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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.
Dekaddemon shall not be liable for any wrongdoing, whether knowingly or
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So there.
CRUZING
Chapter Six: Command Perogatives (part 6b)
Darryl Hicks sat there, in the jeffries tube, for a long while, rereading
the message until he had it memorized, and then reading it again. He
didn't know whether to consider himself fortunate or rail at his fate.
Strangely, he knew the entire question was unrelated to his sexual
orientation; her request, her order, went far beyond questions of mere
sexual preference. This was squad business. He suspected that if he were
to undertake this set of orders and succeed, he would be part of a
security team that would become legendary in its expertise. Hicks found
himself liking that possibility.
Still, the consequences of failure were. . . nightmarish. --God, she's
laid *everything* on the line-- Hicks caught himself thinking, with more
than a little admiration for his commanding officer. He closed his eyes,
centering himself and closing out everything else, a Klingonese trick Worf
had taught him.
What was his motivation?
The deepest respect he'd ever felt for a commanding officer. Sympathy for
her difficulty in sorting out her relationship with him to her liking.
Gratitude for the way she'd totally opened her soul to him. Sexual
attraction of a kind he'd never felt before.
What was the basis for his hesitation?
Fear. She was a deadly killer. He needed an ace in the hole.
Abruptly, Hicks decided to do something that he *knew* the Major would
kill him for if she were to find out. However, the moment he'd thought of
it, Hicks knew it was the right thing to do.
*****
Ten minutes later, Hicks was standing outside the door of Captain Jean-Luc
Picard's quarters, pressing the chime.
"Come," the firm, controlled-steel voice commanded him from the speaker.
Hicks found Picard lounging at the large, comfortable desk that dominated
the
right side of his main living area, facing the broad bank of windows that
looked out over the bow of the main saucer section, directly above
Ten-Forward. A cup of half-drunk tea sat in a large mug by his left hand,
and he looked up from his data display as Hicks entered. He was dressed
in a casual, comfortable ruffled shirt and dark slacks, and on his feet
were a well-used pair of mariner's deck shoes of an ancient design. He
looked . . . relaxed.
"Good evening, Lieutenant," Picard began, by way of greeting. "Come in."
He smiled warmly, his blue eyes missing nothing. "Can I offer you some
tea?"
"Actually, something stronger, if you've got it, sir," Hicks requested
evenly.
Picard looked at Hicks measuringly for a moment, before motioning him to
have a seat on the couch beneath the windows. "Scotch all right?" he
asked, reaching into an old, weathered sea chest against the wall next to
his desk, under a portrait of the Enterprise.
"Yeah," Hicks replied. He accepted the drink gratefully, noting that the
Captain had poured him a double, neat. He also noted that the Captain had
poured one for himself.
"To open doors," Picard offered, raising his glass. Hicks touch his rim
to the Captain's, before taking a healthy slug. Picard sipped. An awkward
silence descended in the room.
"You look like the proverbial man with something on his mind," Picard
prompted gently. "Anything I can help with?"
Hicks looked at Picard, stared him hard in the eye, for a long moment.
Picard accepted this, waiting patiently for Hicks to decide whether he
could trust him. "It all depends," the blond security officer said
finally, "on how far off the record you're willing to talk."
Picard, as it turned out, was willing to talk *way* off the record. The
two men talked long into the night, each sharing their perceptions about
Major Vasquez, honestly and frankly. In the end, Picard hadn't really had
much advice for Hicks, other than the benefit of long years dealing with
alien cultures and races, and a tall tale or two relating some of the more
interesting encounters he'd had with such cultures. But that alone seemed
to give Hicks whatever it was that he needed to confront this most unusual
of situations. Hicks thanked him for his input, and strode out like a man
on a mission.
After Hicks had left, Picard spent a long while staring at the onrush of
stars, thinking that the young lieutenant was in for an interesting shore
leave. He also decided that it was time to begin taking some steps of his
own to solidify his own relationship with his new Security Chief.
With deliberate intent, he contacted Counselor Troi.
*****
In his beaten, brown leather jacket, a plain white t-shirt and his
well-worn sythidenim pants, Second Security Officer Darryl Hicks looked
every inch the sleazy, slightly-creepy guy that he'd intended to portray.
The look went well with the dilapidated hotel room he now found himself
sitting in.
Hicks mentally replayed the steps he'd taken to get to this point,
studying through the dirty, half-open window the similarly dilapidated
hotel across the narrow, dank smelling alley from his current location.
Vasquez had taken her normal shore leave rotation, beaming down to the
main Starbase transporter facility, carrying one small olive-green Marine
Corps duffel bag. She'd been wearing her usual stretch-vest and camos, no
phaser, but with her autopistol hanging at her thigh. He'd rigged a
security tricorder to track her combadge, and had beamed down a minute
after she had.
After calibrating his tricorder, Hicks had deduced that his boss had
stepped into a nearby lavatory. He almost hadn't recognized her when she
emerged. Her fresh camos had been exchanged for a substantially more
worn, faded pair. Her vest had also disappeared, replaced by a simple,
sweat-damp Marine Corps tank top. Vas' Marine Corps dog tags had appeared
outside of the tank top. All her rank and insignia pins had disappeared.
She had obviously mussed her hair up a bit, having wetted it down, and
then roughly slicked it back. And the look on her face; that had amazed
Hicks most of all. His supremely cool, totally together commanding
officer had adopted the grim, determined, *fierce* look of a young,
combat-wired Marine grunt. She had looked ten years younger: brash,
cocky, but a bit frayed around the edges, as if the madness of her chosen
profession was barely peeking through the veneer of calm. She had looked
like a buck private with ten credits in her pocket, a weekend pass, and a
taste for danger. Hicks had shivered slightly; she'd looked creepier that
he had.
He'd followed her to the far end of the commercial starport, to the
Starfleet Marine Base. There, he'd watched her go into a *very*
rough-looking Marine bar just outside the base gates. She'd come out an
hour later with three young Marine males in tow, two humans and a
scummy-looking, dog-headed Vargr. They'd laughed the rough, intimate
laugh of compatriots sharing a similarly violent way of life. Had he not
known differently, Hicks would have thought that the foursome had been
serving together for years.
The group had made their to a nearby area of town, a seedy commercial
district literally just over the fence from the Marine base. Hicks
remembered smiling grimly; the place had been *thick* with whores and
prostitutes of every description, serving the Marines flowing through the
base. The males with Vas had begun to put their hands on her, caressing
her butt, giving it playful slaps. These she returned with interest to
her companions' chests and faces. It had been rather like watching Malibu
clawcat cubs roughhousing, except with a clear, darkly sexual overtone.
Wild kids with big guns.
Vas had finally led her newfound buddies to a sleazy, run-down three-story
flophouse, which on its erratic arc-sign proudly advertised "cheap, hourly
rates." Before they had gone in, he'd distinctly heard Vas tell her
buddies, "I hope you boys been eatin' your cornbread," giving the tallest,
an ugly mean-looking son-of-a-bitch, a firm slap on his hard, muscular
ass. The look she'd given the soldier had veritably screamed, "I am going
to fuck you *raw*."
Although he hadn't followed her in immediately, a bit of fine-tuning on
his tricorder had allowed Hicks to pinpoint Vas' final location on the
second floor, to the left-hand side of the building. There had been
another cheesy hotel bordering the building on that side, separated only
by a narrow alley. Perfect. The only problem had been that if Hicks had
tried to check in alone, the proprietor would probably have called the
shore patrol; *nobody* used these places for *anything* except getting
laid. So Hicks had surprised himself by assessing the talent working the
street at that time, looking for a likely candidate. He'd briefly
considered a male hooker, of which there were perhaps twenty within range
of his voice. But ultimately, he'd decided on a female, to help him into
the mood of what he was about to attempt.
So that selection had brought Hicks into the next-door flophouse, and
subsequently up to this rather squalid third-floor room. He taken the
floor above that which Vas was on in the neighboring building, so that his
angle of view would be better. The ultra-scuzzy man behind the rental
counter had groused, but he'd told him that heights turned him on, pausing
to feel up his hired companion. They came cheap in this part of town;
he'd parted with exactly twenty credits (with ten more to follow) for full
rights to the girl's mouth and cunt, and had options on anal penetration
for another ten. Christ!
Hicks had pulled up a beaten-up, weird-smelling chair to the window. He
now sat, reclined and relaxed, scanning the opposite building's mostly
open windows with his field optical enhancer, for signs of his quarry,
while the hooker between his legs hungrily went down on him. Hicks paused
momentarily to contemplate the top of her bobbing, tousled head. Through
the purple dye, he could see strawberry-blond roots. He didn't know her
name, and he doubted she was older than fifteen. Hicks found himself
vaguely disgusted and turned-on at the same time, truly a remarkable state
of mind. The girl slid his now firmly erect penis from her mouth,
admiring her handiwork.
"Shit. . . big!" she murmured, before attacking it again. And so he was.
Hicks' penis was eleven inches long, very pale and smooth, almost
hairless. Surprisingly, the long, erect length was very uniform in
thickness (which was substantial) from glans to base, rather like a
carefully sculpted bar of pale steel. A pair of rather large testicles,
again almost hairless, were slung beneath the proud shaft, and the young
hooker took particular care to caress gently, wetting them with her own
saliva. He could feel himself begin to seep into her mouth.
Raising the field glasses again, Hicks began to scan each open window
across the alley. The warm, humid air of the planet lent itself to open
windows; none of these buildings looked like they had working plumbing, to
say nothing of air conditioning. He tapped the magnification pad.
Straight fucking, straight sucking, more straight fucking. One sleazy
male, partially dressed (a Marine, judging from his regulation olive
underwear) paying out worn credit notes to a naked, similarly sleazy
female. They both looked sweaty and had the sensually-worn, post-fuck
look of satisfaction. Another nude female inserting a wicked-looking
sexual appliance into another male's straining anus (another Marine,
judging from his tattoos). Hicks lingered on a rather hot homosexual
four-way going, three male hookers giving it hard and deep to muscular
young marine. --*He* must have had some money-- Hicks though bemusedly,
about to scan to the next window. . . and stopped. He realized with the
clarity of thought bourn of service in Starfleet that he'd jumped to
several incorrect conclusions. Fighting a certain giddiness associated
with the feeling of being on the verge of a major discovery, Hicks
re-examined the sexual drama being played out in front of him. He didn't
feel himself swelling larger in the hooker's voracious mouth, dripping
steadily.
First, and most importantly, the muscular marine getting fucked was not a
man, but a woman. Secondly, of the three male hookers, two were humans
and one was a Vargr, and they were not hookers at all, but marines also.
The scene filling the enhancer's field of view now had Hick's full and
complete attention. He knew almost at once how wrong he'd been, mentally
chiding himself. One of the males chose that moment to move slightly, and
there, on the stained bed, the body of Major Juanita Vasquez, his
commanding officer, was revealed in all its muscular, sweaty glory.
Between the shortness of her thick black hair and her build, Hicks could
see how he had mistaken her gender.
Hicks activated the enhancer's directional, tight-beam sound pickup, and,
unclipping the mastoid skin speaker from the glasses, licked it and
pressed it to the bone just behind his left ear. Immediately grunting
moans and heavy breathing leaked into his head, transmitted via his
cranium. His eyes drank in the scene filling the viewfinder. She lay on
her back on the bed with the Marines crowded around her, indulging
themselves sexually with her; still, Hicks had a excellent view as the
Vargr spread his commander's legs apart, moving between them. Amid urgent
encouragements from the other two men to "lock up with her", the Vargr fed
the enormity of his slick, dog-like penis up her moist cunt and began to
fuck her with quick, powerful stabs. Vas let out a really low moan and
began to grunt in time to the Vargr's thrusts. Even though the other two
men held the woman's broad shoulders against the headboard, it was clear
that she was a very willing participant in the lusty action. Her grunts
became a wet moan as one of the men fed his huge, sinewy cock between her
full red lips. The third man contented himself with rubbing his similarly
well-endowed weapon all over her face. She began to alternate back and
forth between the two generous shafts, attentively sucking on each
dripping pole.
Hicks found himself marveling once again at Vasquez' fantastic body. She
was in superb physical shape, with a distinct but sexy masculine flavor to
her swelled biceps and broadly muscled back and shoulders, an effect
heightened by the fact that she didn't shave. There were thick mats of
dark, wiry hair nestled under each of her powerful arms, and her pubic
area was, of course, more akin to an animal than man. Her Latin-extracted
Cruzer heritage was proudly evident in myriad ways. The deep black color
of her hair. The olive complexion of her skin, a perfect blend of honey
and cream.
Hicks realized belatedly that he really hadn't any idea of Vasquez' age.
She must be around thirty, given her level of advancement, he decided, as
he began to thrust slowly into the girl's mouth. But his C.O. didn't look
it, especially now. She appeared quite young, Hicks noted, Perhaps in her
very early twenties, if that. Her build was very compact, and she looked
even shorter that her five-foot-and-change height indicated, given the
giants surrounding her. --God, I'll bet she hates short jokes!-- Hicks
mused silently. Yet despite the firm, rippling bulges of her muscles,
everywhere from her calves to her ass to her arms, Vas wasn't stringy or
veiny, like some woman who weight-trained seriously. The woman, to
Hicks's mind, had the perfect amount of body fat, smoothing hard, muscular
bulk into something infinitely sexier, more sleekly sensual. The
masculinity of her build had a smooth, unquestionably feminine flow. And,
most importantly, she hadn't lost an ounce of her fantastic tits. They
were incredibly firm twin globes of bronzed flesh, and looked really big
on her compact frame without being unmanageable. The wide aureoles were
deep black, again testifying to her Cruzer heritage, and the bright red
nipples were prominently erect and protruding the center of each. But
now, Vas sported an addition, a small gold ring that bit into, and
pierced, the wet, sticky bud of her right nipple. Kinky.
Other than that bit of jewelry, and a small gold crucifix she wore around
her neck, intertwined with her dog tags, her body was unadorned, except by
tattoos, scars, sweat, and thick, matted pubic hair. Hicks examined his
superior intimately, from head and foot, cataloging each feature as a
space explorer would catalog stars. He'd already seen the Marine Corps
globe-and-anchor tattooed on swell of her right bicep, but he'd never seen
the small but elaborate Special Forces tattoo adorning the lower left
quadrant of her ridged abdomen. He tapped the magnifier pad to its
maximum setting, and closely examined the blue-green-red-black design of a
blood-dripping dagger surmounting a pocked moonscape. He could just make
out the fine detail of the banner below it, etched on her sweat-beaded
skin: "First In - Last Out", the motto of an elite drop commando. The
dagger seemed to undulate as Vas alternately tensed and relaxed her abs.
"Bite me just a little, honey," Hicks directed the girl between his
sweat-moist thighs, as he continued to watch the scene playing out a world
away from, and yet not twenty feet from him. She obligingly began to
gently nip him just behind the glans. "That's good, baby. Your tip's
going up all the time. . ."
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