Sato

After all the uncertainty, relief has me feeling drunker than the mouthful of bourbon I snatched from the flask now lying forgotten beside the fire.

I thought disaster had struck when I heard Malcolm cry out down by the water, and the sound of splashing. I was on my feet in an instant, ready to run down and offer whatever help I could, but Trip didn't call for me; so I just waited, my heart in my mouth. And a few minutes later I hear the sound of their footsteps in the sand, and I can't wait any more: I step to the opening between the trees, and the light of the fire behind me picks out the shapes of the two of them making their way up the beach.

Or maybe I should say 'shape' rather than 'shapes'; with a rush of relief and excitement I see that they have their arms around each other. Trip is laughing, laughter with an edge of relief in it. Malcolm is desperately serious, though wicked amusement flits across his face in response to something Trip whispers in his ear. Every now and then, as they walk up the beach, one pulls the other in for a kiss. They're both naked, and their bodies are beautiful. Trip has the wider shoulders, and is the more conventionally handsome of the two in my opinion, but Malcolm is as toned as an athlete. I know they're both formidably strong, and I shudder with anticipation as I watch them teasing and caressing each other. As both of them turn to me, Trip wears the gleam of triumph, while Malcolm is glittering with a predatory recklessness that borders on desperation.

Trip and I are evidently of one mind. Our reluctant playmate deserves a little preliminary punishment for his misbehavior earlier on. Perhaps he agrees with us, because he doesn't resist as Trip pushes him to all fours by the fire.

My oh my. Have we been a naughty boy then, Malcolm?

He certainly seems to think so, for he doesn't struggle. And he doesn't protest his innocence as I saunter closer, my mind turning over what additional contribution I can make to his torment.

Yes, Trip. Play nicely with Malcolm. After all, we'll want to use him again afterwards.

Inspiration strikes. During our previous encounter, I made certain discoveries about our armored Armory Officer's few small weaknesses. And while Trip's making sure he can't move, I can exploit one of these to the full.

Right, Mister Reed. Take a good look. My, yes, you do look like a half-starved tiger eyeing a T-bone steak, but you can't move a muscle, can you? And by the look on his face, Mister Tucker is having so much fun. I hope you're enjoying it too. It's so good when everyone plays nicely.

Perhaps I'll just turn around.

Slowly.

What was that, Malcolm? Touch? Oh no, we can't have that. You can just look. There. You like that, don't you? I thought you might. Oh, and Trip likes it too. Two starving tigers, except that one of them is already sampling the hors d'oeuvres. Don't be rough with him, Trip, even if your eyes are starting to roll.

Oh dear, Malcolm's eyes are starting to roll too. Perhaps he's taken his punishment like a good little boy, and deserves a reward.

He's too far gone to even whimper as I wriggle between his arms. And it seems I'm only just in time, because if I'm any judge of these things, detonation of his very own fully-armed warhead is imminent.

Goodbye, Malcolm.

Heavens, I wouldn't be surprised if they heard that noise up on Enterprise. And it appears that my innocent ministrations have had a knock-on effect, because the shocks rocking the body above me suggest that Trip is also enjoying this development quite a lot.

Imagine, both of them trying to contact the ship without using a communicator. They really are two very silly boys. I mean, I'm the comms officer and even I wouldn't try that.

Well, I suppose I'd better get out of the way, to judge by the way the legs on either side of my head have suddenly started to look rather quivery. Yes, Malcolm, have a little lie down. Good boy. Just stop gasping now, we've hardly started and I have lots more things for you to play with.

Strangely enough, Trip also seems to be suffering some difficulty with using his legs properly. With a slurred 'Back in a minute', he stumbles back out to the beach. Having seen that his torso is coated with sand, I can only approve. After all, I want a good shagging, not an all-body sandpapering. ('A good shagging'… oh dear, I can't imagine where I got that expression from.)

I sit down expectantly and wait for my two playmates to muster for duty again. Trip reappears in just a minute or two, slick as a seal and gratifyingly sand-free; lying sprawled on the sand for those few minutes, panting for breath, appears to have worked wonders for Malcolm, who turns his face to me with emphatic and ungentlemanly intentions written all over it.

Now, I know that however willing my boys may be, Mother Nature demands a certain amount of time for – let's say – refueling. This, I'm happy to say, is a period they like to fill in by running tests on my reactions. Exhaustive tests. (Well, okay, maybe I mean exhausting, but that's by the bye.) And, of course, it's only polite for me to co-operate.

Of course, they have different areas of specialty, but they both have interested, analytical minds and deft, skillful fingers. I haven't worked out yet exactly where tongues fit into the required skill-set, but if there's some kind of weaponry that can only be detonated by licking, I'll tell you who designed it.

I'm pleased to see that their time on board Enterprise has made them so quick to come to decisions and act on them. In hardly any time at all, Trip's rucksack is propped against a handy tree, Trip's back is propped against the rucksack, and my butt is parked between his thighs. My hands are placed on the outside of his hips, and in the voice of a ranking officer, he orders me to keep them there until told otherwise; and of course (these men are my senior officers, after all!) I, a mere Ensign, have to do as I'm ordered. The ship's tactical officer settles into place between my legs, with the expression of a man who intends to take his time.

Ooh, there are so many promises in that look.

One long, slow, strong lick presses up the length of lace.

Trip holds me still. Not that I want to go anywhere, you understand. The insides of his forearms press against the lace of my bra, but his hands are flat against my belly. They pick up quiver after quiver as a moth flutters around the inner parts of my thighs, its, soft, moist wings just brushing my most sensitive places as it passes.

Presently, however, they leave the moth to continue its fluttering, and start straying upward and inward. Their touch is light and almost random, but the mind of the best engineer of his generation is directing it. If a central nervous system can be thought of as an electrical wiring assembly, Trip manipulates circuits and relays with consummate skill.

Fingers that can deal with the most intricate workings of the most sophisticated warp drive engine in Starfleet make short work of the conveniently situated clasp of my bra. It parts so quickly that I hardly know it's happened; I'm alerted only by the parting slide of lace against skin.

Observation is one of a Tactical Officer's most valuable skills. Almost at once the moth begins straying up my twitching belly, drawn by two beguiling flowers.

The hands hold me still. Trip plainly doesn't want me disturbing the moth, which flits shyly here and there but never quite makes up its mind to settle, despite the noises I'm making for some mysterious reason.

"Sssh…. Sssh," his voice croons in my ear. He's watching the moth, and his hands cup flesh so that the flowers are presented temptingly for the moth's delectation; perhaps it needs encouragement.

But the damned insect won't be tempted, though my nerve endings shudder to the faint warm waft of air from its wings. It flutters away again and dips curiously into my navel before going back to a richer source of nectar, where it starts its maddening and indecisive dance all over again.

It seems that Trip sympathizes with my disappointment. More: that he's a secret student of exobotany. At first he's slow and careful. It seems almost as though he's afraid that the flowers are made of pink cotton candy and may bruise at the slightest touch, but to my ecstasy he soon finds this to be untrue.

I'm afraid I'm having terrible difficulty in remaining obediently quiet. And I'm not helped by the fact that the moth has made the intriguing discovery that there's an even more generous source of nectar to be reached by sliding underneath the rim of the by-now rather damp lace.

Hopefully my disobedience is being noted and will attract additional disciplinary measures later.

For such a previously shy insect, the moth's certainly undergone a personality change. And far be it from me to discourage its newly-wakened curiosity. I'm confident that my slowly pushing down my pants without first asking permission from either of the officers present will be added to the list of my transgressions. The soft murmur in an English accent definitely suggests so, though while the moth momentarily fluttered away, a pair of hands deftly removed the lace from around my ankles. The moth obviously wasn't too badly frightened though, because it soon returns, a moth as bold and inquisitive as before, if hardly any more forceful.

I'm briefly distracted by the results of Trip's crash course in botany, which has my spine bending like a bow while he whispers things in my ear that are definitely unbecoming an officer, if absolutely thrilling to imagine. When I'm able to think again, I make the spine-tingling discovery that the moth has apparently crept into the safest of safe places, and a single-minded ant-eater is in pursuit of it. Deft claws gently pull me open. Apparently the beast knows the insect's in there somewhere and is determined to explore every millimeter of every crevice. Its care and patience are phenomenal, as is the effect on my vocal cords.

The moth has gone very deep inside. Oh, very deep. So deep that even the most determined probing can't reach it, though the ant-eater's efforts are strenuous and prolonged.

Perhaps the pursuer has poor eyesight. Just as I'm getting to the point where I can't bear another second, something else attracts its attention. Maybe it thinks this is another sort of insect nestling almost out of sight. An insect that can be ever-so-gently sucked and licked out of its crevice…

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