The Liaisons cycle lasts for six vignettes, well, sketches, really. They
were done in the autumn of 1994. These are the first two.
Deanna entered the room. It was private, in a short corridor inside
sickbay, often used as an isolation chamber but more often as a convalescent
room. Worf slept, his back healed under him.
It was nearly dark, the indistinct lights came softly from a diagnostic
panel on the wall which lighted half the room. When she bent to bicycle her
legs from her tights the small light dimmed even more. She smiled, the
directional display wasn't visible from the bed so the occupants couldn't
stare at it and work themselves into a worry. Deanna disrobed and looked at
herself, subconsciously asking how she looked. She did have big feet, well,
large feet. She stacked her clothes on the visitor's chair.
Worf slept, breathing deeply. Such a frightful pleasure, sneaking up
on a Klingon. Of course, much of the warrior reputation was cultural
boasting; the warrior caste had been in control of the Klingon Empire for
nearly one hundred years, and kept their position in the time-honoured
tradition of murdering moderates and peace-makers. But still, sneaking up
on a Klingon, hmmmm. Of course, she had seen him early on some days,
scratching his chest and asking what time it was as he re-adjusted to ship
time after having acclimated to a local time on one planet or another.
She touched the blankets over his centre, scraping her fingernails over
the cloth. Again and again. He was dead to the world. The great warrior
snored lightly. Deanna momentarily thought better of this and withdrew
her hand. She stared at his indistinct face, but it was too dark to see so
she stepped lightly to one side, bending close, allowing more reflected
light to touch on the bed. Deanna began breathing as deeply as Worf; she
tried timing her breaths with his, but soon became distracted by her
voyeuristic stare. Bent over, her knuckled fists pressed between her hips.
How tall was he, anyway? Her fists lingered as she straightened her back.
Taking the blanket from two corners she raised it upwards like a jewel
thief. He wore an ugly-striped thick wool pyjamy. She remembered first
seeing sleeping clothes when her father and mother took her to Earth for
the first time and they stayed at an uncle's house. Even her mother, who
dressed for everything, never understood the principle: 'Earth people dress
so they can be unconscious, why not wear knee-pads in case you fall out of
bed while going so far?' On Betazed one wore a house robe before going to
sleep and again at breakfast. Deanna bent over Worf, dragging the blanket
on the floor; shadows traced over her as she circled the bed to drape the
cooling covering over the chair. One more use for the chair: she picked it
up a centimeter over the floor, bringing it closer to the bed accidentally
knocking over one of her shoes. The counsellor untied the string at Worf's
waist and opened the button fly. The trapped air escaped, releasing hot air
made humid held close to his skin.
She touched him again, slowly drawing her fingertips over him. It felt
like skin, what had she expected?
Slowly he filled out, and the skin began tightening. Deanna put one
foot on the chair, stood in the air and set one hand and knee down aside
him. The chair skidded a little, but she didn't drop onto the bed suddenly,
waking him. She tugged at the trousers, whispering, 'Slowly,' once to
herself, there was plenty of time. He was half-erect, she traced him again,
slightly fearful: what would this do to them--that they'd navigate later.
She wanted to touch herself, she started at the amount of noise she was
making. How best to waken him? Not by the grunt she made by clearing her
throat just now. Deanna kept one hand on her mons and one on his; she touched
the crown lightly with taps while stroking herself with comparative force.
Deanna inched forward on her knees and bent her wrist to angle his
penis upward; she leaned her hips forward and took the tip inside.
She relaxed her legs, settling her weight on him.
In the darkness she drew herself up, exhaling, she took in a sharp
breath, and exhaled lowering again; she felt him glowing at peace. Deanna
shook one hand into her hair, and set the other next to his head to lean
over him. She nuzzled his hair. He smelled wonderfully, even the sick-bay
soap smelled good on him. She didn't want to touch him anywhere so that he
awoke feeling only their juncture. Cat-like, she licked his eyelid, breaking
her promise immediately. As her breasts, brushing against his top and her
vulva pushing against his pelvis sent a roar of pleasure through her, she
broke her promise again in spirit by baring her teeth to breathe a hot sigh
onto his face. Again she felt a slight fear as his penis grew: the knot was
forming as he built toward climax. Deanna moved forward and back over him,
one hand on her breast. Soon her movements grew shorter as the swelling knot
captured her; she pressed herself against him with the slight selfindulgence
of anyone nearing climax. She started at Worf's cough. Parallel with him,
she raised her head, sighing an open-mouthed smile. Hmmm.
Laying on his trunk, pulling futilely at his open pants, she tensed;
her eyes fluttered, her breathing ragged. Now.
Deanna rocked over him, smiling. He groaned and arched beneath her.
The Betazoid felt him grow focused, swimming toward consciousness. She lay
still as Worf ejaculated, pinching herself. His penis would slowly contract,
until then they were joined. The swollen knot on his penis was so extended
that, while a long way from painful, she moved only slowly and slightly.
Pressed against him, she rocked gently, building upwards once more.
Deanna gave his flat cheek a loud, open-palmed slap. Nothing wrong
with _his_ nerves.