?"
"Well yes, but I just assumed..."
O'Brien nodded, expression enquiring. Bashir flushed slightly.
"I mean... I'm not sure what I mean. I mean, I know textbook Cardassian physiology but I've never had the chance to examine Zaabon."
"How'd Sisko let 'em get away with that?"
"Trust me, I tried insisting. But they very politely declined every time - and the commander says that since they're civilians, and alien civilians at that, he can't order Zaabon to submit to an examination." He sighed. "What I'm going to do if he ever gets sick..."
O'Brien punched his shoulder.
"Ah, you'll manage. And in the meantime, I'm curious even if you're not..."
He turned to the half-asleep Russian: Bashir frowned.
"But how would Chekov know?"
"Julian, are you naturally naïve or did you take lessons?" Without waiting for an answer O'Brien turned to Chekov.
"So, Pavel, what's it like screwing a Cardassian?"
Chekov frowned blearily.
"I do not know. But Zaabon seems to like it."
"Does he now..."
"Da. I vould not vant to hef dat... ting... inside me, though..."
Bashir's eyes were wide. O'Brien grinned.
"And why not?"
"Is... big..." Closing one eye in an attempt to focus, Chekov tried to indicate with his hands the diameter - or possibly length, the distance between his palms was decidedly variable from moment to moment - of said organ. "And is..." his fingers made strange patterns in the air as his alcohol-sodden brain tried to describe what he'd seen. "Like... Is scaly. Has ribs, up the side..." His eyelids flickered and closed as his hands flopped limply into his lap. O'Brien glanced at the doctor.
"I think that's all we'll get out of him tonight!"
Bashir shuddered.
"And that's more than I wanted to know in the first place..."
Chuckling, O'Brien caught hold of the Russian's head as Bashir tipped the bottle, holding Chekov's nose so that he had to swallow. Seconds later, spluttering, the navigator glared at them both.
"Vhat vas dat?"
"Somethin' that'll make you feel better."
"I felt just fine before!"
O'Brien gave Bashir a resigned shrug.
"If you say so..."
"I do..." Chekov's hands went to his head and he groaned. "Vhat is happening? My head feels as though it is about to eplox... erxl... go bang."
"That'll be the Detox. Don't worry, the effect wears off in a couple of minutes."
Chekov paled, one hand going to his mouth.
"I tink... vhere is tooallyet...?"
Bashir hurriedly led him to the bathroom and closed the door, leaning against the wall: O'Brien tried not to listen to the unpleasant sounds coming from within.
"Will he be alright?"
"Oh yes. This sometimes happens with Detox. It's nothing to worry about."
A few minutes later a pallid and shaking Chekov slowly opened the door and gazed at Bashir with bloodshot eyes.
"... nrhaveetsya... can I go home now?"
Bashir grinned.
"I've got a better idea. I think you need looking after tonight. We'll take you to Garak's..."
But it was Zaabon who answered the door, a wet, wide-eyed Zaabon in a silky robe sliding off one sleek shoulder, dripping emerald hair draped picturesquely over warm, dewy, faintly flushed blue skin. Bashir smiled apologetically, trying not to stare.
"I'm sorry to disturb you. Is Garak in?"
"We were in the shower. He is still there."
"Ah. We were wondering..."
Frowning slightly, Zaabon gently touched Chekov's face.
"What has happened?"
"He had a bit too much to drink..."
The alien eyed O'Brien, a little nervously.
"Oh."
There was a moment's silence. Then Bashir cleared his throat.
"We were wondering if you could perhaps keep an eye on him tonight? He'll be fine, just needs to sleep it off."
Zaabon bit his lip.
"I don't know... Come in - I'll ask Elim..."
As the two officers hauled the moaning Russian into the Cardassian's quarters, Garak exited the bathroom, enveloped in a voluminous robe. He looked annoyed.
"Doctor, Chief O'Brien - to what do we owe this... honour?"
Bashir glanced at O'Brien, beginning to think this might have been a bad idea…
"Chekov here has had a bit of a hard night. We thought you two might like to look after him."
Bashir winced: could O'Brien have blurted it out any less subtly? Garak inclined his head, gazing at the ashen-faced Russian.
Then he smiled.
"I think we can accommodate you. If you don't mind, my pet."
Zaabon smiled at the Cardassian.
"Of course not, Elim."
"Lie him on the bed. If you please."
"D'you think we did the right thing? I mean, he's pretty helpless at the moment…"
Bashir frowned.
"It's a little late to worry about that now: I don't think Garak would be very impressed if we went back and told him we'd changed our minds."
"I know, but... I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to him."
"Relax, Chief. I'm sure Garak wouldn't dream of hurting the lieutenant. And from what he was saying, I'd deduce that Pavel may even have been intimate with them - or at least sufficiently welcome to see them being intimate with each other." Bashir halted and gazed at O'Brien, then shook his head and resumed walking. "I'll check on him in the morning."
"Well, OK, if you're sure..."
Zaabon stroked the sleeping Chekov's hair, smiling tenderly. Garak watched him impassively.
"You're fond of him, aren't you?"
Big golden eyes smiled at the Cardassian.
"He's pretty. And very sweet. Do you think we could keep him?"
Garak chuckled.
"I think he might have something to say about that, my pet."
"But we could ask him if he'd like to stay, couldn't we?"
Garak stroked the alien's face gently.
"You like him that much."
Zaabon nuzzled the cool strong hand.
"Not as much as I like you."
The Cardassian smiled fondly.
"I'm glad of that. Now, shall we get him into bed?"
Zaabon's face fell.
"But I thought we were going to..."
Garak gestured to the sprawl of cushions by the viewport.
"We are, my pet. We are..."
Chekov was woken by the soft sounds of lovemaking. Rubbing a hand quietly over his face and wondering for a moment where he was, he realised, first, that he was feeling altogether much better, and, secondly, that he had a raging erection. Sitting silently upright he gazed at the pair on the floor cushions, biting back a groan as he watched sinuous, supple blue twine fluidly around solid grey, Zaabon pushing the Cardassian onto his back and impaling himself as Garak moaned and ran trembling fingers down the smooth, muscular body to tease the rigid shaft. Zaabon flung his head back, unbound hair a cascade of silvered green in the muted light, arching his back and sighing with pleasure…
"Please join us, my dear. If you'd like to."
Chekov jumped, forcing his gaze from Zaabon's beautiful body to the glittering Cardassian eyes watching him. He swallowed hard, torn - wanting to go to them, one part of him still insisting it was wrong...
Then Zaabon smiled at him, that irresistible soft smile, and he moaned and slid from the bed, kneeling beside them on the cushions. Zaabon kissed him, one hand reaching for his erection, the other stroking Garak's chest: the Cardassian sighed and paused in his thrusts into the body above him.
"My dear, what would you like to do?"
For a moment Chekov thought he was talking to Zaabon, but the alien pulled back a little and regarded him expectantly. Chekov gulped.
"Uh..." What did he want, exactly? Well, certainly to bury himself in Zaabon again... He bit his lip. He didn't want to admit it even to himself, but he was beginning to wonder what it felt like to be on the receiving end...
He blushed furiously. Where the hell had that thought come from?
Maybe he was still drunk.
Zaabon cupped his face in gentle hands and brushed a kiss over his lips.
"But I would like to know what you feel like, Pavel."
The Russian gaped, wide-eyed. Was Zaabon a telepath? He swallowed hard.
"I... don't know vhat I vant..."
"Then why don't you let Zaabon make love to you, my dear? It is a wonderful experience."
The alien took one of Chekov's nerveless hands and laid it on his own groin, pushing upwards slightly against a warm palm: Chekov curled his fingers around the solid, twitching shaft. Zaabon moaned quietly, his eyes closing, voice a whisper.
"Please, Pavel... I would like to so much..."
And Chekov, damning himself to whatever hell awaited sinning Russians, pulled slightly away, settling himself on the cushions on his front, legs spread and hands clenched tightly together. He stiffened as he felt Zaabon kneel between his thighs - but the alien simply began to stroke his back and buttocks, smooth graceful hands kneading at the tense flesh.
"Relax, Pavel. I don't want to hurt you."
I don't tink you hef much choice... Chekov closed his eyes - only to open them a moment later when Garak moved to sit cross-legged in front of him. Very close. Close enough for the Russian to see the pale light from the viewport glinting on the scales on the massive Cardassian penis.
Garak smiled and took Chekov's suddenly limp hands, wrapping them loosely around his shaft.
"A distraction, my dear."
Chekov swallowed. Well, it was only fair. He'd interrupted them - both were unsatisfied. He tensed again as he felt something large and solid rubbing between his thighs - then took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, smoothing his fingers over the intricately patterned and corded and scaled organ before him.
It had a certain beauty, he decided, comparing the roughness of the ribbing that ran up each side to the smoothness of the scales... the head sported a cross instead of a slit... he caught his breath, hands automatically gripping tightly as Zaabon pushed into him then paused, waiting for his body to adjust…
Garak gasped and moved in his hands, eyed half-closed, his hands resting lightly on the Russian's forearms. Zaabon pushed forwards a little further: Chekov buried his head in the cushion, biting the velvety material to stop himself crying out. This hurt...
But Zaabon took his time, pausing frequently, moving back and forth in tiny thrusts that - Chekov realised later - must have been absolutely maddening for him, aroused as he was. The Russian forced himself to relax his body and focus on his hands, exploring the textures of the Cardassian's genitals with his fingertips, scratching lightly, rubbing firmly - anything to take his mind of the burning pain in his zad.
Then Zaabon suddenly touched something that made all the pain worthwhile. Chekov gasped as pleasure jolted though him, staring open-mouthed at Garak. Who smiled, eyes twinkling, and moved a little closer...
Zaabon pulled the Russian's hips a little higher and pushed fully into him with a long, satisfied sigh - then pulled smoothly out, to thrust back in as Chekov's eyes closed, hands clenching convulsively as pain was turned to pleasure. When Garak knelt before him, offering himself to the Russian's mouth, Chekov willingly closed his lips around the head of the gleaming organ, tongue licking over the scales and caressing the head, hands reaching to pull Garak closer as the Cardassian's hands stroked his hair.
Zaabon's hands on his hips held him firm as the alien began to move faster, more forcefully, rubbing over that - whatever it was - until Chekov could hardly bear it - then Zaabon came, jetting into the Russian's body and pulling out swiftly.
Chekov groaned around Garak's erection, his hips squirming against the floor cushion, aroused and unsatisfied. The Cardassian smiled and gently pulled away.
"... vhat...?"
Garak stroked his face.
"Zaabon is waiting for you, my dear..."
And indeed he was, sprawled on his back, legs spread wide, arms open, welcoming. The Russian sank into him gratefully, ramming home in one smooth thrust, pounding hard and fast and climaxing quickly - collapsing wearily against the strong blue body.
"... vye bogeh... T... Tank you..."
Zaabon smiled dreamily into his dark eyes.
"It was wonderful, Pavel. Thank you."
"And now it is time for bed, I believe."
Zaabon's smile faded as he gazed at the Cardassian.
"But, Elim, you haven't..."
Garak kissed him gently.
"I can wait, my pet."
Unsure, Zaabon nodded hesitantly: Chekov pulled out and sat back on his heels, regarding the Cardassian.
"Sir, can I help?"
He stroked the Russian's hair.
"Thank you, Pavel, but it is late, and I have a busy day tomorrow. Perhaps later."
Unconvinced but very tired, Chekov allowed Zaabon to lead him to the bed. Somewhat to his alarm he found himself nestled between the pair, with Zaabon pressed tightly against his back, Garak resting a hand on his shoulder from in front - but he had fallen into a contented sleep before he could be bothered to do anything about it.
© 2002 Oct 30th Joules Taylor
Part Seven
Rubbish, garbage.
Back
Sacrilege.
Back
Please.
Back
Backside. Ye gods!
Back
Back