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Hi kids. The recent spate of Trek stories has urged me back into the fray
after an extended absence. If Klingon/Betazoid discpline isn't your cup of
earl grey, hitting the 'n' key ought to warp you back into more familiar
sectors of space.

-Drew, your not-so-bald captain for this journey...


Star Trek - The Next Generation: Troi In Trouble (spank)
by Drew H.

Deanna felt the expectations of her crewmates around the corner of her mind,
like a pleading, anxious moan. The Enterprise was in danger, and it was
Deanna they had turned to -- it was Deanna whom they expected to save them.

They were depending on her because the problem was emotion. For the past
several days, powerful emotional outbursts had possessed random members of
the crew -- up to a dozen, by now -- in which buried, repressed desires
bubbled up to the surface and overflowed like a cup of boiling water. One
crew member began passionately kissing a woman he had secretly loved for
years. Another woman assaulted an ex-lover and left him severely wounded.
It wasn't coincidence; something out there was causing it. And because of
Deanna's empathic powers, they were all depending on her to find out exactly
what "IT" was.

Was it coincidence, also, that Deanna's personal life was acting up at the
same time as these strange incidents? At this exact moment, her lover, Worf,
was glaring at her with intense, dark eyes, his features furrowed into a
frown even more intense than his normal scowl. He was demanding things of
her, accusing her... she tried to put the unresolvable dilemma of the
Enterprise out of her mind, so she could focus, just for now, on the quarrel
that had strangely errupted between them.

"You are quite used to having things your way," Worf growled at her. "When
you were Riker's lover, you were always in control. But if we are going to
make this work, things need to change."

Deanna was really quite struck at the palpable aggression her emphathic
powers sensed from him; waves of anger beat against her like drops of rain.
She brushed back a strand of long hair, and her dark, glittering eyes -- as
gleaming and mysterious as a pair of black stars -- studied Worf intently.
Was Worf acting like himself? Or was this all part of the puzzle, the one
that somehow, she had been given the responsibility to solve?

"I don't understand what you mean, Worf," she said gently, reaching her hand
to brush across the slope of his forehead, the texture of his dark skin. "If
there's something you want from me, something that I'm not giving, you have
only to ask."

At this concession, Worf suddenly seized up and let forth a deep snarl.
Deanna moved back startled -- she suddenly realized he seemed to be fighting
with himself.

He snapped at her, his voice low and fiery. "Klingons do not mate the same
as humans. We are violent...brutual. We enjoy giving and receiving pain as
part of the mating ritual."

Deanna averted her eyes, feeling a slow sense of shame begin to creep over
her and envelop her. She knew this... but she had never broached the
subject.

Worf continued, "I have been restraining myself in my relations with you. I
knew you would not be able to fulfill the role of a Klingon woman, and I have
not asked that of you."

She raised her eyes to him. "Then what are you asking me now?"

He gave out a gutteral sound that seemed to rattle in his throat. "I am
asking... for fairness. I want to mate as Klingon, not as a Betazoid. I
want...."

Deanna perceived his mood change, a move from gray, metallic anger to a
bright, multi-colored prism that she understood as sexual arousal. In his
mind, images and pictures were flashing before him, and they were being
translated into need. Almost without thinking, she grabbed his hand.

"What do you want, Worf? I am your friend, and your lover. I will give you
want you want. But you have to tell me."

He flung her hand away from him. "The last thing I want is your Betazoid
empathy. I want something real, direct, not your practiced bedside manner."

This was a slap in the face. Her gorgeous dark eyes grew wide and
uncomprehending: something was definitely wrong here. She opened her mouth
to speak.

But then a sharp cry pierced the air, followed by a number of slapping
sounds. It was the sound of flesh being struck, and it was quickly followed
by a woman's muffled sobbing.

Whatever was possessing Worf, he seemed to shake its influence.

He barked a gruff "Come on" to Deanna, before he was down the corridor in
search of the origin of the sounds. His speed belied his bulk; he was not
only strong, but could move amazingly fast. Deanna had to hurry to keep up
with him.

They rounded a corridor, and stopped short at an astounding sight. A young
male ensign, with sandy-brown hair and dark blue eyes, was sitting on the
floor with his back to the wall. Across his lap was another ensign -- a
lovely young woman with tumbling red hair -- her starfleet uniform in tatters
on the floor, her young backside upturned into the air. It was rosy red; the
sound had been that of a spanking. The woman was crying softly.

So was the young man. His face wore an anguished expression, and he turned
to Worf and Deanna pleadingly. "I... I'm sorry," he managed. "I don't -- I
don't know what came over me. Arissa and I were going off duty, and we were
going to have a drink at 10-Forward, when I had this desire to... to..." He
suddenly realized that Arissa was still placed across his lap, for he
suddenly looked at her and tried to help her to her feet.

Deanna turned to look at Worf. "It's that thing again. And it's getting
worse."

Worf nodded, his eyes dark, intense pinpoints of black light. He tapped his
com-badge and snapped, "I need a security team to the fourth level, section
7-G." Addressing the ensigns, he said, "You will be escorted to sickbay.
You will both be given a full psychiatric and physical examination by Dr.
Crusher."

The young man nodded, still shaking. "Y-yes sir." The young woman,
clutching the remains of her outfit around her, also managed to nod. Deanna
and Worf remained until the security team arrived, then they slowly made
their way back to Worf's quarters.

Deanna's mind was a furious blur of activity. There was something about this
particular incident that seemed to make the pieces fit together... she had
picked up on the young man's sexual arousal; clearly, he had, on some level,
enjoyed administering the spanking. The young woman had also enjoyed it;
she, too, had radiated sexual arousal so powerful that Deanna had to block it
in order to maintain her concentration. But she sensed that the woman's
arousal was largely negated by surprise and shock at the unexpected
punishment.

Could the entity be experimenting with various forms of deep-seated emotion,
and its effect on those who possessed it? Or was there more to this than
simply an experiment?

Her reverie was interupted by Worf. She hadn't even realized that they were
back inside his quarters. Worf turned to her and grabbed her shoulder.

"What we witnessed was a human form of giving pain," he snarled at her. "And
you are too frail to even withstand that. You are no mate for a Klingon."

"Worf!" she returned. "This is no time for discussing our personal problems.
We have to--"

"Falling back on duty again," Worf interupted. "That is very important to
you, Deanna. Perhaps more so than even me."

"Worf, you are being absurd."

"And you are being willful and stubborn."

It only vaguely occurred to Deanna that she was quite possibly in trouble.
She had no doubt now that Worf was partially under the control of the entity
-- he was saying and doing things that he may only have thought on a
subconscious level -- and there was no reason to believe he would not act on
his feelings, just as the other victims had.

At that moment, something seemed to alter inside her. Like a kaleidoscope,
her desires shifted from one color to another. Instead of the smoothly
professional, calm starfleet counselor, Deanna was now something else. She
sensed Worf's intentions, and was possessed by a desire to goad him, to
encourage him.

"Yes, I am willful and stubborn," she told him playfully. "And you, like all
Klingons, are nothing but talk."

"What?" he demanded, his face turning from rage to surprise.

"You heard me. You Klingons growl a good fight, but you're more like a bunch
of nattering old Ferengi. No wonder you were forced to sign a peace treaty
with the Federation -- you found you couldn't just talk your enemies to
death."

Deanna thought: THIS ISN'T ME TALKING. IT'S THE ENTITY -- I'M UNDER IT'S
CONTROL. But that realization was no consolation. She began to say
something else, but then she looked at Worf, and sucked in her breath. He
was furious. Rage seemed to radiate around his brown head like fumes.
With a single fluid motion, his hand shot forward and grasped her arm. At
almost the same instant, his other hand reached behind her to undo the
catch of her uniform, a light-blue turquoise jumpsuit that he proceeded to
peel away from her skin. She soon dangled naked in his grasp: her
dark-tipped nipples, which had grown unaccountably stiff, and that dark
patch of hair between her legs.

She stared at him, unabashed in her nudity; after all, they had been naked
together many times. She tried to remain calm, but she felt that presence
in her head, drawing on a part of her personality she had never dared to
express. "I take back everything I said," Deanna returned. "You know how
to take off my clothes; that definitely proves your worth as a warrior."

With a cry of frustration and rage, Worf lifted her in the air -- and then
he sat down on the plush couch and flopped her over his lap. For a moment,
Deanna was too shocked to speak -- he couldn't possibly be thinking of
imitating that barbaric human ritual they had witnessed earlier in the
corridor. The sudden flush of humiliation resulting from the position --
that of dangling over her lover's lap, totally naked, bottom thrust in the
air -- allowed her to momentarily regain control of her own tongue. She
shrieked, "Worf, put me down this instant! This is no time for foolishness!"

"That would not be a good idea," Worf snapped. "You are too frail to
withstand a Klingon punishment, so let us see how you handle a human one."
With that, he brought his heavy hand down hard upon her backside.

SLAP!! Worf was, of course, quite strong, and it didn't feel like he had
checked the momentum of his blow at all. Deanna felt a moment of shock, as
the intense pain spread through her bottom, and then she gave a short cry.

"I thought as much," Worf scolded. "Very frail." He spanked her again, the
blow landing only slightly to the right of the first. Deanna kicked and
bucked, instinctively trying to squirm out of his grasp, but she realized
that he was holding her fast; she was absolutely unable to escape.

A third painful spank landed hard on the very curve of her buttocks. "OWW!!"
she cried, unable to keep quiet. "Worf, I'm sorry! I...I don't know
what..."

"Silence!" he ordered, and began a series of sharp, blistering spanks, that
rained down on her left and her right buttocks alike. SMACK! SMACK!
SMAACK!! "Ohhhh! Worf, please, can't we -- OWW!!! Talk about this -- OH!!
Stop this at once!!!"

It was unbearable; her bottom couldn't take one more spank, and yet they
continued harder and faster with each new impact. She squirmed to the side,
trying to avoid the blows, but this only provoked Worf to spank her more
vigorously, so that her bottom stung with a fierce, lancing pain.

She also began to be aware of her sex. It had grown quite wet, almost
hungry -- and although the primary thought in her mind was how much she hurt,
how much she wanted the awful, painful spanking to be over, she was also
aware of how much she wanted Worf inside her -- maybe more than she ever had.

After he had spanked her several dozen times, her threshold was nearly
crossed, and she began to cry. This was, perhaps, the final humiliation --
the professional counselor of emotions unable to control even her own. At
this, Worf stopped the spanking, his hand raised high in the air.

"You seem to have learned your lesson," he observed.

"I... I have, Worf. Please let me go... please!"

"I will," he said softly. "AFTER another six blows." With that, he
delievered six final blistering spanks, each one bringing a fresh burst of
tears out of Deanna's eyes, and a new plea for leniency.

Finally, at the end, she lay sobbing over his lap, unable even to get to her
feet. Her bottom was a deep, dark red and scored by dozens of tiny welts;
Worf's hard, heavy hand had abraded her skin to some degree.

Finally, Worf helped her to her feet. She finished crying -- as much from
the humilation as the pain -- and she her hand held behind her, as though
the gentle pressure of her own fingers could cool the burning pain in her
backside. Then they stared at each other.

She suddenly noticed how hard Worf was; his erection bulged out his uniform.
She took a cautious step towards him, but suddenly they were entangled
together; his hands pinching her breasts, his hard cock almost puncturing his
unform as it pushed against her leg, their mouths fusing together hotly.

But before Worf could remove his uniform, they heard a familiar electronic
chirping. It was Deanna's comm-badge, still on her uniform, which lay in a
clump on the floor. Captain Picard's familiar voice, tinged with an edge of
urgency, followed: "Counselor, we need you on the bridge immediately."

Deanna and Worf allowed themselves a moment to share a look -- a promise, of
sorts -- before she darted to retrieve her uniform. "On my way, Captain,"
she said huskily.

Getting on her uniform was bad enough, but walking to the bridge was
definitely difficult, considering the spanking she had gotten. Each step
produced a new twinge of pain; did Worf have to be so thorough? Not to
mention that she had to fight down her own sexual arousal, which seemed to
flare through her -- and at a moment when she needed to be professional and
detached.

Entering the bridge was worse. First she wiped the final tears out of her
eyes and sniffled, hoping she didn't look as if she had been crying. Then
she left the turbolift. All eyes greeted her arrival; it was as though they
could all read her expression. *Your counselor Troi was just taken over her
lover's knee and spanked, and they would have had sex if duty hadn't called.*

But Picard merely looked at her curiously and said, "It seems a friend has
dropped in to pay you a visit."

Troi didn't understand what he meant, until she looked at the viewscreen --
and realized that the Enterprise wasn't alone. A soft, pulsating mass of
light floated in space with them. Troi also realized that there was a
telepathic presence filling the bridge, that was communicating to every
person there. It was saying her name.

She opened her thoughts.

The entity opened a channel to receive her thouhts and return its own
responses. No one else could hear them; they communicated privately. needed a new way to love. My mate has not responded to traditional means. I
probed your crew mates, encouraging them to act upon their desires, in order
to learn from them, so I may reproduce. I was interested in...> It fumbled
to express the concept. <...being happy yet not happy at the same time. I
did not think it would work... until you and your mate have shown me that it
*can* be done, in a way which is... satisfying.>

Troi grew beet-red, to her own total and abject humilation.



The entity abruptly dissipated and vanished from view. Picard swiveled
around in his chair to stare at Deanna. Riker spoke up, sounding annoyed:
"Do you mind telling us what *that* was all about?"

All she wanted was to return to Worf, to satiate the desire threatening to
soak through the fabric of her uniform. But she forced herself to look calm
and composed; she answered Riker measuredly:

"You can read my report, Commander. As for now, I'm afraid I have...
business to attend to."

If it were possible to make a smooth, dignified exit into the turbolift with
a sore, stinging backside, Deanna managed to do it... and although she and
Worf were back in their right minds, she suspected that the scene they had
been compelled to enact might have many repeat performances in the future...

END

    

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