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Cruzing (ff/fff/mf/nc/bd/ds/alien/startrek)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Warning! Be advised that this story contains graphic, sometimes lightly
non-consentual depictions of sexual interaction, both hetero and
homosexual. The story also contains vivid, clinical, detailed
descriptions of sex with a humanoid alien. If you are under the age of
18, or if any of these subjects is likely to disturb and/or anger you,
please read no further, and save us both a flame.
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So there.
CRUZING
Chapter Two: A Stranger Walks Among Us
"Request permission to come aboard, *SIR*!"
Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the USS Enterprise, winced. Commander Riker
had warned him about this.
He looked at the diminutive officer with private skepticism. She stood on
the transporter pad, at attention, and yet oddly relaxed, as if ready for
trouble. She wore the typical camouflage-pattern pants still
standard-issue to all Marine Corps personnel, both officers and enlisted,
and a standard, sleeveless, black stretch-fabric utility shirt, which
still closed up the front via an old-fashioned zipper. Jean-Luc was struck
by how many pockets her uniform had; in contrast to standard-issue
Starfleet uniforms, which had zero, she probably had ten or more,
distributed across her legs, hips, and torso, each closed by yet more
zippers. Additionally, her shirt bore a number of metal-ringed attachment
points. In contrast to Starfleet attire, hers was eminently practical.
She wore no jewelry except the polished gold oak clusters pinned to each
lapel denoting her rank as Major in the Marines, the two burnished silver
pips also pinned to her collar denoting her Starfleet rank equivalency of
Lieutenant, and the combadge pinned to her left breast. At her back right
hip, a compact security tricorder in a black pouch depended from her belt.
At her left hip, she wore a Type I phaser. Finally, high on her right
thigh she wore an old-fashioned slug-throwing projectile weapon in a
well-used leather holster attached at both the top, by a leather strap
looping through her belt, and at the bottom, by a leather string tied
about her thigh. Tucked into small loops in the front of her belt were
what looked like two reload units for the slug-thrower. She appeared ready
for duty.
Jean-Luc surveyed the rest of her with an efficient sweep. Her boots were
Marine issue, and looked as if they could survive a force 6 ion storm.
She wore black fingerless pseudo-leather (or perhaps real leather) gloves
on each of her rather small hands. Finally, a patterned red bandanna
encircled her head, folded with what looked like exquisite care.
Commander Riker, standing next to him in the transporter room, had
explained to Jean-Luc that Cruzers had special dispensation from Starfleet
Counseling to wear their bandannas on duty. To a Cruzer, the bandanna was
a symbol of individuality, a symbolic display of the independence that
they could not show on duty. Each Cruzers' bandanna was subtly different
from all others, whether by color, length, pattern, or style of wear. A
Cruzer would sooner surrender a finger than her bandanna.
The woman herself was much shorter than Jean-Luc wound have expected, not
more than a few inches over five feet; however, she was almost unnaturally
physically fit. Her bare arms were visibly, powerfully muscular, with a
network of veins both fine and thick lurking just beneath her dark,
caramel-colored skin. She bore a significantly detailed tattoo on her
upper left bicep: the traditional globe-and-anchor of the Starfleet
Marines, as old as the Corps itself. The perfect symmetry of her body hid
her musculature at first glance; only upon closer examination did one
realize the latent power implicit in her physical development.
Additionally, there were tendons and arteries in her neck that rippled
lazily as she looked at him, Commander Riker, and Chief O'Brien in turn,
more mute testimony to the development of both her muscular and
cardiovascular systems. Finally, her shoulders were more broad then was
usual for a woman. Summary: at first glance, a bit small for a Security
Chief; at second glance, she might have given Mr. Worf some trouble.
Major Vasquez's hair was dark as space, closed-trimmed in military
fashion, and combed back with similar military precision. Picard studied
her face more closely. Nose, straight and finely chiseled. Lips, full
and expressive. Brows, dark-black, fine, detailed, nimble. Finally, the
eyes. Although Dr. Crusher had explained that Cruzer eyes were adapted
for excellent night vision, he was unprepared for their unusual
appearance. The pupils were much larger than normal, so that her eyes
contained almost no whites. --Rather like looking into twin black holes--
thought Picard, except that when she moved her head just slightly, he
could see the darkness flash suddenly to perfectly reflected silver, a
testament to her ocular light-enhancing abilities. It was a bit
disconcerting. Additionally, there was one odd, final touch: a small
tattoo in the shape of a teardrop at the corner of her left eye. He had
no idea what it meant; perhaps Will would know. . .
In summary, Major Juanita Vasquez struck Captain Picard as a woman who
would handle any security situation that could possibly come up aboard a
starship, and several more besides. --Definitely someone to have at your
back when the merde impacted the reciprocal cooling unit on an Away Team--
It was then that Picard noticed Vasquez studying him just as closely as he
had been studying her. --I wonder what sort of conclusions she's drawn
about me-- he wondered silently. In light of what Dr. Crusher had told
him during the briefing, he found himself blushing slightly. She waited
patiently for permission to come aboard, and looked as if she could wait
all day, if necessary.
"Oh, by all means, permission granted," Picard effused, stepping forward
to take her hand in greeting, "And on behalf of all my officers, welcome
aboard the Enterprise."
The woman stepped off the pad and took his hand, shaking it firmly and
efficiently. She moved like a ballerina and a predator all at once.
--Strong grip-- Picard noted. "Thank you, sir," she replied evenly,
"It's an honor to serve you." Jean-Luc noted how she said "you". Not
Starfleet. Not the Federation. *You*. Fascinating!
Commander Riker stepped forward to take one of the large, metallic cases
that had materialized with Major Vasquez, when she stopped him. "I'd
better take that one," she told him coolly, lifting it with surprising
ease. "Why don't you take my duffel?" she offered, smiling faintly.
"Commander Riker, I presume?"
Riker extended his own hand. "A pleasure, Major. I'm looking forward to
serving with you. Maybe trade a few stories. I understand you served
under Alice Ferro before she was promoted to General." Riker had effected
his usual, easygoing smile.
"That's right," Vasquez responded. "I actually still see her quite often.
She's told me a little about serving with you during your cross-post to
the Marine Corps Training Facility on Charon. You gave some kind of
training seminar on Starfleet procedures?"
"Yup," Riker replied, now grinning. "A very interesting woman. I hope
she didn't say anything bad about me. . ."
"Nothing I'd be likely to repeat," Vasquez replied evenly, now smiling a
genuine, if reserved, smile. Riker's grin widened still more, and at that
moment, he decided he liked her. A lot. "There are, however, a few things
I might like to check out for myself, though," she added, her smile
turning abruptly mischievous and distinctly warmer, her huge, dark eyes
flashing. Riker raised his eyebrows to the Captain, who decided that he
may have just witnessed the opening volley of a potential courtship.
Score: Vasquez 1, Riker 0.
"Why don't you escort the Major to her quarters?" suggested Picard, an
idea which Riker thought was as remarkable in its originality as it was in
its expediency.
"It would be my distinct pleasure," Riker beamed, his grin now taking a
turn towards the shit-eating variety. "Deck Five, after you," he motioned
to Vasquez.
"Good," she replied, all business, but with a hint of a smile still
playing across her lips. "Let's take the manual gangways, Sections 531/66a
through 66f, if I'm not mistaken. The engineering diagrams I studied
didn't include shaft clearances, and I'd like to check them out." Riker
smiled brightly, and a bit wickedly, at Picard as the two left, appearing
for all the world as a thirsty man who'd just found water, and planned to
drink deeply.
After the two had left, Picard stepped over to Chief O'Brien, who was
smiling faintly. The burly Irishman was studying his board with interest.
"I assume she tripped the transporter's security detectors?" Picard asked
mildly.
"Oh, yes indeed, sir." O'Brien replied with odd relish. "You were right
about that. Lit the board up like a newborn nebula. But I put the
transport through anyway, as per your orders."
"Good man," Picard told his Transporter Chief, having planned for such an
eventuality with O'Brien hours before Major Vasquez had ever beamed
aboard. He knew a thing or two about Marines himself. He took his own
look at the monitor board. The computer's security display screen was
displaying a schematic of a gun, specifically an M40-1A Marine-spec pulse
rifle, perhaps the highest evolution of chemically-propelled projectile
thrower technology, and an armament still in use with the Corps. "What's
that there?"
"I though you might notice that," O'Brien mused. "What she's done is leave
the under-barrel 30mm grenade launcher intact, but remove the over-barrel
launcher and replace it with a customized Type III phaser rifle." There
was admiration is his voice. "A nice job, too. Very compact. Three
weapons in one; very nasty," he added, before continuing. "And if you
like that, look at her cargo palette that I just brought into Cargo Bay
16." Jean-Luc looked at the new schematic image brought up by O'Brien.
"Oh. . . *my*," Jean-Luc managed, studying the image. "Is that what I
think it is?"
"Yes, sir, the very thing," explained O'Brien. He was grinning like an
Irish fool, Picard noted with wry amusement. It took O'Brien a moment to
notice, but when he did, he straightened, wiping the smile dead off his
face. "Of course, strictly against regulations aboard ship, sir," he
added, lamely.
"Of course, that would only be if we'd seen the violation," Picard told
O'Brien, smiling. "Computer, clear file displayed on the transporter
monitor, and the one previous to that."
The computer responded immediately. "Working. . . Files deleted."
Picard looked inquiringly at O'Brien.
"What violation would that be, sir?" the Chief replied innocently.
Picard laughed lightly. "I don't know about you, but I feel safer
already. . ."
****
Much later that day, Major Juanita Maria Vasquez heaved wearily into her
bunk (bed, she had to correct herself), on the whole feeling very
satisfied.
"Computer, messages," she called out softly, her Latin-influenced Cruzer
accent proving no problem for the computer's advanced voice recognition
algorithms.
"Working," the ship's computer responded obediently. "One message,
received 18:36.23 Zulu time, from Chief Medical Officer Crusher." Hmmm.
After a moment, Vas asked the computer, "Se habla Espanol?"
The computer replied, "Si," with a passable, if sterile, accent of its
own.
"Bueno," Vas called softly, her own rich accent savoring the word. In
Spanish, she told the computer, "From now on, if I'm alone in my quarters,
respond to me only in Spanish." --Why not?-- she thought. "Computer, play
back message. . ."
Instantly, Vas heard an unfamiliar voice begin to speak. Looking over to
the data terminal next to her bed, she saw a middle-aged, not-bad looking
redhead on-screen. There was something about doctors, no matter what the
branch of service, be it in a hospital or on the battlefield, that you
could always pick them instantly out of a crowd. The redhead was
*definitely* a doctor.
"Hello, Major Vasquez. We haven't met yet, but I'm Doctor Beverly
Crusher, the ship's Chief Medical Officer. I was wondering if I might see
you in my office tomorrow?" the doctor requested. Vas looked at the face
on the screen thoughtfully, trying to gauge the doctor's degree of
xenotolerance. It was always hard to tell with female doctors. Vas
couldn't help remembering at least half a dozen *interesting* visits to
various medical personnel during her time with the Marines. She wondered
idly, looking at Dr. Crusher, whether this latest visit would be
similarly. . . exploratory.
"I'd like to get some baseline physical data on you into the computer,"
the redhead continued, "just to be on the safe side. It's not that I'm
expecting you to come out on the losing end of a fight, you understand,
especially if what I've heard about you is correct," Crusher explained, in
a charmingly matronly way. --I wonder what else she's heard about me?--
Vasquez caught herself wondering.
"So, give me a call before you come in, and I'll make some time for a
complete physical. Thanks!" she concluded, on a positively perky note.
The Cruzer spent a moment laughing at the ceiling, feeling very much at
home. "Just what I need: a mother," Vasquez told no one in particular.
She lay back on her bed, listening to the ambient thrum of the ship.
Cruzer auditory sensitivity is about 500x that of humans, so the noise for
her was omnipresent. Luckily, Vasquez found it uniquely soothing, having
heard it in one form or another for most of her adult life.
--Here I am, on a Galaxy-fucking-Class starship, with quarters larger that
the whole Sulaco!-- she thought to herself, referring to the Marine Corps
"BUFF" that she'd commanded, a drop ship carrier. Vasquez knew that there
was some kind of military history behind that term, from the days of the
Old Earth Air Force. She didn't know precisely what the story was, but
she found the acronym singularly descriptive of the ungainly-looking
vessel that had been her home for over two years: Big Ugly Fat Fucker.
The Cruzer stretched languidly. It had been a long, but satisfying, day.
Her "security team" needed a shitload of help, to be sure, but the raw
materials were there, and soon enough, and without more than a few
washouts, the Enterprise was going to have the baddest bunch of kick-asses
this side of the Corps. In point of fact, she'd already begun kicking
them in the ass, and had introduced just about all of them to the time
honored Marine tradition of "push-ups". "They'll work out just fine," she
whispered, to no one in particular, enjoying the solitude of the moment.
Vasquez reflected on her first day aboard the Enterprise. Riker, as it
turned out, was pretty much everything that Alice said he'd be, a good
officer and a total letch at the same time. There was no doubt that he
was aiming to check out Cruzer reproductive physiology first-hand. Maybe.
. . "We'll just have to see about that, Mr. Riker," she teased herself
softly.
--Now, Captain Picard, *he's* a piece of work-- Vasquez thought to
herself. She unconsciously began to gently touch herself through her camo
pants. Already, there was a warm, wet, sticky spot spreading where the tip
of her recessed penis touched the fabric. He hadn't said a thing about the
pulse rifle. That was cool, no two ways about it.
"You also let *this* slide, you bastard," Vasquez commented, using the
term in a friendly context (Cruzers could turn the vilest oaths into the
most intimate of endearments), as she reached into the pop-drawer in her
nightstand. A bottle of tequila, Cuervo to be specific. She popped the
vacuum seal with her teeth, and took a long pull. Cruzers processed
liquor differently from humans, and like all Cruzers, Vasquez did not
become drunk, but rather tended to become relaxed and mellow. Also, like
all Cruzers, she found alcohol mildly sexually stimulating.
As often happened to Cruzers after a hard, fulfilling day at work, she was
horny. Damn horny. She looked wistfully at her still-packed duffel on
her bureau, toying with breaking out her small, but exotic, cache of
sexual appliances, but even as she considered it, she knew it was a
temporary solution. This wasn't the Marines anymore. She couldn't just
step down to the messroom, select a partner for the evening from among her
grunts, and expect that to be the end of that, as she'd been able to do on
the Sulaco. Her crew had been supremely accommodating in that regard. But
she couldn't exactly go down to Deflector Ops and pick a technician out
for the evening. And while she had *no* doubt that she would be bonding
with Picard soon, she needed to introduce the idea to him gradually.
--You've got to be careful with these Fleet boys-- Vasquez mentally chided
herself. --They are a little bit delicate--
"To the good old days," Vasquez remarked to herself, taking another pull
from the bottle. Then, abruptly, the Cruzer recapped the bottle and
rolled over to her data terminal, accessing it. "Time to see if Ferro was
right." The general had told Vas that there might be someone serving
aboard the Enterprise that she knew, and Vasquez knew Ferro well enough to
realize that the icy-cool Marine general *never* said anything without a
reason. Vasquez began sifting through personnel records.
Sure enough, it only took Vasquez seven minutes to find the name.
"Yes! Madre Dias!" Vasquez exulted softly. "Perfect!" She jumped off the
bed and started getting into some off-duty clothes, forgetting, in her
eagerness, to turn off the terminal. In softly flashing green letters,
the screen still displayed the name she'd seen, that of a Starfleet
officer Vasquez had run across years earlier, while she was still a
lieutenant in the Corps, helping to liberate a Bajoran slave camp from the
Cardassians. The name of a young woman she'd personally saved, a woman
who'd repaid her the only way she knew how, with sex. A woman who would
later become a good friend to Vas (as Vasquez preferred to be called, by
her closest friends).
The name was that of the Enterprise's Helm Officer.
Ensign Ro Laran.
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