Star Trek - The Next Gereation: Worf Meets His Match Part 2 (MF, viol)
by Anonymous

The time passed swiftly on Worf's duty shift. It seemed only moments since
his unusual encounter with the ice-woman --- Lieutenant Marika --- and now
he was going off-duty. He turned over the Security office to his relief,
then on a whim queried the computer about the Helsinkinen woman. The public
record held little of interest, except that it showed exceptional grades at
Starfleet in Klingonaase and Empire History. With his Security overrides,
he could look deeper into the record if he so chose, but he would then have
to justify his decision to his commander, and he didn't want to be discussing
this woman with Riker for some reason. Not yet. Marika's mandatory security
and combat training results were also part of the public record, and it
appeared that she had taken many more elective martial arts classes than
were required for an engineering specialist. Some of his Security officers
did not haveas much training. He was interested to note that she was a
SovwI'a', a master of the difficult and dangerous discipline of Sun'garghtaj,
a type of Klingon knife-fighting that was only used in mating rituals and
highly formalized duels. Be'le', indeed!

Worf directed the turbolift to the appropriate deck and made his way to Rec
Area Four, a gymnasium area set aside for combat training and martial arts.
The annunciator chimed a moment, then the doors hissed aside to admit him,
while the computer's emotionless voice informed him of a gravity differential
on the other side of the threshold. Worf stepped across as if he were
climbing down a stair... a wise precaution, when stepping from a normal
gravity area to one which felt to be almost a full 3 G's. The temperature was
also very low, in the Klingon officer's opinion, perhaps only 10C, and the
deck was red-lit, as if the environmental controls were set to simulate a
large planet under a cool red sun. As his eyes adjusted to the light
conditions, he could make out across the room a whirling, spinning, leaping
figure in silvery armor. With the crown of white hair secured tightly in
braids, it could only be Lieutenant Marika. Again, Worf felt a strange
stirring in his loins. He would have to move very cautiously under the extra
gravitation to avoid injury, but this woman moved as though she were
weightless through the heavy air. The woman noticed him as soon as he
entered, but completed the complicated kata-figure before she stopped.

"Computer... lights and gravity, normal!" As she spoke into the air, Worf
could feel the weight gradually leaving his body, until the local gravity was
back to normal. Now that the light level was also higher, he could see that
Marika was dressed in full Klingon body-armor as well.

"I am here!" he said in Standard, echoing the formal Klingon response of the
challenged appearing at a duel. She bowed to him in the formal manner of the
high Klingon duelist, and gestured beside her. There, awaiting him, was
body-armor identical in every respect to her own, sized however for him. She
crossed her arms and stood, challenge written in every movement of her lithe
body, a sardonic smile that would have done a Klingon princess proud playing
upon her lips. The thought of undressing before this woman poured molten lead
through his veins, making his heart beat more rapidly and causing a definite
tension between his legs. She noticed his hesitation apparently, for she
said, "Will you don armor, Mr. Worf, or shall we play at draughts? The
conditions agreed to specified 'no unnecessary bloodshed.'" If his skin had
not been so dark, one could easily have seen the spreading flush that was
heating his cheeks, but he met her eyes and began stripping, very
deliberately. Marika watched every moment, carefully appraising his body as
well as his movements.

Carefully he laid aside his sash with its badges of honor, then pulled off
his uniform tunic with a single fluid motion. He could not restrain himself
from flexing the muscles in his chest a bit. Her only reaction was a slight
dilation of her pupils, but her stance told him that she was not preparing
an attack. Next, he stepped well away from her, and knelt to unseal the
magseams on his boots, never taking his eyes off the woman for a moment as
he pulled them off and set them aside as well. Lastly, he unfastened the
closure of his trousers. Now her eyes were not meeting his, they were
riveted instead upon the obvious bulge that was still concealed by the
midnight fabric. He could see her flush, of which she seemed unaware,
spreading like sunrise across her pale skin. He slowly pushed the pants
down over his hips, and as his huge erection sprang free of the cloth, her
tongue flickered across her lips for a moment. Then he stood naked before
her, the seeming illusion of humanity stripped from him with his clothes.
Marika beheld a Klingon of mighty ancestry standing before her, muscled,
trained, armored within his own sinews, and as deadly as a hunting cat.
Swiftly he donned the armor, guarding carefully against possible attack.
Then he rose, saying, "The field is yours. What form shall the combat take?"

She turned away from him then, and knelt before an ornately carved wooden
case. After watching her execute katas in 3 G conditions, Worf would have
hesitated making an attack, even if he were treacherously minded. He watched
with true appreciation as she opened the case, revealing within two sets of
weapons for the Sun'gharghtaj, the formal duel that tested a warrior's
courage or passion. The silver yoDtajmey for the left hand, curved double
tines wrought in starship-hull grade duralloy, gleamed like starlight, and
the golden gharghtajmey, with their rippling flamelike, pattern-welded blades
of iridium-plassteel, caught light against their faceted edges, throwing
yellow-gold glimmers away like the decay of an antimatter reaction. "Those
are antiques from TlhIngan! Where did you acquire them?" he growled,
impressed against his will by the magnificence of the blades before him,
distinctive in their style, the hard Klingonaase symbols etched into them
proclaiming their maker's name, famous in Klingon history, a thousand years

"They were the gift of my QobSovwI'a," she answered. Worf nodded. The Klingon
warrior who had taught her must have been very impressed with her skills
indeed to have given her such blades, or (unthinkable in a human, and a woman
at that) she had killed her master and taken them as spoils. Worf's already
high estimation of Marika increased exponentially as he considered this. "You
may select your weapons," she told him, the beautiful singing vowels of her
speech rolling over him like the light from the daggers. "We will fight until
there is a clear victor, or until first blood, but no further. Do you agree?"
He nodded, and chose his blades. The yoDtaj he took from the set nearest him,
the gharghtaj from the farthest. She took up the remaining set. As they rose,
she called out to the computer in a language that he didn't know, one full of
the rolling musical lilts that he heard beneath her Standard --- presumably
Helsinkainen --- and the computer obligingly created a Klingon duelling
triskele beneath their feet. She saluted him with her weapons, and he drew
himself up in the formal stance and echoed her gesture. And the dance began.

As they circled, the battle-fever rose up in Worf like a heady drug boiling
in his blood. Each was assessing the other, the stance, the movement, the
minute shifts of weight which were the feints of truly excellent fighters.
Suddenly they rushed together, an inevitable, elemental contact. Gharghtajmey
rang on yoDtajmey, yin into yang, as woman and Klingon strove, then parted,
all so suddenly than an observer would have been hard-pressed to swear that
contact had been made, were it not for the ringing of the blades still
sounding in his ears. Worf felt his heart racing, blood pounding with an
excitement that he had not felt in years, one that was far out of proportion
to the stimulus of the battle. Again they met, blades sliding together, and
both leapt back with identical cuts parting the armor across their chests.
Neither was injured.

Still they circled, like fluid predators, gauging, and now their hands moved,
weaving glittering nets of scattered light as their blades dipped in and out,
until waiting was at an end, and again they rushed together, so evenly
matched that they might have been a work of art, a study in contrasts, the
dark Klingon male and the ice-pale human woman. Each had caught the other's
gharghtaj in the fork of his yoDtaj, and they strained, their arms slowly
spreading to the sides, trying to free the cutting blade while keeping the
opponent's trapped. Finally they stood chest to heaving chest, neither able
to force the other's hand an inch, and Worf could hear his own animal-like
snarling growling loudly in his ears. He wanted to howl to the moon, drink
hot steaming blood, wrest this woman down to the floor beneath them and
ravish her for a thousand years! By all the gods of his people! he wanted
this woman, this human woman, as he had not wanted another female before. And
incredibly, rising up to his nostrils like incense from an altar came the
unmistakable scent of a Klingon woman who was equally ready! His mind reeled
in confusion for only a second, but that was all that was necessary. The
woman struck like an adder, catching his lower lip in her teeth and biting it
through, drawing blood and thus ending the contest.

But it was not over! With a final, convulsive heave he tore the weapons from
her hands, flinging them and his own beyond the confines of the duelling
floor, then seized her and brought both of them crashing to the ground. "I
claim the victory!" she cried, his blood staining her chin, "First blood is

"Last is mine, woman! The victory is mine! And you are mine! Deny it with
your body, if you can!" She struggled furiously against his grasp, her
muscles which had been developed, born and bred in a higher gravity than his
native homeworld's making the fight almost perfectly even. But not for
nothing was he the chief of Security on the flagship of the Federation. His
combat skill, coupled with his still-increasing sexual arousal, enabled him
to finally subdue her, pinned motionless, face-down on the decking, her arms
pinioned behind her, his knee in the small of her back. If she could have
twisted her head to look up at him, she would have seen his eyes almost
totally black, pupils dilated to their utmost extent with the fury and
passion the battle had engendered. His nostrils flared, sucking in great
draughts of air, bringing the maddening perfume that spoke to his hindbrain
of animal lust to fog his thinking. "Surrender!" he demanded. Then she did
the one thing that he would never have expected, even given the fact that he
knew that her training made her a specialist not only in engineering, but in
Klingon culture as well. In Old High Klingonaase, she sang to him, chanting
the words of the woman's surrender to her mate, the only surrender a
noble-born Klingon woman would ever make. It was too much. Normally, he was
somewhat frightened of human women, such fragile, breakable creatures they
seemed... but now, the battle, his arousal, the taste of blood in his mouth,
all these combined to make him throw caution to the wind. The female had
surrendered, he would claim his spoils! And he began to tear off her armor,
a process which she eagerly assisted, and together they freed them both of
the constraints of clothing.

If the Helsinkinen woman was surprised at the texture of his skin, armored
with flexible keratin plates almost like scale, she did not show it. Instead
she knelt naked, spread knees revealing the pale pink of her inner folds, and
extended her hands to him, palms up. Worf seized her hands and brought his
lips to her palms, dropping searing kisses into her hands. The scent of
Klingon pheromones rose again into his nostrils, and he realized that this
woman must have applied it as perfume before the fight, simulating the
response of an aroused Klingon woman. He needed simulate nothing, as she
could tell from his raging hard erection. His kisses burned along her wrists,
up the insides of her arms, and he could feel her tremble against him in her
need. His own need surged again, hot within him, and his kisses became first
nips, then trailing lovebites along her throat and neck, as he shifted his
body so that he knelt behind her. His hands circled her body and sought out
her breasts, not in a caress but in a sudden violent grasp, his fingers
seizing her nipples, jerking her forward, bringing her ass up hard against
his cock. The woman beneath him moaned as his engorged penis seemed to writhe
like a serpent, twisting into her wet and open pussy. He used his cock like a
weapon, striking home deep within this opponent, his head thrown back as a
Klingon war-cry burst forth from his lips. He was tugging and pulling and
teasing her nipples, guiding her body back against him, and she cried out in
rhythm to his savage thrusts.

Unlike a human male, his testicles were armored, and with his penetration of
her, the firm jutting scrotum fitted firmly against her clitoris, the ridged
surface stroking her like fingers, forcing her orgasm almost immediately from
the stimulation of her clit. She could feel his cock inside her growing
harder and larger with every thrust, his Klingon physiology much like that of
a cat, locking his penis into her as they mated, and she continued to come as
he pounded into her. Their coupling was like an elemental force, and the
deck-plates seemed to tremble beneath them as they swept together,
unstoppable as the tides.

Finally he slammed his cock home a final time, shifting his grip to hold her
hips tightly against his as he came, pouring floods of hot come deep inside
her. The powerful rippling of her tight muscles around his cock forced every
drop of hot fluids out of him, as she continued convulse.

Worf didn't pull out of her right away, leaving his throbbing cock lodged
deep inside her as he reached around and began to stroke her clitoris,
forcing her orgasm to build to ever-higher peaks. Now that he had ridden
through the first thundering wave of lust, he could marvel at the wetness
of this human's cunt, the softness of her skin, and at the powerful grip
of her vagina, pulsing around his still-hard shaft as she continued to
come in helpless submission to his skillful fingers. What stamina she had!

Finally, long after a Klingon woman would have admitted defeat, she reached
back between her legs and grasped his hand, wordlessly telling him that she
had at last had enough. Worf wrapped his arms around her then, hugging her
fiercely, and pulled her upright again against his chest. Worf thought,
"Here, truly is a woman...



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