Kink Bingo

by cool_ha_ha (ao3)

Chapter 1: Costumes/Dress up

Quark waited at the top of the tower in a bed surrounded by flowers and old wooden tables. Earth stories are so messed up, but Kira told Odo about the Rapunzel story and now Odo’s obsessed with the idea of rescuing a princess. Of course Quark obliged, but not without questions. Questions like, why is she in the tower? And why is rescuing the princess so important? It seems sexist to make the woman the damsel in distress, but then Odo pointed out that Quark wouldn’t want to be the knight, and he’s not a damsel, he’s his partner though.

Quark waited, kicking the dress from tangling around his legs. Why is everything pink? This bed isn’t even comfortable. The room is too cold.

“Your highness!” Odo calls over the sound of a galloping horse.
Quark sighs. Holosuites really tailor to Odo’s needs. “Yes fair knight, here I am.” Quark says unenthusiastically.
“Quark, you have to come to the window.”
“Why?”
“It’s romantic.”
“Ergh.” Quark kicks up and wanders to the window, perching on it and peering down at Odo. “I’m scared of heights.”
Odo rolls his eyes, his armour shining in the sunlight. “That’s why I’m coming to you.”
“What if I fell, right now?”
“I’d catch you,” Odo said with a wink.
Quark can’t even fight with him. He’s in hero mode. He loves that Odo can get stuck on achieving a goal, especially when he’s the goal, but sometimes the banter and arguments are what make it.

Odo proceeded to climb the tower, using the overgrown foliage and unsteady bricks that made the tower.
“Hey Odo, did you leave the safeties on?”
“Quark,” Odo said defeatedly. “Can you please try to stay in character? I want to see my beautiful maiden awaiting me.”
Quark rolled his eyes and made his way to his bed. The things he does for love.

Odo hauled himself over the ledge and fell through the window unceremoniously.
“My hero,” Quark said under his breath.
Odo pulled himself to his feet and looked at Quark, resting seductively along the four -poster bed. “A vision to behold.” Odo began making his way over.

Quark sprawled out further. “You think this thing has stairs? I mean, they have to have put her in here somehow and it's not like the tower grew itself.”
Odo kneeled by the side of the bed and stroked along the side of Quark’s head, running a finger along his ear. “Quark, we could spend days discussing the logistics of a woman trapped in a tower, but what I want is the fantasy of climbing into my princess’s chambers, ripping that lacy pink dress to shreds and making love to my soul mate, okay?”

Quark shuddered. “Then take what you want my liege.” He smiled with all teeth on show and left his legs wide open.

Odo happily climbed back over Quark and kissed him rotten. Odo’s outfit was clunky and restrictive, while Quark’s was loose only around the legs. Everything else compressed his ribs and stretched as he moved his arms. Odo felt for the puffy shoulders and tried to pull it off, but struggled.
Quark looks up to see Odo trying to decide how to go about this. “Yeah, it took a while to put on as well.”
Odo huffed. “To hell with it.” He shapeshifted something sharp in his hand and cut right through. “Better.”
“Odo, that’s cheating.”

Odo leaned down and whispered. “Safeties in a holosuite is cheating.” But by this point he was already pulling the corset open. “I was only supposed to rescue you.” He ripped it open, giving Quark breathing room. “You, princess, should be thankful for what you get.”

Quark lowered his eyelids. That’s what he wanted. “Oh in that case,” Quark grabbed Odo's cod piece. “Make me grateful.”

Chapter 2: Crossdressing

He tells himself it’s just a bad habit as he pops the cap off the lipstick.

It's just a bad habit that started as a kid.

Nog tips his head back as he carefully watches his hand apply the make up.

Uncle told him women can’t have clothes, but all the girls on the station just looked so pretty. Dabo girls are sparkly and smooth. Comfort girls are well manicured with jems and jewels. Even his grandmother liked to play dress up.

Nog presses his lips to a napkin and tosses it to one side.

Why can’t boys be pretty too, he asked himself. If women can’t have clothes, why aren’t the boys wearing all kinds of them? Suits are so restrictive and ugly. Sequins is where it's at. Shiny gold earrings. What’s so wrong about heels? Men wear chunky, short heels, but these tall ones just look nicer.

Nog stands up to check his corset.

Since Ferengi women don’t have clothes, it only made sense to take inspiration from other species. 1920’s Earth was a good start. Pearl necklaces, big dangly earrings, straight sparkly dresses. It was ideal.

Nog leans back to pull the knee high boots’ zip.

From there it was just a case of experimenting. Colour was a very important feature when deciding, but with colour comes a lack of flair. Tie dye was delightful to look at, but it was missing all the accessories.

It was only when he got to the academy and the human concept of drag was introduced that this game really kicked off. This wasn’t just men in dresses for humiliation's sake or degradation of women. This was a culture. A sexual culture that was praised and enjoyed. It opened up a world of opportunity to experiment on Nog’s part, both in the bedroom and out with friends.

No one wants to chill with that random Ferengi at the academy. But everyone loves Stellar Temple. Stellar gets bought drinks. Stellar is offered a dance. Stellar can wear anything or nothing and no one bats an eyelid. Stellar would make an amazing dabo girl.

Nog opens the curtain to his room and finds a young man in uniform laid on his bed.

Even inviting guys round for the night is easier.

The best bit about Stellar is that her wants and desires are catered to. The flutter of fake eyelashes and the dazzle of fishnet tights, and men fall head over heels. Nog can already feel his arousal building as eyes scan his form. There's no feeling like dressing up and doing whatever the hell you want.

Climbing over his new lover came with the sick thrill of being someone else. Roleplaying a woman who doesn’t even exist. Nog grinds his panties along the young man's crotch. Firm hands find their way to his hips and encourage him to do it again. Nog hopes his juices are seeping into this guy's uniform. He wants him to see the effect he’s having even after it's over.

Nog was pushed over onto his back while his temporary partner made themselves comfortable between his legs. This guy might not know his real name. He probably doesn’t care. What he wants is to treat something the way he’d treat a woman, and get away with it. He wants something warm he can fuck. Something that moans with high pitched whines and self lubricates on command.

Nog knows he will probably be rolled onto his knees after his stockings are ripped off. The boots might stay on, and the earrings will still be there in the morning, but his partner will wake up remembering that his one night stand was a guy in drag, and run away before Nog can tell him he had fun.

Is all the work really worth guys who can’t tell their dick what sex their fucking? Is it really ethical to keep using them when they don’t want him as he is?

Nog doesn’t care. What he wants is to bottom out while feeling pretty. If walking with a sway in his hips is all it takes for them to forget he has a penis, then he’ll take it, even if the real women on campus have a problem with it. Not like they'd know what a female Ferengi looks like anyway. As far as the men on campus are concerned, the only difference between him and them is that he puts out. It’s not as if they want this kind of attention anyway, so why should Stellar go without?

Especially when it feels this good.

Chapter 3: Fabric / feathers

It’s said that the very first Ferengi were colourful and feathery. Of course, there's no money in writing history or studying the past so this legend is founded on nothing more than folklore.

Having said that, the link between the birdlike proto-ferengi and modern Ferengi can be seen in basic behaviour.

Circular beds, like a nest.

Feeding the young by pre chewing food.

Attraction to colourful displays.

Displaying success and wealth to the rest of the flock.

Finally, the inherent desire to bundle up in feathers.

Not all Ferengi follow this rule, but Ferengi and feathers go together like beetle snuff and the nagus. Who doesn’t want to caress exposed skin to the light tickle of a feather, or better yet, a whole string of them. Varying from fluffy down to erect flight feathers, the sensation can be primal or sensual in nature.

When Ishka met Keldar, the shared fancy for feathers kept things interesting in the bedroom. Even after his passing, opening that drawer brought back fond memories of touch play. Years on, an older, more wrinkly Ishka lays alone on her circular bed made for two and reminisces about those good old days. Days when both kids were asleep and the two of them would break open the draw and spend the rest of the night teasing each other.

Ishka breathes a laugh. Clothes are nice, but what they represent is the reason she wears them. While there's a time to get dressed up, there's also a time to disrobe and right now feels like a good time.

She sits up and pulls the stretchy fabric from her shoulders, unclasping the button on the neck and letting it fall from her body. Bare skin and the damp air of Ferenginar are a combination made in sto'vo'kor. She leans casually as she pulls a long feather boa from the draw followed by one long straight feather. The number of these she’s been through over the years, she thinks.

This particular feather boa was tied around her ankle, then snapped. The remainder was tied on the opposite leg around her shin, then snapped a final time. The rest ties neatly around the first leg’s thigh. When rubbed together, her legs provide a sensation that ripples over her skin and overwhelms the senses.

Laying back along her bed, Ishka raises one knee and lowers it in sync with raising the other. The tickling feeling spreads like fire, confusing her body and giving the illusion of another hand at work. This was just the first stage. The real pleasure comes from the long feather. With the hard nib between her finger and thumb, she traces the point from her belly, between her breasts, along her neck and finally to the curve of her ear.

She lets a deep breath escape as her body adjusts to the intensity to the feather circling the bottom of her lobe. Lightly, the feather makes its way up and inside the first helix. She runs it to and fro, just scratching the skin enough to follow it mentally. With her legs still grinding together, the feather makes it to her eyebrow and back again to the antihelix, sending a tense pulse to her nether regions.

It never gets old. Oomox with fingers is fun, but feathers are better.

The tip loops the inner rings of her ear, over and over and over again, slowly building her up to release. She works her way closer and closer to the ear canal and teases the opening and tipping her eyes back as she arches her body. She twists it, digging it just a little into the hole and proving the kind of pressure her nerves require to push her to the edge. Her toes curl and her breathing hitches. To finish the job, she twists with a circular motion, dragging the fine hairs of the feather along the entrance of her ear, trapping her most sensitive body parts in a fluxx of thrill and satisfaction.

She relaxes as she guides the feather back out. She’s got all night, and another ear to go.

Chapter 4: Gags/silence

The most fun Garak has ever had in his life was a simple lunch time debate turned into a full on argument. Bashir simply couldn’t hold his thoughts until next week and came knocking on his door in the middle of the night. His ridges swelled as the impassioned sound of Bashir’s ranting and raving got his heart pumping and his dick hard.

It took a matter of seconds before they were in bed and telling each other everything. Every secret, every opinion held back from lunch, every insult and rumour.

As delightful as that combination of noise and substance was, Garak couldn’t wait to make him shut up.

Bashir understood the terms of the game. All he had to do was keep his voice out of the equation, just one hour of Garak listening to himself, and Basir was entitled to anything he wanted. Anything. Sexual or not so. Information was very valuable, but the truth was even more so.

The timer began. If Bashir breaks his silence, the hour can either begin again, or he can concede. Garak also has another weapon in his arsonal. A roll of duct tape sits by his side on the couch, placed purposefully in Bashir’s line of sight.

“You know, Julian,” Garak begins, making himself comfortable along the couch. “I have a few thoughts on the different pieces of literature you’ve brought to me over the years, and decided that right now would be the best time to share them. Do you agree?”

Bashir gave Garak the most ‘is that a serious question?’ face he could pull without making a sound.

Garak beamed with delight. “Good. My first point regards these children's stories you introduced me to. The Boy Who Cried Wolf being the first and most disappointing. I can’t believe your culture would use this story as a means to deter children from lying. From my perspective, it looks like a means to make children fearful of making their lies well known, or giving aid at the risk of a crisis being a fabrication. Bold of you to assume the child would put themselves in the position of the boy, and the villagers, not the wolf praying on such inexperienced hands.”

Bashir groans.

Garak rolls over comfortably and continues. “Which reminds me; why would you try to terrify children with stories of failure and punishments. The sheep are eaten by wolves. Goldilocks was chased by bears. Little Red Riding Hood was yet another wolf. Three little pigs, more wolves. Am I mistaken in believing humans and canines are at odds? Or once upon a time, where at odds?”

Bashir sighs.

Garak hums. “I can’t judge you too harshly. Cardassian children are told much worse to deter certain behaviours. Behaviours that no doubt would be protected by human philosophy. Such as the aforementioned, repeating of a lie, displayed by The Boy Who Cried Wolf. Now Hansel and Gretal, that is a message I can get behind. Do as you’re told, or you’ll be cooked alive. Speaks volumes about how far humanity has come, don’t you think?”

Bashir struggled to hold his tongue.

“Rumplestiltskin sounded like it was written by a Ferengi. I’m not sure who the villain was by the end of it. No good deed goes unpunished. Little Red Riding Hood was obviously about doing the right thing and doing it wrong. Goldilocks was about breaking and entering. When I was an author on Cardassia-”
“Bullshit Garak!”
“Oh, he speaks!” Garak exclaimed.

Bashir openly counted the points on his fingers. “Like hell have you ever had a book published, bollocks do you agree with detering children from dangerous activities, and I refuse to believe you are misinterpreting these stories because you’re Cardassian! You’re doing it to fuck with me!”

Garak waggles his finger at Bashir. “Tsk, tsk. You failed my little game, Julian. Naughty.”

Bashir huffs. “You can’t seriously expect me to stay quiet while you make up any nonsense you like.”
“I can, and I do, unless, of course, you don’t want your prize..”
Bashir’s frustration can be felt a mile away. “Gimme the tape.”
“Oh no no. The honour’s all mine,” Garak says, pulling a strip from the roll of tape.

Chapter 5: worship

There wasn’t a single living being on Terok Nor that hadn’t seen her, heard her, felt her or feared her. The Intendant of Bajor. The station's supreme leader. Kira Nerys walked by in a smooth leather catsuit. Her thick heels were a familiar noise as she walks fearlessly by the slaves, guarded by her allies and protected by her position. She is a force to be reckoned with. No conscience. No regrets. Just revelling in what she enjoys. She knows what she likes and she will take it.

It’s no secret that the Intendant gets around, despite the fact that not many of her partners survive very long. She takes what she wants and if they are of no use, they go missing. If they try to beat her to the punch and remove her first, they go missing. If Garak makes an accusation, they go missing. If they do not meet her expectations, they go missing, and this is fact. Fact that she lets it spread around the station as a warning to anyone who dares use her own pleasure against her.

Those who take her fancy will be rewarded for their compliance. They will be given space and freedoms that are only entitled to those above the soldiers rank. From there, she will decide what to do with them and that will be their purpose until told otherwise. She might trap them in the station. She might threaten them with the things they love. She might call them at inconvenient times to test their loyalty. These games of hers are what keep the people in line, but for her, it drives deeper than order.

She walks among the soldiers. Klingons are very good at this game. Cardassians, not so much. Bajorans are fine. They know the game she's playing so can toy with her on her own level, and that ruins the fun. What she wants is a Terran.

She leans over the railing spying by the Supervisors' side. He knows what she’s looking for, but he won’t intervene while she's on the prowl.

Kira takes a deep breath and sighs. “Odo, send me the most submissive two Terrans you can pull out of this cesspool. I want them weak and I want them young. Understood?”
Odo didn’t look at her. “I’ll send them to your office.”
She smiles. “Perfect.”

She waits in her office. It’s clean and dark and spacious. It’s the most secure place on the station and makes it her favourite spot to play her games.

Two Cardassians drag two struggling Terran men through the door and present them to her in the middle of the room. They’re filthy, they’re thin, they’re crying. They’re perfect. Odo knows how to pick them.
“You may release them.”
The men are dropped. The corresponding guards step back and raise their weapons.
Kira can already feel that build up. It tastes like fresh fruit on a summer evening.
“You are relieved until further notice,” she says to the Cardassians.

To the slaves astonishment, the guards deactivate their weapons and turn to leave.

Kira leans back on her desk casually and assesses the wreckage before her.

She notices one keeps looking behind her. There is a blade on the desk. She knows that, and he can see it.
“You think I’m going to hurt you?”
He lowered his head. “No Intendant.”
“Then you must want to hurt me.”
“No, Intendant.”
She clicks her tongue. “Get on your knees.”
“Excuse-”
“You heard me. Both of you. On your knees.”

Both men carefully got to their knees, trying to move as slowly as possible.
Kira stepped forward, beginning her walk around them. “You gonna try and hurt me?”
“No ma’am.”
“Why is that?”
The men go quiet. The vocal one is clearly shaking.

Kira speaks to the quiet one. “Why do you think he hasn’t done it yet?”
“Because he’s scared of you, Intendant.”
She speaks to the room. “Why is that?”
The voice stops again.
Kira huffs. “I think … It's because he can’t. What do you think?”
The first man speaks up. “You’re right, ma’am. I couldn’t.”
She walks around him calmly, taking her place back at the front. “Why couldn’t you? Tell me what’s stopping you?”

Both men glanced at each other, egging the other on to answer first. “Be- Because you rule this station, Intendant. We owe you .. our lives?” One of them tries.
Kira’s smile widens. “Damn right I do. You owe me more than your pathetic lives. You owe me your labour. You owe me your love. Tell me how grateful you are.”

“We- We thank you for our place, Intendant.” The other struggles to find the words.
The first covers his back, in a team effort to save themselves. “You are superior to us. You are superior in every way.”
Kira hisses through her teeth. “Fuck yeah, keep going.”
“Ur, we- we deserve our place-”
Kira waves it off. “No, go back to the part about me.”
“You can look down on us.”
“You have earned your rightful place above us.”
“You belong in your throne-”
“-Away from us.”
“Yes. You are a god walking among mere mortals.”

Kira bit her lip as her news pawns played the game, a game they will soon be masters of playing.

Chapter 6: Wall or desk sex

Garak leaned back, sat on the edge of the console. Bashir stood, half leaning over him. Garak’s bare legs hung from the desk, one propped up, raising his knee to Bashir’s chest. Bashir remained fully dressed, all beside the zip giving his cock an exit from his uniform bottoms. Although the slight concern of Garak’s fluids breaking the console nagged at him, the urge to continue sliding in and out of him was screaming a lot louder.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Bashir whispered breathlessly.
Garak wasn’t even looking at him. His elbows rested on the console but his eyes were set on the space between his legs being filled. “Just a little longer,” Garak dismissed.
Bashir slowed, trying to gain his attention again. “Garak, I’m being serious.” He pushed back in. “We can’t keep using each other like this.”
Garak huffed, still looking down, annoyed at the chance of pace. “My dear, you pick the worst times for these conversations.” Garak nudged his hips to gain some friction.

Bashir rolled his eyes and began thrusting again. “You always just show up and shut me up before we get to this part,” Bashir starts watching his partner’s crotch now. “And then you say thank you and run off afterward.” He goes back to looking for eye contact. “When am I supposed to tell you?”
Garak’s eyes were going wobbly in his head. “You could simply say no and be done with me.”
Bashir rolled his eyes again. “I don’t want to be done with you.”
Garak shuddered. “That’s an understatement.”

Bashir leaned further over him, driving in deeper. “One off fucks in random places isn’t healthy.”
Garak fell onto his back and tipped his head over the desk. “For you, maybe.”
“You’re telling me,” Bashir pressed on harder. “That you’re completely happy,” He pulled nearly all the way out and fell all the way in again, “Doing this,” and again, “Forever?”
“You know I don’t last,” Garak hissed through gritted teeth.
“Not like that!” Bashir swapped back to short thrusts. “I meant about us.”

Garak’s breathing fell to short sharp bursts. His skin felt too hot. His vision became blurry stars. “Close!”
Bashir remained consistent in his movements. “I really care about you, Garak.”
Garak gasped and clenched, spilling more fluids along the screen below them. “Ohhh… I needed that,” Garak said dismissively. “You can finish off now.”
Bashir once again considered the state of the equipment, but this conversation needs to happen. “Garak, you’re not even listening.”

Garak lifted his head and rested it on a folded arm behind his head. “I heard every word darling, but we have had this conversation,” he said smugly. “Our relationship simply isn’t viable. A starfleet officer dating the obsidian order exile on a Bajoran station… Someone somewhere would say something. We’d only put each other at risk.”

Bashir sighed, still rubbing himself off inside Garak. “I just wondered about more.” Bashir hoisted Garak’s hips further off the table, holding him perfectly in line with his own. “We wouldn’t have to be quiet,” he said, gradually getting faster. “We wouldn’t have to skip date night,” He bit his lip, trying to concentrate. “I could have you on a bed,” He smiled, tipping his head back and imagining a better scenario. “Instead,” he slammed in and pulled out. “Of.” and again. “This.” and again. “Fucking.” and again. “Desk!” and again, finally releasing his load deep inside Garak.

Garak’s leg trembled. The feeling of warm liquid filling his holes contrasted with the feeling of Bashir’s enhanced strength being utilised scared him. “Breathe,” Garak encouraged.
Bashir slowly lifted his head. “I just- I’m sorry. I’m sorry about this.” He gently let him down. “I just can’t do this anymore.” Garak opened his mouth but Bashir got there first. “And not the sex we just had. But you knew exactly what I meant.”

Garak awkwardly sat on the edge of the desk, chest to chest with his lover. “Sometimes -- Sometimes I worry that I’ve been lying to myself for so long I’m not even sure which of my thoughts are true. Perhaps I do truly believe we can’t be seen as an item because of our positions, or perhaps it is the personal ramifications I evade, even at the risk of hurting you. Perhaps I am selfish in that way, or perhaps .. Perhaps I simply enjoy being bent along your work desk.” Garak smirked.

Bashir sighed.

Chapter 7: Authority figures

Ferengi have cycles. Cycles that don’t last too long. Most other species barely notice them. But young adults notice it. A hormonal response to any stimuli that person finds attractive. The more things a Ferengi likes in potential mates, the stronger the force. Nog, having been through his ascension, was beginning to feel it in full swing. Warnings from his elders had left him with more questions than answers, but then there's the old rule about dangerous questions.

Nog always wondered what it would be that sets it off. Women? Money? Height? He’s always liked tall people. Maybe it’s a cultural thing? Or a certain feature only found on aliens that gets him? Since he’s off to the academy, he’s sure he’ll figure it out.

It was at his first lecture. His FIRST lecture. Possibly the worst place, the worst time, and around the worst people it could possibly happen near. He sits in the hall, shoulder to shoulder with other new ensigns, going bright red, and sweating like he’s sat on the sun. An older man with scars, a broad well maintained figure and uniform that had definitely been steam cleaned, marched onto the stage and gave the pep talk of Nog’s life.

“Oh no,” he whispers under his breath. He was ready to sink into the floor and never be seen again. That deep, experienced voice hollowed through his ears. The confidence in his stride sent a shiver up Nog’s spine. The way his eyes peered through every individual as if to read their minds … Nog couldn’t breathe deeply enough to stop his face from lighting up like a beacon.

“You alright son?”
‘Fuck, he’s talking to me’ Nog thought. “Fine sir.”
The man frowned at him. “Go get some water. You look like you need to see the nurse.”
Nog felt this throat close up as he awkwardly got up and ran off with every single person in the hall watching his exit.

It only got worse from there.

Every tutor, every officer, every commanding voice, every person in a position of authority set it off. These bouts of hormonal flare-ups will only last a year or so before settling, but that was a year too long while at the Academy. When he’s a little older, his brian and body will work together to help him find suitable partners, but for now, he has to walk the corridors, attend meetings and endure seminars with a raging erection that he couldn’t control if his life was bet on it.

Nearly every night was spent with one hand on his lobes and the other inside his uniform coveralls.

By the end of the first year, Nog was happy to be going home. He’d be surrounded by friends and family and Jake. Moving in with Jake brought him solace. A place away from his new found kink and closer to platonic friendship. He can’t wait to see Jadzia again, and work with Miles in engineering, and see his dad working for Bajor’s engineering department. So many faces he knows and loves.

Then he gets back.

The first few days are great. Everything exactly as he expected.

That was until his first interaction with … Sisko.

Nog completely phased out. He didn’t hear a word. He saw his mouth move, he heard his tone of voice, he froze under an intense, familiar stare, like looking at an old crush that you still have feelings for, but this is the captain of Deep Space Nine. He lives with his son. He CAN’T have a creepy crush on the captain. He’ll never be able to look at Jake the same ever again. He can’t work with someone who makes him weak at the knees. He can’t take orders from the same person who he touches himself to at night.

Or can he?

Chapter 8: Consent play or negotation

The female founder taps her fingers. It’s been several years since Weyoun died last, and that's an achievement considering what she puts him through every day. She presses a button on her console and waits.

“Weyoun speaking.”

She licks her lips. “I have an hour free. Build me a scene.”

Weyoun’s breathing can be heard through the speaker. “I- I want you to watch.”

She rocks her head. “Who’s the third party?”

“Your choice, founder. I want you to give me away. Please,” he quickly adds.

“Hmm…” She considers it. “What’s the name of that Jem’hadar who hates you?”

“Ergh. Goran'Agar.” Weyoun is glad she can’t see the way his face cringes when he says his name.

“Perfect. I’ll arrange everything as you escort yourself to the command centre. Good bye.” The founder ends the call. If he wants anything else, he’ll just have to beg.

*

Weyoun shudders 4 or 5 times on the walk to the command centre. The founder gets a bit of a kick from having him perform these tasks in front of an audience. Or maybe she just doesn’t like doing them in the bedroom. Who knows, but the point is, every now and then she invites him over to indulge some dark fantasy. She told him once that it’s to stop him falling in love and swapping alliances, but he’s very sure she just likes seeing how much control over him she really has, which is a lot.

*

The founder watches on two screens as her Jem’hadar marches over on one, and Weyoun skips down another. Security cameras are her favourite thing. They allow you to see what’s coming while the person being viewed can’t see you. Maybe that should be their next game. Back to the point at hand, she presses a few buttons to direct Weyoun in another direction, giving her and the new player in this game a few more minutes. Seconds would do it really, but once Weyoun knows he’s being led on, he’ll purposefully slow down to fulfil her wishes.

The Jem’hadar storms in. “You called for me, founder.”

She watched Weyoun on the screen. “In 53 seconds, the Vorta will walk through that door and do exactly what I tell him to do.”

“That is the way of things,” he confirms.

“You have the next 56 minutes to use him. He will have no say in the matter.”

The Jem’hadar looks confused. “Founder?”

She turns to stare him down. “45 seconds.”

“Define use him.”

“Take out frustration on him. Pleasure yourself. Humiliate him. I will watch. I know the safe word. You stop when I say you stop. Understood?”

“Yes, founder.”

Weyoun steps through the door, arms curled into his body. He spots Goran'Agar, and it shows on his face. A mix of annoyance and anger displayed through heavy eyebrows and a twisted mouth. The Jem’hadar didn’t look pleased to see Weyoun either. He considers for a moment the founder's words. He supposes he’s been summoned because Weyoun doesn’t like him, and for some reason, she wants him to utilise that.

“Get on your knees,” the Jem’hadar commands.
Weyoun quickly looks at the founder, but she doesn’t say anything. He huffs with annoyance and gets to his knees.
“Crawl over here,” he says to Weyoun, smirking at his new found authority.
Weyoun keeps his eyes down as he crawls over.

Now at the man's boots, the founder speaks to him. “Weyoun, you will do as he says until I say otherwise.”
Weyoun only looks more pissed off. “Yes, founder.”
Goran'Agar thinks he just figured out what the game is. “Weyoun, open your mouth.”
Weyoun sneered back. “Go fuck yourself.”
“No,” the Jem’hadar said. “That’s what you’re for.” Weyoun was pushed onto his back.

The founder walked calmly around the scenario unfolding on the floor, as Weyoun was pinned down and stripped from the waist down. He pushed back and kicked as it happened, but it didn’t stop either of them. Eventually, Goran'Agar got fed up. He moved Weyoun’s eye line by pushing his jaw up against the ground. Weyoun struggled, trying to see what the Jem’hadar was trying to do to him, while not being able to physically hold him off.

The founder fell to her knees by his head. Weyoun looked at her instead, completely distracted from the offence happening to his body. Thick dry fingers broke him open, forcing a yelp from him, but the founder wasn’t looking at that, she was watching Weyoun. Maybe she was concerned for him. Maybe she was enjoying his struggle. Maybe she was just curious. Weyoun looked back up to her and was immediately put at ease by her presence.

“Does it please you, founder?”

She blinks. “Your compliance will always please me.”

Chapter 9: Domestic service or manual labour

It’s often thought that Miles got into the business of engineering through his time on the Enterprise. That is’t wholly true. His place as transporter chief was as dull as it got. He knew a few things about circuit boards and the warp core, as all ensigns do, but no one wanted to be stood around waiting for visitors or away missions in the transporter room. Cleaning the holodecks was literally more fun than this.

What really pushed O’brien to get into engineering was Keiko.

He once overheard her complaining about the environmental controls in her arboretum, and none of the engineering crew deemed it essential. Mile’s volunteered to have a look. The light in Keiko’s eyes brightened. It was just her and him in that garden. She watched him talk her through the busted conductors and try to explain the bits of computer that decided the humidity, but she wasn’t interested.

A few weeks later, a new similar problem occurred. Miles actually did his research this time. He arrived to find her alone in the room again. She asked him about the utility box he brought. She wandered around him and noted the small rips in his uniform from her garden last time. He bent down to take the panel from the wall off, and she leaned against the wall, hips in line with his head.

Miles playfully looked her up and down. She smiled down at him. He asked about the plants. She explained how delicate life is, and how her passion for caring for them was as important as caring for the ship. The ship communicates its wants and the crew delivers. She listens to the foliage and responds in kind. Miles smiles harder. “I heard a beautiful woman, and came to her rescue too.”

She bit her lip. “You know, I think I have a few things in my quarters that could do with another pair of hands- eyes. I meant eyes.”

“I could keep my hands busy too.” He winks.

Ever since that night, Miles worked hard to fix things. He studied hard. He wanted to show her his dedication. He wanted to please her. He wanted to play her game, and win, everytime from now until the end of time. And she was always grateful, no matter the size of the task, the time it takes, or the tools required. The balance of their interests and skills aiding each other's development and drive to do right by the other was what sparked the flames of their relationship and fuels it into the future.

On DS9, she holds his bare arms, right where the rolled up sleeves end, and looks him up and down. “I was thinking about doing some home decorating,” she looks up with bright eyes.
Miles holds her sides. “Not just a little DIY?”
She leans nose to nose. “I was thinking of more powertools,” she whispers.
He lowers his eyelids. “Maybe something for the bedroom?”
“Something messy.”
“Something that’ll take a while.”
“Exactly.” Keiko kisses him.

Chapter 10: Tentacles

The problem with eavesdropping is not being able to contribute to the conversation. Odo overheard something about tentacles in a discussion between Miles and Julian and now Odo’s having a small crisis in the corner of the bar. Apparently tentacles are exciting to some people. But then Miles described those people as perverse and deranged. Why would this be a commonly written trope if the same race of people then look down on it?

Odo can’t ever say he’s wanted to do that to someone, but as the only person within a million mile radius of the station who can, why shouldn’t he? The question now is who. Who does he know that might look forward to such unusual activities? He CAN’T ask Kira. Dax might do it, but then tell everyone. Quark would go through with it and then make it a regular thing, not an option. Everyone else is off the table for a variety of reasons.

There's only one solution: Holosuites.

*

Odo managed to avoid Quark by paying a random waiter, and casually running up the stairs and bolting himself inside the assigned holosuite.

Odo thought very carefully about how to word this. With absolutely no grace the sentence “Present the last scene involving tentacles,” came out of his mouth.

The room turned into a jungle. Just on the edge of the clearing he stood in, a plant with different sized vines sprawled along the ground. Odo makes the assumption that the plant becomes sentient, or somehow hits all the right spots by accident. Unless, he thinks, maybe the game isn’t so friendly.

“Computer, begin program.” Odo says bluntly.

Two beeps later, the vines begin to drag themselves to life. A thick tendrel snakes along the ground and wraps around his ankle. Odo remains still as it tries to pull him over. He watches more, smaller vines follow the leader and creep up his leg. “Am I supposed to sit down?” Odo says to no one.

The vines tighten their grip so he complies and sits down. The vines then proceed to crawl along his limbs and worm under his clothes. Unfortunately the fabric is attached to his skin and doesn’t do an awful lot. He shifts the uniform away.

Now naked on the forest floor, Odo watches the vines twist further up his legs and aim for his chest through his arms. So far, this isn’t particularly impressive or degenerate. What exactly is he supposed to be learning? One of the vines finds his dick and coils around it. Odo’s still not sure what’s so sexy about this.

While the rope rubs along his nipples and drags along his body, Odo considers his options. Maybe it would be more fun if he could feel it? Or maybe the restrictive feeling is supposed to be exciting?

Odo turns to liquid, scaring the plant, and reforms as the same plant that was touching him up.

The tentacles reach out for each other and caress the mirror image. Odo’s lengths curl around the vines as it had done to him. The plant reciprocates, twisting in the opposite direction and joining them together even tighter. The main flower begins to open and smaller, thinner, more colourful filaments reach out. Odo copies, unleashing a similar brighter glow, still entwining their branches and sealing themselves together.

Just like with the main vines, the smaller ones reach out, tentatively touching the counterparts. Odo follows the plants lead, rubbing and caressing as they interlock strands. The smaller ones slide around and straight past Odo’s, now aiming for the flower in the centre. Odo continues too. The closer they get, the more intimate Odo feels with the plant. It’s so careful to maintain his attention, to display its colours, to offer itself so openly. Finally connecting with his temporary partner, Odo feels complete. Something akin to the link, but more primal, less coordinated.

When the plant sweeps back, retreating and letting go, Odo reforms as himself.

On his way out, his last thought is ‘no solid will ever be able to experience that.’

Chapter 11: Sensory deprivation

Lwaxana’s abilities have been known to cross some ethical boundaries. Betazoids in general deal with a lot of psychological complications. Some people believe telepaths are a violation of their rights. Vulcan’s need contact to initiate the link, so non telepathic races feel more comfortable with them. Ferengi for example can’t be read at all, giving them immunity from any intrusion, warranted or not.

Lwaxana is at a point in her life where there's not much left to see in people’s heads. Abstract dreams, intrusive thoughts, rabbit hole day dreams that revisit memories with tethered thread kind of connections. She can’t see why people would be upset about the completely normal happenings of their minds. The only people who need to be scared of mind readers are people who aren’t at peace with themselves and their actions.

Luckily there is a large portion of people who look forward to the abilities of an older Betazoid. With age and experience comes strength. Vulcan’s can mind meld at any age with enough training, but the limits of the Betazoid abilities only increase over time.

Lwaxana sits with her newest companion. They met over subspace. She invites him in with the soul intention to give him something only a woman in her position can; psychological sex. Sex usually requires nerves and friction, typically with another person. This activity will grant both of them release by activating his fetish and letting telepathy do the rest.

He sits fully dressed with her on the bed. She kneels in front of him, also fully dressed. Many weeks of conversations have led to a mutually beneficial agreement, meant to go no further than the next few minutes.

Lwaxana closes her eyes and focuses on his thoughts. From there, she digs deeper and connects herself to his motor functions and nerve endings. Now incontrol of his sense of touch, she brings the feelings from his head to hers. From this moment, her one night stand is relieved of feeling.

Lwaxana has linked the mental connection that should send those messages to his brain, and let them go to hers instead. Her partner begins experimenting, grinding his fingers into the fabrics and dragging back in an attempt to feel heat or pain or pleasure. His hands clench and rub into themselves, searching for sensation, but finding only numb texture. She can feel what he is meant to be feeling, and as long as no one gets hurt, she will uphold her end of the deal.

He gives her a look, asking for permission. She grants it, allowing him to begin exploring himself and possibly her too. He runs his hands under his clothes and fumbles through the undressing phase. Lwaxana can feel his body and hairs and sweat and every fold in his clothes, but he can’t, and rushing it is only making it more embarrassing. In a heat of the moment decision he clamps his nipples between his unfeeling fingers and bits his lip in excitement.

Hands are a good start, but the things she could remove are what make it exciting for her. Maybe he’d like to lose feeling elsewhere and play with pressure and restriction, or maybe he’d just like to touch himself, knowing she can feel every pulse and vein on his cock without even touching him. Maybe just imagining someone else's hands is enough. Who knows how they’ll play with it.

Chapter 12: Leather or rubber

Leeta runs her finger along Rom’s ear. He closes his eyes and leans back further into her loving embrace. “So Rom,” she coos. “I was wondering about spicing things up tonight.”
Rom smiles harder. “Sure.”
She whispers, “You know that nightgown that gets you all riled up.” She lets the image simmer in his head. “Well, what if I had something for you to wear?”

Rom’s imagination tried desperately to recall anything particularly Bajoran she’d want him to dress him. Maybe a nice uniform or some fancy suit to roleplay in.

Rom was wrong.

Very wrong.

Leeta brought him a catsuit. It covered everything from his ankles to his wrists. It zipped up to his neck. It squeaked as he walked. It smelled strongly of the plastic it was made from. It felt as unnatural as it looked, reflecting light that curled around the curves of his body. It was worse than being naked. At least bare skin reminds him of home. In this suit, she can see everything. He’s just on display. All his flaws, pronounced through the smooth texture of a skin tight latex catsuit.

Leeta lets a deep breath escape her as she wanders around him. He looks so nervous. “Well, hello sexy.” She takes her time scanning up and down his form.

Rom swallows, unsure what to do with himself. “Do- Am I supposed to do something specific?”

For a second, she made a noise akin to a growl. “You… Don’t have to do anything,” she says seductively. “You just let me touch, and we can do anything you want.” Her eyes never met his, drifting further down his chest by the second.

“So that’s it. I just .. stand here?”

Leeta placed her hand on his chest, smiling to herself. “I .. may have had a few ideas.” She steps closer, running her hand up his shoulders to his ear. “But I’m gonna need you to lay on the bed first,” she whispers.

Rom slowly walked backwards, every step followed by one of Leeta’s, picking up the pace and guiding him toward the bedroom. The back of his knees hit the bed, but Leeta pressed on, tipping him backwards and letting him fall. She quickly climbed over him, standing on her knees and ripping her top off right in front of him.

Suddenly, Rom’s interest just grew a little, as did something else, but his attention was still focused entirely on Leeta stripping off over his hips.

She looks down on him in nothing but her underwear. “I’m going to use you,” she says breathlessly. “I’m going to ride you like the good little doll you are.” Leeta rocked her hips, rubbing herself against his bulge.

Rom gasped from sensation, but the words settled on him like the weight of her body. “Doll?”

She grinds again, rolling her eyes back into her skull. “Oh yeah… You’re mine, aren’t you.” She bites her lip. “Mine to do with as I will.”

Rom catches on. “All yours,” he confirms.

She smiles to herself and rubs harder. “Tell me who you belong to,” she demands, now sliding directly over his hidden erection.

Rom’s eyelids twitch. “Yours. All yours.”

“Prophets, yes!” Leeta leans over him, resting on her wrists. “Keep saying it,” she breathes out in a huff.

“Yours! Ugh- Yours-”

Three hammering knocks echo through the room. “Would you two BE QUIET!” the neighbour screams.

Rom and Leeta remain frozen for just a few moments before smiling at eachother and carrying on, just mouthing the words at each other. She bends down to kiss him. He reciprocates.

Chapter 13: Sensation play

“Doctor Bashir,” Data waves as Bashir struts up the hallway.
“Lieutenant commander Data,” Bashir stuck his hand out for him. “Good to see you again, and in such a modern uniform.”
“I recall you referring to my uniform at our last encounter.”
Bashir still hasn’t stopped shaking his hand. “Well, I suppose the Federation’s flagship really needs to be the most up-to-date. Uniform wise.”
Data removed Bashir’s hand from his own. “Considering the changes made since our last Borg encounter-”
“Borg encounter? You haven’t been keeping me up to date at all.” Bashir smiles.
“We saved Earth’s timeline and I was temporarily made organic.” Data replied flatly.
Bashir’s smile fell off. “What? How? Where are the reports? I have questions. Where are your organic parts now?”
Data simply blinked. “They were not mine to take, and were destroyed in the final battle. I will happily share the details, but we currently stand in the hallway of the docking port.”
“Right! Yes. We should move.” Bashir picks his things back up and begins the walk. “So … Does that mean you could feel sensation for some of the event?”
Data follows by his side. “It does.”
Bashir’s eyes widened.

*

Data laughed like an idiot. It’s not often Bashir is this proud of his work, but this truly is something special. Data’s wired up to a device they have named ‘the converter’ which inturn is connected to Bashir through a helmet.
“We are using so much science, I’m not sure this is legal.” Bashir cried pressing buttons on the converter.
Data took a few deep breaths and wiped his eyes. “Vulcan mind melds were once considered magic by humans.” He took a deep breath. “It was only a matter of time before the bridge between organic and man made materials was crossed.”

Bashir has no argument. “Again?” Bashir offers, holding the small rake in his hand.
“Please.” Data responds.
Bashir bends to scrape the rake along the bottom of his foot, making Data squirm in his chair and forcefully laugh. “HAhaha.. I promised I would refrain from using my chip,” He gasped for breath. “But I am glad you talked me into it.”
“Happy to oblige.” Bashir scraped the bottom of his foot again, curling his toes and sending Data into a laughing fit once again. “Oh, computer, one ice cube please.”
Data caught his breath again. “Where will the ice cube be placed?”

Bashir was already at the hole in the wall. “Oh… I had a few ideas.” He popped in his mouth. Data’s eyes widened as he hissed.
“Why does the cold burn?”
Bashir sat back down. “Receptors, Data. You have those.” Bashir said with his mouth full.
Data contorted his mouth as if trying to warm it back up. “This is an unusual sensation.”
Bashir crunched through the block. “How about that?”
“It has spread out. Doctor, is your mouth going numb?”

“Yeah, I’m hoping to cause a brain freeze.”
“What is brain freeze?”
Bashir swallowed the ice chunks. “Yup, there it is,” Bashir winced.
Data kicked back into his chair. “That is most uncomfortable. Why does my head hurt?”
“It’s called brain freeze, Data!” Bashir struggled as his tonsils warmed back up. “I am so sorry we couldn’t synthesise skin for you. I hope this is close enough.”
“This has been more than enough, doctor, but since you are here, I would like to request something.”
Bashir nodded. “Sure.”

“I wish to know what chocolate tastes like.”
“Oh, miles ahead of you. Computer, one bar of delian chocolate, or the next closest thing.”

Chapter 14: Striptease

Somewhere early in their relationship, Kira noticed Odo’s infatuation with her dressing. From date night dresses to pyjamas, Odo was always watching her clothes. Not just for the part where she was naked either, but all of it. He wanted to help her out of her jacket, he wanted to help button her tops up, he took every opportunity to pull corset laces and zips together.

It didn’t take long for Kira to take notice and to take advantage.

Just because he can shapeshift, doesn’t mean she can’t give him something nice in return. At her request, he’s done a lot for her in bed, and happily accepts challenges to please her with his abilities regularly, but tonight, Kira think’s she might play with the dynamic a bit.

Odo sits reading from a padd. She casually wanders by, slowly pulling her uniform zip down, the teeth grinding and alerting Odo to the game in play. As if by routine, Odo sets the padd down to reach over and help her, but Kira raises her head and steps away. “Ah ah,” she tuts, keeping him in suspense. “You keep your hands to yourself until I say so.”

Odo nervously lowered his hands and sat to attention, curious to the new rules of a game he thought he knew well.

Kira licked her lips with anticipation. Odo’s reaction is already exactly what she wanted to see. A hint of obedience mixed in with frustration.

She turned her back to him and pulled the jacket off with the sleeves behind her back. She let it fall from her wrists and onto the floor. She knows Odo will be watching, just itching to fold it and move to the next item of clothing, but she was one step ahead, turning to face him and raising her leg to the couch. Odo’s eyes fell to her boots as she pulled that zip down too and used the couch to separate it from her foot.

Odo watched that fall too, but his attention quickly moved to her other leg. Kira simply lifted her knee and unzipped it on one leg. Odo raised his head as she toed it off with the other foot and nudged it out of her way.

This part was going to be the hardest. Odo is already thinking about how she’s going to do this, and at what point he can involve himself, but Kira has a solution. It’s not the most seductive in nature, but she’s sure it’ll wind him up.

She turned away from him again, pulled the zip on her hip down and bent as far as her body would allow to lower them. She couldn’t see Odo’s face, but surely that must have had an effect. Kira stands straight with the uniform around her ankles and walks the garment off, standing on the fabric to peel it from her body, one step at a time.

The white criss cross top was next, being swiftly pulled over her head and thrown backwards at Odo. She heard the fabric land, but Odo didn’t move. Not a breath, not a budge. She turned to face him in nothing but her underwear, and Odo had not moved a muscle. His hands remained on his lap and his eyes focused on her.

Time for the big finally she thinks.

She struts back to Odo, whose eyes follow her’s above him.

“Odo,” she starts. “You wouldn’t mind unhooking my bra, would you?” She turns away from him, presenting her playful predicament.

She heard him stand.

She felt his hands.

She relaxed as tentative hands delicately pulled the loops away from the hooks, freeing her skin to more touches and strokes.

“Odo,” she breathes, but Odo’s hands run along her shoulder blades and push the bra off her body.

The bra hits the floor, but Odo’s hands slide back down and tuck themselves into her panties. “Can I have these too?”

“Oh yes. Yes you can.”

Chapter 15: Non-body fetish

Girls are great.

Guys are great.

Guys and girls at the same time; even better. But the problem with people is their imperfections. They talk, they want, they need, they don't always do what you want them to do. Just like how there are a few feelings in life that never lose their edge. Some experiences that are just perfect.

Sometimes, people can ruin those experiences. Sometimes those experiences ruin people.

What if there was a way to access that feeling without worrying about other people?

Leck has a solution.

Ferengi are not so known for being solitary, or violent. This Ferengi breaks all the rules. Money is just a means of getting what he wants. People are an excuse to ruin his favourite things. The single greatest feeling he can provide himself consists of ending other peoples’ lives.

Leck wanders freely into the most exclusive club on Orion. Usually these places require a bit of force to get in, but Leck knows getting dressed up and walking around with some authority also does the trick. The guards look confused as he swaggers by. The girls watch him carefully, assessing his intentions. The target, a wealthy Ferengi, sits in a booth just lower than the ground floor. Two women on each side, a cigar in his mouth and bottles scattered around like he owns the place.

The Ferengi knows who he is, but before the joy in his eyes can replace itself with fear, Leck pulls his favourite object from his jacket to do his favourite activity. Between his fingers, it sits smoothly, weighted perfectly and in sync with his body's movements, Leck levels his hand back, and throws the knife forward, releasing and chasing her at the same time.

Time slows down for events like this. She sparkles and glistens as he cuts through the air. She makes a show of herself. The guards begin pulling weapons. The girls scream and scatter, leaving the target to watch death twirl its way over. Leck sprints after it, knowing it’ll be stuck in this scumbag’s chest by the time he gets there, like a pet waiting to be recalled by its owner, his knife will sit patiently, simply blocking the wound and waiting for him.

The first sound of phaser fire doesn’t bother him. Smashed glass is just part of the routine. Voices calling for him to stop, or calling for him to be stopped can’t possibly bring him back to the present. The shocked face of his target stares through sunglasses (even though they’re indoors, poser) to beg the question; why?

Leck rests his foot on the target's chest. He leans casually as he takes his beloved back from his chest, reopening the hole and letting him bleed. Leck decides they have time to drag this out for just a little longer. Why get the fine china out if you’re only having starters?

She fits perfectly in his hand, facing either way, it doesn’t matter. The blood can be washed off, but even like this she looks beautiful. Leck plunges the knife back in. It’s satisfying to feel her glide in and get stuck, so he does it again. It never gets old.

But the guards are closing in now. The job is as good as done. No dermal regenerator is going to fix that mess, so he keeps hold of her runs for the window. A bit of preplanning gives him a much faster exit than a door ever could. No one ever checked to see the rope he hung there yesterday, and it’s not like it’ll show up on scans either. Sometimes, all you need is the old fashioned method. No tricks, no technology, no accomplices, no schemes or ulterior motives.

Sometimes, you just want to do what you’re best at, with the best tool for the job.

Chapter 16: Confined or caged

Weyoun pouts in the back of the transport. Being arrested always came with inconveniences but at least the waiting gave him time to consider his case.

The front door opens and the Jem’hadar enter with another Vorta, but this one also wears handcuffs.
“Oh. Keevan.”
Keevan looked equally unimpressed. “Weyoun. Oh how the mighty fall.”
The guards quickly shove them both into the small space and leave them awkwardly waiting in silence.

“So what did you do this time?”
“I failed the protocol. Got shot by Ferengi. You?”
“Founder put me in charge of Cardassia and they rebelled.”
Keevan smirked to himself. “I love how death means as little as life to the founders. They spent time and resources bringing us back just to kill us off again.”
Weyoun rolled his eyes. “Well I plan on getting off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.”
“Yes, well you’re quite good at getting off aren’t you.”
Weyoun scrunched his face up. “It's part of my job description. What's your excuse?”
“It kills time.”

Keevan continued to look blankly at the wall.

Weyoun folded his arms and let his mind wander.

Keevan blinked, but didn’t budge a single muscle.

Weyoun huffed. “Kills time?”
“Mhm. Unlike you, my job requires a lot of waiting around.”
“I don’t even know if we’ve set off yet.”
“Are you aski-”
“-Yes. Yes please. I can't tell you-” Weyoun was silenced by Keevan’s mouth interlocking with his own.

Keevan grabbed Weyoun's ass. Weyoun grabbed Keevan's hair.

“How are we doing this?” Weyoun whispered in a hoarse voice.
“You’re the expert, you tell me.” Keevan teased back.
“Usually there's a bed, but I suppose that wouldn’t bother you, would it.” Weyoun snides back.
“Hm. No, not usually.” Weyoun feels like he should be angry, but he really couldn’t care less if Keevan wins this one. “Lets just do fingers,” Keevan continues while trying to stick his hand down Weyoun’s pants. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your chances of a slapped wrist.”

Weyoun found himself getting very wet, very quickly. Keevan seems very confident in where he’s going and how he’s going to do this.
“You’re a very easy turn on,” he comments.
Weyoun can feel himself going purple in the face. “Well- Well, it takes - me a while, oh, there- to get there. Usually.”
“Hm. Its like they designed you to be walking sex toy.”
Weyoun moaned under his breath desperately trying not to look him in the eyes. “Just- Just because I’m allowed- agh.. And- and you’re not-” His eyes started rolling back.
Keevan dug his fingers in deep and pressed them together hard at the hip. “You’re a whore.”
Weyoun’s hips tilt further forward, encouraging him deeper, faster, as hard as his restricted clothes would allow. His face contorts and his hole tightens around Keevans fingers. He doesn’t slow, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t move. He lets Weyoun make it climax and hits slow and hard through the pathetic whimpering his partner makes.

Weyoun basically falls off him.

Keevan simply returns to standing to attention.

Weyoun shivers and pants by his side.

“And that’s how you don’t get caught.”