Sweet Savage Star Trek

SWEET SAVAGE STAR TREK

Assorted N. Varied

PART ONE

Sultry, sullen, well-muscled, moody, restless, wild, enigmatic, dark, brooding, somber, mysterious, savage, frenzied, sensual, impetuous, barbaric, and ruthless, the Captain strode lithely to his chair, performed the PM and the EG, and intoned, "Engage!"

The bridge crew cringed as one, all but cinnamon-haired Ensign Krista Lovely. She stood stunned, as the magnetism of this dynamic and incredibly masculine officer reached out to her. Couldn't the other women feel it? Or was this shockwave of sensuality something only she could sense? He turned, as if feeling her response--and she was lost. Those gray eyes pierced into her very soul. The air was charged with passion, the long slender fingers of her eager soft hand reached out towards the captain...slowly, shyly, tenderly. She lightly caressed the torn fabric of his tunic.

Her eyes locked with his eyes. She could hardly speak. In a voice that was little more than a whisper she replied, "Captain...Jean Luc! Don't shut me out again. Let me help. Please."

The captain started to speak. His mouth moved, but there was no sound as, eyes still locked, they moved as one towards the turbo lift. By the time they reached the doors, the injured arm was out of the tunic. Her soft, warm lips were on the captain's bare shoulder as the doors closed behind them...

... then the doors opened again. Data, intrigued by this example of human interpersonal interaction, instructed the computer to keep the turbolift from leaving this level.

The bridge crew watched in utter fascination. This was a side of Picard they had never seen before. The backside...

Crusher comes upon Picard and Lovely as they leave the turbolift. Naturally, Lovely is upset, as Crusher looks daggers at her, and Picard draws himself up to full Captainly dignity and says "Thank you for your assistance, Ensign, I'm sure Dr. Crusher will help me get to Sickbay."

The lovely Lovely is crushed--she didn't *mean * to cause him any trouble. And Dr. Crusher is one of the women she admires as a role model.

Tears, unbidden, filled her eyes. Blindly, she stumbled past the astonished Picard and stem Crusher. "Ensign!" she heard, as she turned the comer, desperate for the safe refuge of her quarters.

The door to her quarters whisked open. "Hi, Krista! Say, I've got those read-outs we---what's wrong?"

Stunningly handsome Lance Sterling, her long-time companion, roommate and "big brother" confidant, enveloped her in a comforting hug as she sobbed her heart out against his broad chest. His heart skipped a beat--didn't she know how it hurt him to see her like this? He'd loved her from afar for so many years now, but she never seemed to think of him as more than a good friend, someone to borrow money from, someone to patch her up when she'd been out trolling for rough trade in the shuttle bay, someone to take care of the injections when her hands shook too much.

Sometimes he almost felt that she took him for granted. Even now, as she writhed in despair in his arms, he could tell it wasn't him she was thinking of, but another man, or possibly a dog, or the Horta in engineering who did her monthly skin peels.

"What is it; my passion flower, my Venusian orchid snake, my little poodle?" he moaned, almost losing control.

"Oh, Lance, thank heavens I can talk to you," she husked, tearing his face with her nails and flinging him across the room.

"I don't know what I'd do without your friendship," she cooed, standing on his broad chest and staring down at his manly face. "It's the captain again...He's used me and flung me aside...Lance, tell me what to do!" And she nudged his jutting chin with her toe.

Now's my chance, he thought. He performed a crossover flip in midair, tossed Krista lightly to her bunk, and leaped---out the door...

Meanwhile, back in sickbay, Captain Picard was faced with the knowledge that he had betrayed the fragile bond of trust that he had worked so carefully to build between himself and the tempestuous medical officer. She had been hurt before. The death of her husband lay between them like a flaming sword and his recent dalliance with the ravishing, but shallow, Krista only added fuel to the fire of their estrangement.

"Don't try to explain, Jean-Luc," she said coldly. "I've been gone too long. I should have known better than to expect that what we had...what we might have had...could withstand that separation.

"But Krista means nothing to me," he protested stepping closer. Beverly did not move away. "Neither did Phillipa."

"Never mind." He closed the distance that remained, gathering her slender reed-like frame into his arms. "It's you and only you that I care for. And I promise you that nothing and no one, will ever come between us again."

"Oh, Jean-Luc." And Beverly melted into his embrace, pressing the soft pillow of her bosom against his hard, muscled chest.

Looking down at the pale ivory of her face and the aurora of auburn hair which burned like a halo around it, he lost all control. He rained kisses down upon her rose-red lips and his strong hands wandered over the lush contours of her body. All thoughts of Jack and Krista and Phillipa were swept away by the torrent of desire which gathered to a swelling wave, then crashed down over them. Again and again...

...the communicator sounded. Again and again it spoke his name. Again and again he willed it to stop. It sounded again. With a deep, heartfelt, low pitched sigh, he reluctantly made his way towards the electronic intrusion, wiping the wisps of blood from Beverly as he moved.

He began to remember that he was a Starship Captain with the responsibility for over a thousand lives, and several billion credits worth of starship. In a voice barely under control at the start, but more controlled with every utterance, he responded: "Picard here, what's the emergency?"

"Sir, she's missing. Yeoman Lance has been taken to sickbay mumbling her name, one of the shuttle crafts is missing, and a solitary white rose with two thorns has just materialized on your command chair with the letter "P" laser engraved on one petal"

Beverly had been nibbling passionately on his left shoulder while lightly, gently, tenderly caressing his bleeding arm.

"Come my precious," she said, "I'll fix all of your hurts. Come, Jean Luc, I'll.examine you...here. Sick Bay can wait, and Data can handle the bridge."

The Captain's desire expanded. He felt all of his tightly bound, pent up, barely controlled, passionate, torrid emotions begin to get the better of him. In a tremulous voice that was filled with despair as he paused to take breath in the musky cabin air, he said, "Ack...ack...acknowledged, Mr. Data...go to yellow alert. I'll be there as soon as I've checked out a few...points."

"Yellow alert, Sir?" questioned Data. "May I again point out that the rose was white?"

Picard knew he was in trouble; Krista was in the shuttle, and the white rose meant that Phillipa had, against all orders, returned. What should he do? What COULD he do? He made his decision. He activated a secret signal, known only to one person. Hungrily, passionately, excitedly, he eyed Crusher, and waited until..

...until Crusher, tired of waiting, finally snapped, "Oh, for heaven's sake, Jean-Luc," whirled, and stormed into the turbolift, impatiently pinning up her masses of auburn hair and glaring at the Captain as the doors closed on her. On the bridge, Picard stood subtly flexing his bone structure, betraying no trace of the relentless tumult within.

Crusher strode into sickbay, ignoring Ensign Shaun, who was waiting for her, clutching a dusty cat to his chest. Shaun's heart threatened to burst with happiness. She had walked so close to him this time, and the edge of her jacket had even touched him. He was content with morsels; he knew she would never even realize he existed, but he could live with the occasional touch, glance, or preoccupied reprimand. Now he dared to speak to her as she stood waving a generic scanner over the twitching, shuddering Yeoman Lance.

"This cat...It came flying out of an air vent in Transporter Room 3. Doctor, I don't know if it's hurt. Could you...look at it?" Some of Shaun's long-concealed passion must have betrayed itself in his voice, for she gave him a puzzled look, and then a dazzling smile.

She reached out for the cat, and he surrendered it to her, daring to let his hand touch hers. The cat gave her a puzzled look, and then a dazzling smile. Shaun gave the Doctor a dazzled look, and then a puzzling smile...

"Yes, but who dragged whom, how many times, around the walls of where?" said Shaun impetuously. She gave him a puddly look, and a dangling smile. He gave her his heart. She gave him poison ivy. Yeoman Lance gave an agonizing shriek. Everybody melted into everybody else's arms. (It wasn't the heat, it was the humidity).

Jean-Luc turned to Beverly. "Beverly, I'd like you to meet Captain Phillipa Louvois. Phillipa, this is my Chief Medical Officer, Beverly Crusher."

After Beverly planted the right hook, she pulled back on the pole and let out some line. Phillipa, struggling, fought the hook and pulled free, snapping the line and...

...Ensign Shaun put down the bucket. Delia, staggering and weaving, said, "Oh, thank you," and politely left the bridge.

Meanwhile on Deck Fourteen, there was a strange disturbance of the kind that no one would ascertain...but then, few would want to.

The doors to the holodeck opened...and closed again. Silence hung over the sight like a buzzard. The doors opened briefly, and the lights inside flickered. Not the usual flicker of the yellow grid lights the way it was when the holodeck wasn't programmed. Rather, like the lights of a soft amber lamp hanging from the ceiling. The low ceiling. The lights were on a chandelier, one of many.

The lights flickered softly, and the bartender polished the marble top of the bar with his white cloth. The woman, seated at the bar, twirled the contents of her drink. Then she heard the doors open behind her...and knew exactly what was happening.

She got halfway to the door and stopped. Why would she want HIM again? HE was the one who confined her here, by his own inaction. No, Riker wasn't the one she would pursue.

Quietly, Minuet started walking again, through the doorway...and didn't vanish. Halfway to the bridge, she thought about the confines of the Bourbon Street Bar she'd just left, and. about whom she would lay her sights on.

Silence hung over the turbolift like a vulture over a dying man. Minuet, resting her predatory shoulders against the wall, reveled in the experience of real life. She scratched her back gently against the railing, and stroked the cat that wriggled out of the air vent. Outside the smoky holodeck, sensations were so exquisite, so harsh, so marvelously mundane. She thought of Jean-Luc Picard, the exquisite smoothness of his scalp, the depthpth (she spat out some cat hairs) of his commanding voice, his moderately poor French, so like her own. They were soulmates, destined to join, and she pondered her tactics.

Tugged by two sweating men in T-shirts, the turbolift doors hissed open, and she flickered an appreciative leopard-like glance at their brawny torsos. She flung her hips forward, following a beat behind with her shoulders and knees, and prowled onto the bridge.

"Ab, mais non! Ce n'est pas possible!" she breathed in dismay. Her prey was not there. She clutched at a nearby Klingon to keep herself from falling.

"Rrrrrrrr!" he growled, baring his marvelously patinaed teeth. She let herself fall after all, seizing the opportunity to gaze up at him.

"I presume you are looking for the captain," said a sprightly tenor voice. A delectable jewel-like creature with amber eyes and slicked-back hair was looking at her innocently.

"Yes. How did you know?" she breathed. So many males, so little time, she thought despairingly. Those suits...so inviting, like plastic shrink-wrap around a box of candy, or the skin of a peach.

"That would be consistent with the general course of events so far today," he said. He opened his mouth to expound further, and the divinely dark gentleman with the radiator glasses put a banana in it and sneered cheerfully.

"He's on the observation deck," said the Klingon in a guttural voice, and shoved his teeth back behind his lips with both hands. He glared down at her and she writhed savagely back to her feet.

"Oh, thank' you," she breathed knowingly, and flung her hips back into the turbolift. She would keep the bridge in mind if she couldn't find Picard. It was like a tin of sardines, packed with delicious morsels. "Observation deck," she breathed, and struck an interesting attitude.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard stood in the shadows of the observation deck and gazed intently into the deep black velvet folds of space that lay draped outside the, confines of the Enterprise, enveloping the sleek metal hull with an icy cold vacuum. This massive ship of the starry seas was under his command and hundreds of people, nay a thousand, trembled at his every word. But tonight, that power over his crew offered little solace to his troubled soul. His piercing grey eyes darkened with pain as he pondered the whirlwind which even now was gathering force, threatening to gust over him and carry away the tattered remains of his battered peace of mind.

His had always been a lonely life, the life of the intrepid explorer always searching farther and farther into the unknown, uncovering the mysteries of the cosmos, yet the one mystery which ever eluded him was his own heart. How had he, so aloof and austere, so removed from the concerns of ordinary men, become tangled in the destinies of three women...four, if you counted the holodeck image of the doe-eyed, soft-voiced Minuet. Five, if you counted the bouncing blonde from Paris. A youthful indiscretion, yes, but fun while it lasted... Thank god she was still stuck on that remote research outpost. He had far too many women left to deal with as it was.

First, of course, there was the willow-thin, red-haired Beverly Crusher. He had been drawn to her like a moth to a flame, destined to burn. Yet always he had held back from the fateful conflagration which would consume them both and end the years of yearning and desire. The memory of her dead husband, his best friend, had stood between them until it was too late.

So, understandably, he had found consolation in the company of willow-thin, red-haired Phillipa Louvois. Her tempestuous nature, her storm-tossed moods, had caught his attention like a right cross to his jaw. They went to dinner, then moved on to the dessert course, and the JAG officer soothed his heart from the pain of past partings. She had been generous and giving and very athletic, but their's was not a meeting that was meant to last. At least, he hadn't intended it to last. But now she was aboard the Enterprise. Which would have been fine, except Beverly had been transferred BACK by now. Already their one encounter had been a clash of titian-titans. And several security guards had been injured in the fray.

And Lovey...or Lovely...or whatever her name was, had just happened to catch him in a weak moment. After all, he had been away exploring for so long that he was somewhat naive about current dating mores. Fortunately, she was now wandering through space in a shuttle craft. Awkward to explain in the captain's log but at least she was off the ship and out of the way.

However, Minuet was another problem entirely. And he refused to take any blame for her since she was Riker's fantasy. Nevertheless, Beverly or Phillip a or both would find her soon, slinking down the corridors in her evening gown, crooning out "Jean-Luc! Jean-Luc!" in that enticingly husky, breathless voice. Then, of course, all h*ll would break loose!

Picard sighed deeply, pierced to the marrow of his being by the injustice of it all. If only he could find some way off this retched vessel, to escape this ongoing series of lust, love,

ruin, and despair. Oh, but to return to the days of his youth, to the commands of his past, to a small, secluded cabin somewhere in the French Alps, preferably in winter, all roads covered by a crushing blanket of blizzardly snow, all protected by a confiscated cloaking system. (Certainly he had friends, nay, contacts amongst the Klingons who could provide...without wishing to try his endurance.)

The hiss of the observation desk doors was like the whisper of promise, a taste that perhaps dreams can come true. But there was an odor to the air, a tinge of Chanel No.5, and the nightmare continued. He turned and beheld the tender countenance of Ensign Sonya, a frail, petite youth, who only sought his favor. Her eyes, like limpid pools, were covered, then revealed, with the ever-so-slow and tender closing and opening of her eyelids. She felt she had much to atone for, that she should at least be allowed to cook him dinner and breakfast (in that order) and wash his clothes.

The doors hissed again. Another woman sighed, again in that strange, strength-denying manner: "Jean-Luc..." It was Beverly.

"Jean-Luc..." spoke yet a third voice, this of determined Phillipa, entering behind Beverly. The two moved in concert, without sign of their previous battle. They were one with their intent.

"Jean-Luc..." The fourth was none other than Minuet, much of her nightgown gone and forgotten, lost in manners best left to the pages of another scribe.

The Captain found himself at the center of a four-pointed diamond, the intents of the women plain, their cooperation complete. How to disengage from this without hurting their souls, without destroying their self-esteem, without suffering the crushing, decades-old tradition of having his uniform torn.

"Jean-Luc..." The five of them turned to the once-more open doorway. The woman that stood there was short in stature, but tall in authority...and in years. She looked at each in turn, taking in the loneliness that was Beverly, the companionless that was Phillipa, the youthliness that was Sonya, and the artificialness that was Minuet. Last, she stared at the Captain and her face hardened. Her glare transformed her otherwise mild expression into the countenance of terror...of parenthood.

"Jean-Luc," his mother said, "how many times have you been told not to tarry on the holodeck. Come away."

He pressed through the foursome, head bowed, tugging lightly at his tunic. "I am so very sorry," he said, "but Mama calls, and she must ever be obeyed." '

"Mama," the captain said, once they were outside, "I wish to thank you for your timely arrival, but I have duties to perform, both here and on the bridge. I cannot deny my sense of responsibility, my command, my assorted gestures and maneuvers. I must be the man I was meant to be."

"I know of this and more, Jean-Luc," the kindly woman said. "If you must proceed--and indeed you must--then do so at *your* discretion, not at the whim of a quartet of vivacious vixens."

"Oh, ma'am." The man's voice was a slow drawl, an accent that was virtually unknown amongst the stars in the universe. Long ago it had been thought dead. Only now, eight decades later, was it reborn. Picard and his mother turned and a smile came ever so gently to the woman's lips. Here, perhaps, was the companion that *she* had been seeking...?

"Ma'am," the Admiral said, "it's been awhile since Ah wahked the decks 0' this ship, but Ah think I can remember my way ta one 0' the lounges. Y'all care for some Kentucky bourbon?"

(Captain Picard has been possessed by one of those bodiless creatures that love to possess starship captains in order to experience human sensation.

The scene is sickbay. Picard is strapped to an examining table, clad only in a slouch hat and some scraps of rabbit fur. His top officers stand around him dolefully.)

Crusher sighed. "As you know, this sort of being can only be driven out of the body it inhabits by being subjected to a vast overload of sensation. I don't know what that would do to the captain, or to this _creature_".

Commander Troi stepped forward, falling into parade rest and displaying all her intellectual force. "Commander, I must remind you that this is a living being. We have no moral right to endanger it".

Riker looked at his beloved captain, moaning and writhing in his bonds. He remembered the scene on the Bridge--the shouts, the struggle, the beer suds flying everywhere--and he shook his head decisively. "Croak it".

"We all know what form of sensation would be most effective," said Crusher. "Unfortunately I--my oath..."

Cinnamon-haired Ensign Krista Lovely shrank back as all eyes turned to her. It was all too true. She looked deep into her beloved Captain's piercing hazel eyes. He seemed to recognize her, to plead with her for help! Only she could save him!

But how could she do it? How could she make this supreme sacrifice? How could she surrender to him--reveal to him that aspect of her that no man had yet touched--her new red and black lace panties.

She swooned and when she awoke, she was strapped to the examining table wearing only a slouch hat and some scraps of rabbit fur. Porcelain-skinned Beverly Crusher was staring meaningfully into Jean-Luc's piercing hazel ears, and fondling the new red and black lace undergarment that had been made (with just a few tucks and folds) into a remarkably fetching hat. It looked quite rakish on the autocratic hawk-nosed captain, and cinnamon-haired biscuit-dough-skinned-butter-topped Ensign Krista Larvae couldn't suppress a small whimper of animal despair...

Data started to punch in the new course and speed. Suddenly he stopped. Abruptly his head snapped up and slightly to the left. His fingers left the console. Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose from his seat. All eyes on the bridge should have been on Data, but no one noticed his strange behavior. No one was ready as he abruptly turned towards the command section, strode purposefully towards Deanna and reached deeply with his right hand into the deep, rich, shining dark tresses which were piled high atop her delicately structured olive-skinned Betazoid face.

Diana's startled look softened as she suddenly realized what was happening. Data's left hand, which only moments ago was piloting a mighty starship, was now just below Diana's exquisitely formed chin, where no hand had gone before. The ship was off course. But Data and Diana were on course towards the ready room. A faint smile caressed Diana's ruby red lips.

Data had never felt this way before. His very existence was governed by logic, and not by whim. Why had he done this? Why had he allowed such an impulse to take over his very being? Was this what was meant by impulse power?

There were no more buttons as the door to turbo lift opened. Abruptly the turbolift discharging the captain onto the bridge. Buttoning his tunic, he quickly surveyed the situation.

"The ready room, eh? I have a ship going nowhere in a rhombic transparametric ellipsoid orbit at warp 5 and they're in the ready room??? What the hell are they doing in **MY** ready room???"

Geordi smiled. "Captain," he said, "It's all right. It happens to Data once each season."

"Why Captain," continued Geordi, "You know that Commander Data is fully functional; he's merely...well...functioning!"

The captain said harshly to his first officer, struggling to retain his dignity, "You'd better handle this proliferation of romantic interests, Number One. It's beyond my control. Under NO circumstances will you tell any of these... people...where I am, is that understood?" .

The blue-eyed Commander Riker said seriously, "Understood, Captain," but as the older man turned and strode towards his ready room, Riker's eyes twinkled and a wide white grin spread lopsidedly across his face. As the door hissed shut, he took the captain's seat, lounged back expansively, and said to the bridge at large, "Gentlemen, you have your orders. Engage!" He turned to Deanna Troi, seated demurely at his left, and reached out a beckoning hand.

Her liquid dark eyes widened in prim shock and a hint of wicked delight, and she exclaimed, "Will! Surely not on the bridge?"

"Dibs on Minuet," said Geordi enthusiastically, and left for the observation deck. At the turbolift door, he called, "Come on, Data, it's you for Ensign Lovely!" Data got up pertly and marched out, looking confused.

Meanwhile, Picard, seated at his desk, tried to concentrate on the viewscreen. Behind him the stars streaked into relentless infinity, but from where he sat the light was steady and reassuring. He had come here because he needed some stability, but the turmoil in his mind seemed unstoppable. Wearily, he propped his forehead on his hand, shielding his eyes against the ceiling light. The door chime sounded.

"Number One, I thought I said...Aahh, what does it matter? Come!" he said wearily. He turned his attention back to the viewscreen, his forehead still resting on his hand, and the door hissed open.

[YOUR NAME HERE] stepped quietly into the room and stood before the desk, resting her fingertips on its polished surface.

For another moment Picard still attempted to look at the viewscreen, his 'face shadowed by one capable hand, the bones of his skull backshadowed in the cold light of the stars. With an exasperated sigh, he slammed his hand down on the desk, said, "All right, what is it that couldn't wait, Number One..." And, turning his gaze upward in sudden surprise, "You!"

"Yes, Captain, I came as soon as I knew. I'm sorry to intrude," said [YOUR NAME HERE].

"YOUR visits are NEVER an intrusion," said Picard, a smile transforming his autocratic face, even lighting the taut, tired eyes. He leaned forward, grasped [YOUR NAME HERE]'s hands in his, and said, "Please. Sit down. We have so much to discuss."

[HIS NAME HERE] strode down the corridor, following the lights of the bleeping comm-panels, several of which needed new bulbs. It should be just along here, he thought, steadying his breathing. I must not make a fool of myself. He came to a door, composed himself, and announced his presence. He knew [HER NAME HERE] was expecting him, but what she had in mind he wasn't sure - surely not what he had hoped for so long. The door hissed open, and he stepped in, stumbling over a muttering pogworp and looking around. She wasn't in sight. Her quarters reflected her personality, and a side of her he hadn't suspected, not in all the time he'd worked side by side with her on the Enterprise. Somehow he'd thought that for a woman so relatively young to have a position so important, she must live, breathe, and dream her job, but no. The evidence was here. Who would have dreamed such a dedicated woman could be interested in [PECULIAR/ ABSTRUSE/PERVERTED HOBBY]?

"I'm in here, [HIS NAME HERE]," her voice called through the far door. Involuntarily, his hand strayed to his hair, and impatiently he checked the gesture. If she cared for him at all, it would have to be for his brilliance in command situations, his ability to act quickly, and his subtlety of thought, not his [COLOR] eyes or his [COLOR/CONSISTENCY/AMOUNT OF] hair. It was so confusing living in a liberated society. At least his makeup was on straight. Quickly, he strode through the door, and stopped abruptly, nearly poleaxed with her stunning beauty. [HER NAME HERE] had prepared herself for him, and he was overwhelmed.

"I've been waiting so long for this," she said languidly. He rushed to her, knelt by her side, and reached a trembling hand towards her [ANATOMICAL FEATURE]. Her [COLOR] eyes, her [SHAPE] lips, her [COLOR/CONSISTENCY/AMOUNT OF] hair, her [WELCOMING/THREATENING/PUZZLED/BORED/ODD] expression -- it was all his, all her gift to him. He seized her [WILD CARD], she feverishly clutched at his [ITS NAME HERE], and they were soon utterly lost to reality...

Jean Luc heard the door of his quarters hiss shut, and breathed a sigh of relief as the world outside the door was similarly shut away. The awful weight of responsibility never completely left his well-muscled shoulders, but now its burden lightened somewhat. For the next few hours, he could relax, seek some relief from the sensual tension gripping his taut body.

"At last," he murmured, as he released the fasteners on his uniform. It peeled away and he stepped out of it. His hands skimmed down his narrows hips, carrying away the briefs he wore underneath. He moved eagerly toward the rendezvous he had been longing--no, aching for....

Cinnamon-haired Krista Lovely, her brow furrowed in thought, stood indecisively before Jean Luc's door. Would he let her in? She never meant to come between him and the woman he so obviously loved; she was too generous and warm-hearted for that. Her own deeply sensual nature, a nature she had only barely realized in her responses to Jean Luc, would simply have to be put on the back burner. She would tell him so--tell him she would step out of his life and leave him free to follow his heart's true feelings.

Taking a deep breath, she tapped out the access code Jean Luc had long ago given her when she had made her first shy advances to him, advances he had gently--well, that's enough of that, she thought. She strode through the door. And stopped in shock, stunned by the sight before her. She never knew! THIS was his secret passion!

Jean Luc looked up, startled, as cinnamon-haired Krista Lovely stood there, her emerald eyes wide in shock as she stared at his gleaming body, glistening among the billowy foam of "Secret Surrender" bubble bath. Muttering curses in archaic French, he scooped more bubbles around him in hopes of concealing the array of toy battleships ranged about the bath tub. Suddenly he realized his most vulnerable male secret was still visible, as Krista's eyes moved downward from his face. He moved quickly, but it was too late.

His burnished head dropped in embarrassment. There it was, plain for all to see, bobbing in tbe warm, sudsy water.

Startled, Jean-Luc looked up from bis sybaritic tub full of bubbles into the equally startled gaze of Ensign Lovely. A flush spread from bis face, down his neck, and disappeared into tbe frothy foam which immediately began to dissipate from the beat. The captain began making hrrumph-hrrumph noises. "Ensign! What are you doing here?"

"I never--" tbe captain hrrumph-hrrumphed some more and clutched bis rubber duckie firmly as it threatened to skid out of his water-wrinkled bands-- "I have never indulged in, well, you know..."

"Oh, I know, Jean-Luc, my dearest, I know." The uniform fell to Lovely's lissome ankles and she kicked it into a corner. Contrary to StarFleet regulations which prescribed the color and variety of undergarments to be worn with the uniforms, Lovely had been wearing none at all. With that one magnificent gesture, she stood revealed in all her splendid loveliness. The captain's heart implant going *whiz-whir, whiz-whir* was very audible in the dead silence. Lovely stepped into the tub, immersing herself into the rapidly-disintegrating bubbles. She tapped a few buttons on the bath console and a fresh infusion of bubbles arose around her rosy shoulders.

Lovely smiled her loveliest at the thunderstruck Picard. "I never dared hope we would be doing this one day. My thoughts, my ambitions, my dreams never went beyond-- Well, no matter. Relax, my Jean-Luc. This was meant to be."

A few more taps on a few more buttons and an object began to materialize on the servo-unit tray. Lovely lifted the lid...and took out another yellow rubber duckie.

She looked at Picard seductively and submerged inch by frothy inch into the newly reborn bubbles. She caressed the firm, yet pliant, body of the jonquil-hued rubber duckie in her silken bands, bolding Picard's stunned hazel gaze as she...

After the bubbles cleared, and the flotsam began to surface, she noticed a particularly sturdy survivor of her attack.

"Ensign!" barked the Captain, retrieving the shreds of his dignity from the bathtub drain and leaping out. "You will hereafter leave my duckie alone!"

Krista, woebegone, pleaded with her eyes, but he strode from the room. As the door hissed shut, she muttered, "Foiled again," and her shape shifted, changed. The unlovely Krista Lovely, undercover allasomorph, lurched through the bulkhead, dripping slime as she waddled off, hooting, "Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places." Sue Lieutenant Clark scurried behind, taking notes and pretending to be bored.

The Captain, covered with popping bubbles, threw his discarded uniform into the disposer and ordered another one. The unit beeped in a strange yearning tone, but the tiny pile of red-and-black fabric that materialized looked much as usual. He deftly slid it on, not noting the tiny "DSPSG" label at the neck, and left his quarters with a dangerous gleam in his eye. Someone was going to pay for this duckie debacle...

The uniform had a dangerous gleam in its eye, too. It embraced Picard rather too snugly in places, and seemed to creep even more than he was used to. He stopped in mid-corridor to perform the Picard Maneuver, but the fabric crawled enthusiastically back into position as soon as he started to walk again. It snaked along his muscular calf, embraced his elegant elbows, caressed his finely drawn collarbones, going where no one had ever gone before and making little eeping noises. With an interested crew-member as witness, Picard performed an odd intoxicated half-hitch step as if to jump out of the all-embracing uniform. Nothing worked.

He leaned against the wall, and wiped his sweating brow with his sleeve. The sleeve slurped, and would have licked its lips if it had them. He stared at the sleeve, aghast, and the sleeve stared back with haunted, lovesick eyes (it had those). With a horrified roar, Picard dashed for the turbolift, staggering and weaving as the uniform tugged him this way and that. He darted in, said "Sickbay," and the turbolift (beeping in a strange yearning tone) said, "Yes, Captain," and darted into action, breathing heavily.

Her eyes were the deep blue of the twilight of a distant planet. In those eyes he sawall of the mysteries of a summer evening on Wrigley's Planet. He couldn't break away from those large, deep, limpid, liquid eyes that looked at him without fear and which cascaded over her slender and deeply tanned bare shoulders and tumbled to her narrow waist. The yellow and black dress could not hide the promise of the full and lush figure it barely covered.

He did not recognize his surroundings. Where were the familiar corridors? Where was his bridge? Why was nobody in uniform? How did he get here? And what did it matter? He was here with the most lovely, most desirable woman he had ever seen. He would just tell Riker where he was, and it would be alright. But where was his communicator? "Excuse me," he said, "but where am I?"

And then he heard her voice. The deep, throaty, almost musical, husky voice that maddened him with desire.

Meanwhile, at his console, Data gazed at the screen on which he had inadvertently picked up the events occurring in the captain's private quarters. The android cocked his head' quizzically. "Interesting," he said. There was a note of scarcely-suppressed envy in his voice, a glimmer of longing in the depths of his jonquil-hued eyes.

Someone was approaching. Before he could blank the screen, that person came up behind him and laid a pale, delicate hand on his shoulder. "It is interesting, I agree," a lyric, trilling voice said.

Data looked up. The intruder looked back. Their eyes locked--almost literally. The two went into a feedback loop that Data could break out of only with the greatest difficulty, and only by re-focusing his attention on the half-pip on the intruder's collar. "You must be--must be--"

"Lieutenant JG Pixel, reporting for duty, sir." The female android smiled.' She had pink lips. Her skin was a shade less waxen, but her eyes were the same shade of jonquil as his own. And she was female. Oh, yes, she was definitely--almost defiantly--female. And beautiful. Data felt a fresh surge of joyous interference that threatened to override his logic circuits. He mustered all his urbane human mannerisms.

"Of course. Lieutenant Pixel. I had been informed that you were going to be assigned to the *Enterprise*. For training."

"Yes, sir. For training." The radiantly, beautiful android glanced back at the screen where Lovely and Picard had turned to doing very odd things with their rubber duckies. "Is this part of the training I shall experience?"

Pixel cocked her head in an uncanny replication of Data's cogitative gesture. "I see no immediate application for the training procedures these people are demonstrating."

"I believe this is what is called human interrelationary extracurricular activity."

"Is it necessary to immerse the body in water coated with that white substance to engage in this activity?"

"I believe that a non-aqueous substitute could be provided if you were interested in experiencing a similar form of entertainment. "

Pixel blinked at the screen. "I am concerned only that full immersion coupled with the activities shown here might damage some of my circuitry and thus my fitness for duty."

"I am certain that we can arrange that neither your nor my circuitry is damaged. And, may I add, you look exceptionally fit for a variety of duties."

The lovely android smiled again. Her teeth were like pearls; in fact, they really were pearls. "I am yours to command..."

Data's head twitched to one side, unaccustomed as his neural synapses were to hearing such a phrase. "Yours to command..."

His mind swiftly indexed through several thousand possibilities before he deliberately shut down that program and shifted to another, designated only by it's initials, "K-S." He stood and, extending his arm towards Lt. j.g. Pixel, said, "I believe liaisons of this fashion are best achieved within the privacy of one's own quarters. The standard question, I believe, is 'Your place or mine?'"

The doors were just closing as First Officer Riker entered the bridge. He stared at the duo and frowned. Just what was going on here? And where was the Captain?

"Working. Captain Picard is in his bathtub, engaged with a rubber--Correction, Captain Picard has left his quarters and is proceeding down corridor J-9, outbound. Warning, sensors indicate an allasomorph is in close pursuit, now breaching bulkhead H-IO. Appropriate clean-up details should be dispatched to deal with the slime."

A rubber something? Riker thought. Then he thought of Data and whoever that female was. And where was Geordi? And Worf? Swift inquires led to equally swift responses from the computer, ending with, "I am afraid I cannot process that request at this time as I am accessing a counter-gender neural bank. Please try back in three human-perceived seconds."

Riker stood in a rigid fashion, as his spine stiffened in a most dramatic backwards arch. "Why am I the only one alone? I am male, handsome of body and face, rigid in all manners and ways, yet I find myself alone on the bridge. COMPUTER! WHERE IS COUNSELOR TROI?"

Fine." He slapped his rigid chest, activating his communicator. "Deanna, report to the bridge."

There was a breathless pause, then a breathless voice replied, "I'm sorry, Imzadi, but I...I'm engaged in...counseling at this...at this time. Please...please call me back in...in a

There was a pop as the air cleared. There was a pop as Riker spine collapsed. He fell into the captain's chair, alone. All alone. The screens around him bleeped and thlthp'd and pogworped. His options were few and he turned towards one...

Middle-aged career military man seeks reed-thin, redheaded prof. woman, non-smoker, NO CHILDREN, for rich intimate relationship lush with adjectives and the occasional adverb.