Apologies in advance for any errors in the Russian: I hope there aren't too many. I know very little Russian - for this story I used an online translator then transliterated into phonetic English, never the most accurate way to go!
Transposition
Part Two
"Uhhhhh..."
Chekov forced his eyes open, blinked a few times in the dim light, closed them again, and asked the other question.
"Vhere am I?"
"Well, I do believe it's waking up."
The navigator struggled to open his eyes. The light was still dim, but this time he made out the grey face leaning slightly over him, and, behind that, a shadowy indistinct figure... Focussing on the foreground, his eyes widened as his jaw dropped.
Exactly - what - was he looking at? Whatever it was, it was not pretty. The being gazing at him with what he could only describe as ironic concern was...
"Vhat are you - some sort of lizard?"
The creature chuckled briefly. "No. I'm Cardassian. He's the lizard."
The lights brightened as the shadowy figure moved slightly forward - at least, it seemed to Chekov that they brightened. It could just have been his reaction to what now faced him, of course. Or maybe his eyes were adapting to the low light level. He wished they'd adapt faster...
The being had big golden eyes framed by long, thick green lashes. The flawless skin over the delicate face was a soft blue, and the thick, heavy plait flowing over the left shoulder was a rich emerald green. The creature draped one arm gracefully over the ridged shoulder of the - Cardassian, he'd called himself - and smiled at Chekov.
Chekov smiled back, dazed. Feeling slightly dizzy as the blood left his head for other, less appropriate parts of his body. But she was beautiful..!
Wait a minute. The Cardassian had said 'he' - 'he's the lizard'. Chekov frowned, trying to force his brain to work as his eyes ran down the slim, muscular body. Skimming over the decidedly flat (if well-muscled) chest and pausing when they reached the distinctive bulge at the creature's groin. Chekov swallowed, hard, and the Cardassian smirked. The navigator had the distinct impression he could read thoughts... dyehmo. He pushed himself upright, wincing as various parts of his body protested.
"Vhere am I?" Good. It sounded stronger and more forceful that time. "And who are you?"
"Oh, I do beg your pardon. Where are my manners? You can call me Garak. My... companion here is Zaabon. As for where you are - you're on board Deep Space 9."
Chekov, still staring at Zaabon, asked, absently, "Deep Space 9? Vhat is that?"
Garak exchanged a meaningful glance with his companion. "Zaab my pet, perhaps you'd better get our friend a drink."
The blue-skinned alien smiled complaisantly and headed towards the door, the end of his plait brushing against a tight, shapely little...
Chekov closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Garak chuckled.
"Yes, he is rather - pretty, isn't he?"
"He is not vone of your species."
Garak inclined his head fractionally, eyes sardonic. "I always did say humans were perceptive creatures. No, he's not Cardassian. He was, ah, discovered as a youngling, apparently the victim of a crash landing if the state of his tiny - and I must say extremely primitive - space craft was anything to go by. He remembers nothing of the events prior to the crash, except for his name: he doesn't even know where he came from." Garak smiled, but it had an unpleasant edge. " I like beautiful things. He is decorative, and has his uses."
Chekov wasn't entirely sure whether it was a threat or a warning, but decided he'd better be very careful how he behaved in Garak's presence. He frowned up at the Cardassian.
"Vhat is Deep Space 9?"
"First, my friend, perhaps you'd care to introduce yourself."
Chekov hesitated, then sighed. What difference did it make at this point, after all... "Pavel Chekov. Star Fleet officer, nawigator aboard the USS Enterprise."
"Indeed. Then surely you must be familiar with Deep Space 9?"
Chekov was wondering if he could plead temporary amnesia when Zaabon reappeared, a tall glass of something vaguely pink held in slender, graceful hands. Grateful for the distraction, Chekov sipped cautiously, grimacing as the first sharp heat washed over his tongue and down his throat, then smiling up into the golden eyes.
"Tank you."
"It is my pleasure." The low, almost purring, cultured voice caught the navigator by surprise - as did his unwelcome response to it. Garak noticed: Chekov was alarmingly certain he never missed anything, and wasn't at all sure he liked the calculating look in the Cardassian's eyes. The navigator hurriedly changed the subject, gambling that something with a name like Deep Space 9 was probably some sort of starbase...
"I should maybe report to the base commander."
Garak looked pensive. "Well, I suppose you could, although quite what Sisko will make of you I really couldn't say. After all, you shouldn't even be here."
"I shouldn't?" Chekov frowned. And realised he had absolutely no idea how he'd come to be - lying on this... couch?! - wearing the ragged - ragged? Almost non-existent! - remains of his Star Fleet uniform. The last thing he remembered... the last thing he remembered...
"Sulu!" He tried to get up and found himself falling off the couch: Zaabon's strong arms caught him before he landed on the floor. His head spinning, he suddenly found himself eye to incredibly tempting mouth - and groin to groin as the alien held him close - with Garak's 'companion', and gulped audibly. Zaabon smiled and set him carefully back on the couch.
"You are still too weak to be up. Rest a while longer."
"In any case," Garak added, "you need clothes. You can hardly wander around the station in those rags." He glanced at Zaabon. "Bring me my measure, pet."
Zaabon pouted. "You said it was my turn, next."
"And it is. You can measure our next customer."
Zaabon looked confused for a moment, obviously trying to work this out, then sighed, gave up, and went into the next room. Chekov frowned.
"Your measure?"
Garak was running his eyes appraisingly over the navigator's body, and answered somewhat distractedly, "I'm a tailor."
"A dressmaker?"
Garak stopped his assessment and gave Chekov the sort of look he'd seen on Mr Spock's face on those (fortunately increasingly rare) occasions when he'd said something particularly stupid.
"Well, I can make a dress for you if you wish. Though I think you might be more comfortable in male attire. Purely my professional opinion, of course."
Blushing, Chekov shut up.
Garak disappeared after noting all the measurements he required - and some rather intimate ones Chekov was sure weren't at all necessary - leaving the exhausted, disorientated navigator to rest. Zaabon came and went at frequent but irregular intervals, checking to see if Chekov needed anything, and inadvertently causing the young man considerable discomfort by his mere presence in the room. Finally he'd been forced to ask the alien to leave him in peace for a few hours, and much to Chekov's relief Zaabon had cheerfully complied.
Chekov lay back on the couch with a sigh, sternly telling his body to behave itself, his mind ignoring the command and returning to Zaabon. Didn't the creature realise the effect he had? And he was male! The Russian bit his lip. How could he possibly feel such - lust for an alien male? And it was lust, he admitted to himself, flushing guiltily as shame flooded through him. Oh, this was wrong!
Even as he thought it, the image of Zaabon sauntering to the door, that plait stroking his cute little zadnitsa, had him rising to attention again, and he groaned, clutching his groin. Only one way to deal with the problem, he thought grimly, fondling himself, allowing thoughts of Zaabon to fill his mind's eye.
He'd never come so quickly in his life...
He was dozing when Garak entered the room, a swathe of black material over one arm, Zaabon behind him. The Cardassian smiled.
"Ah good. You look a little better. Have you slept well?"
Trying, and failing, to keep his eyes averted from Zaabon, Chekov nodded, feeling his face redden.
"Good. Let's see how this looks."
The one-piece outfit was sleek and close-fitting, of a simple but classic design. Diamond-shaped insets on the high collar, full-length sleeves and the outsides of the pant legs shone slightly with a faint metallic glitter: the rest was a smooth, matte, silky material. It was identical in colour and texture, Chekov noted, to Zaabon's costume, although the alien's was sleeveless and low-necked. The navigator wondered if the design was a particular favourite of Garak's. If so - what did that say about his own status in this strange household?
"Hmm. Not too bad." Garak nodded and turned to Zaabon. "What do you think, pet?"
Zaabon wrapped his arms around the Cardassian's shoulders from behind and rested his chin on one broad, corded shoulder.
"He looks - good enough to eat."
Since he knew nothing about either Zaabon or Garak's eating habits, this had Chekov more than a little alarmed. Garak smiled, his eyes glinting.
"Just a turn of phrase, little Pavel. Something he picked up from my people."
Now even more alarmed, Chekov swallowed and almost at random tried to change the subject.
"Could I go for a valk? I vould like to - stretch my legs."
Garak regarded him silently for a moment or two, then nodded.
"I think you'll blend in well enough for a brief stroll along the Promenade. Just stay out of Odo's way, be as inconspicuous as you can, and don't talk to strangers. Zaabon will go with you."
Fifteen minutes into his walk, Chekov was beginning to wish he hadn't opened his mouth. Every few steps they were stopped by passers-by: at first the Russian thought it was because he was a stranger, but he soon realised Zaabon was the object of everyone's attention. And once he'd stopped feeling as though he was under a spotlight, he started listening to what was being said. And he didn't like it one little bit.
"Hello, pretty thing. Garak lending you out for the night yet?"
"Hey, Zaabon! Garak know you slipped your leash?"
"Want me to show you a good time, blue man? Better yet, how 'bout you show me a good time!"
"Sweet thing, how much Garak want for you?"
Chekov's fists were clenched. He wanted to hit out at the familiar hands that stroked the beautiful alien's shoulder and hip, skimmed over his hair and arms, clutched at his thigh and groin. But Zaabon just smiled amiably, ignoring the groping hands and answering the insults and crude invitations politely. Almost as though he didn't really understand what they were...
Chekov frowned. There was definitely something wrong here.
"Zaabon, I have valked enough. Can ve go somevhere private to talk?"
The alien inclined his head, expression mildly surprised, but nodded.
"Of course, Pavel." He led the navigator from the Promenade and down several almost empty corridors, arriving at what Chekov (rightly) assumed were Garak's quarters. Inside, he ushered Chekov into a dimly-lit inner room. The bedroom. Chekov averted his eyes from the massive bed and followed Zaabon over to a large viewing port: the alien sank gracefully onto one of the large, soft cushions there and gestured for Chekov to do the same, then sat attentively, shimmering in the starlight from the port, his legs tucked under him, waiting for the navigator to speak.
"Zaabon - did you ever hurt your head? Vhen you vere little?"
The alien regarded him impassively for a moment, then pulled the band from the end of his plait, which unbraided under its own weight, and leaned forwards slightly, using both hands to pull the thick curtain of hair apart. Chekov frowned in the uncertain light, peering at the jagged irregular scars across the left side of Zaabon's head, then touched them, wincing at the appallingly rough, irregular indentations and raised areas under his fingers where the skull had shattered and mended haphazardly. He nodded sadly to himself. He was a navigator, not a doctor, but even he knew that that severe an injury would result in some degree of brain damage...
Zaabon sat up, tossing his hair back over his shoulders, his low, soft voice sombre.
"They told me it happened during the crash. They told me I nearly died." He lowered his head. "I don't remember any of it. I don't know why they tried to save me." He raised his head to gaze at Chekov: his eyes were haunted. "But sometimes - I remember things. Things that - cannot have happened. I remember something white and purple, and red eyes, and pain. Something hurting me." He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. "It frightens me."
Wanting to comfort the alien, despite his misgivings Chekov laid a hand on the cool blue arm. Zaabon gazed at him for a moment, then shifted to fold long arms around him, curling up almost in his lap. Too startled to resist, Chekov froze for a moment - a moment too long as soft lips kissed gently at his throat and he was lost...
Chekov's eyes were closed. He sprawled, quivering with barely-contained lust as the supple alien writhed above him, stroking and kneading, circling hips rubbing rigid erections together - now firmly, now lightly - the cool blue body pressing him into the soft cushions as Zaabon cupped his yagodeetsye in strong hands and pulled him closer. He would have moaned if Zaabon's tongue, cooler, longer and more flexible than a human tongue, hadn't been slowly, sensuously exploring his mouth...
Vye bogeh... No, this couldn't be happening...
But it was, and it was the most erotic, stimulating, overwhelming thing the young Russian had ever experienced. He buried his hands in cold silky hair and devoured the mouth above his, bruising Zaabon's lips with the force of his kiss...
"I really must thank you."
Chekov froze, clutching the still-squirming alien to him as he looked backwards. Garak was sitting on the bed, relaxed, watching the activity on the cushions with amused benevolence. He smiled as the Russian paled to white and tried to struggle out from under Zaabon.
"Oh, it's perfectly all right. I'm not the jealous type. And it looks as though you've - prepared him nicely for me."
Zaabon looked up at the Cardassian, eyes wide, panting, and Garak crooked a finger, beckoning. As though under his control, the alien pulled himself upright and moved unsteadily to stand before his master.
As Zaabon shivered before him Garak stroked both hands slowly, tenderly, down the alien's face - then slowly peeled the clothing from him. Zaabon gasped silently as the Cardassian stroked back up the smooth blue body, taking both wrists into his grasp and pulling the alien on to the bed, on his back. From his position on the floor Chekov couldn't quite see what was going on, but he heard a metallic click - then Garak pulled back for a moment, baring the front of his body and pushing Zaabon's long legs apart. Seconds later he heard the alien moan as Garak thrust smoothly into his body. The Cardassian paused, glancing back over his shoulder and smiling.
"Come and watch, Pavel. It's quite an arousing picture."
Against his will the navigator found himself upright, walking reluctantly to the bed. Garak obligingly shifted so Chekov could enjoy the sight...
... of Zaabon on the bed, eyes tightly closed, lips parted, his hands shackled above his head, slender, elegant legs wide to accommodate the Cardassian's girth, back arched as he trembled under Garak's invasion. Chekov's fascinated, horrified gaze fixed on the alien's erection, large, quivering, a deep blue against the much paler hue of his groin and abdomen. Shimmering liquid beaded on the broad, shining head: Garak caught a drop on his finger and held it to Chekov's mouth. The navigator recoiled, horrified: the Cardassian twisted slightly - eliciting a gasp from his captive - and gripped the back of Chekov's neck, pushing the finger between his lips and forcing him to taste the fluid. To the Russian's dismay it was sweet, sweet and so tempting...
Garak smiled, still holding Chekov's neck, forcing him to watch as he thrust repeatedly into Zaabon's body, careful not to touch him any more that was absolutely necessary, leaving the alien writhing, desperate for stimulation. It was a good fifteen minutes before Garak let go of Chekov, gripped Zaabon's slim hips tightly and thrust home one last time, his back arched and eyes closed as he pulsed deep within the shaking blue body.
Zaabon's eyes were closed, expression part ecstatic, part tortured. Garak sighed with satisfaction, pulling out as Zaabon moaned at the loss: the Cardassian turned slightly from the Russian as he tidied his clothing, then swung back, smiled, and gestured to the shivering figure on the bed.
"Such a pity to leave him like this, aroused and unfulfilled. Perhaps you can help him. Perhaps you could - now, what's that human word? Descriptive but angry-sounding? Ah yes, I remember. Perhaps you could fuck him. Or even let him fuck you. He certainly needs some form of release." He smirked. "Don't worry - I'm really not the jealous type. And I have business to attend to. Enjoy yourselves, won't you?"
Chekov watched, open-mouthed, as the Cardassian sauntered out of the room - then turned his attention back to the bed.
"Zaabon...? Vhat... vhat can I do?"
"... touch me..." Chekov could barely understand the quavering voice. Swallowing, the navigator reluctantly, hesitantly, laid his hands lightly on the thick blue chlyen and cupped the balls - pulling back as Zaabon thrust frantically up against his palms.
"Please!"
"I don't know vhat to do!"
Zaabon whimpered, his body twitching uncontrollably, his voice shaking so much Chekov couldn't make out his words. Unable to bear seeing him in such distress, the Russian wrapped both hands around his erection and squeezed, pumping hard in an effort to duplicate what he himself liked.
But it wasn't enough. Zaabon sobbed in desperation.
"P...please... In me..."
Nyet... he couldn't...
He stared at the beautiful body stretched shaking on the bed.
Yes he could.
Deep down, he wanted to.
He pulled down his disarrayed clothing and, without giving himself time for second thoughts, sank into a tight channel already slippery with the Cardassian's jism. Lowering himself to lie on top of the cool body, he gasped as Zaabon bucked hard up against him, and almost climaxed as powerful internal muscles clenched tightly around his shaft. Wrapping his arms around the strong blue shoulders he thrust in and pulled back, quickening the rhythm as Zaabon picked up speed - then cried out as he came within the alien, feeling the cool body tighten and jerk fast and spasmodically against his as a strange fragrant coolness jetted against his stomach.
Zaabon was rigidly still for long moments, then sighed and all but collapsed under Chekov's weight, every muscle limp. He blinked open tired eyes and smiled up at the Russian.
"Thank you."
"You are velcome." Chekov replied automatically, then shook his head to clear it. What the hell was he doing! Carefully, afraid of hurting either of them now the frenzy had dissipated, he eased himself out of Zaabon, dismayed to find the alien bleeding.
"I hurt you!"
Beautiful half-closed golden eyes smiled at him.
"No, not you. Garak was a little rough. He often is - I like it. It's nothing. I'll be healed by the morning."
Grimacing, Chekov wiped the slimy mix of human and Cardassian - and Zaabon's - semen from himself, then frowned at the fetters around the alien's wrists.
"How do these come off?"
Zaabon forced open exhausted eyes.
"There's a key. Garak has it."
Chekov sighed. "Do you know vhere he is?"
"In the shop, I think."
Chekov pulled on his clothes and, grim faced and furious at the humiliation Zaabon had been forced to suffer, stormed off in search of the Cardassian.
© 2001 (September) Joules Taylor Part Three
