The BLTS Archive - It's Just Sex!
First in the It's Just Sex! series
by Emily Gifford (menippee@ix.netcom.com)

---

I leave offerings, burn incense, and sing chants to they who are alpha
and omega, brilliant in their creativity and merciful in their legal
department, they who are Paramount on a distant mountain top.

Comments welcome, especially nice and/or helpful ones.  Otherwise,
well...  just 'cause I like pain, don't think I'm a masochist.

This picks up almost at the end of "Blood Fever," departing from the
"Voyager" universe in paragraph four.

---

Paris considered the awkward silence for a minute.  He knew that right
here, right now, he had a choice to make: make his stand, and risk
losing B'Elanna's friendship forever, or continue with meaningless,
stupid chitchat, pretending nothing had happened, and...  risk losing
B'Elanna's friendship forever.

"Computer, halt turbo-lift.  B'Elanna, this is ridiculous!"

"You're right.  We just need to pretend that this whole mission never
happened... "

Paris was dumbfounded.  He considered any of a number of responses,
then opted for the one he truly wanted to make.  It was a risk, but
when had anything but risk appealed to him? "The hell you say!"

He could see in her eyes that she wasn't going to make it easy for
him.  "Lt. Paris," she said, injecting more starch into her voice than
he'd ever heard even the Captain use, "I suggest you consider your
next words v-e-r-y carefully!"

Paris already had.  "Look, Torres, all the pretending and ignoring in
the world can never change the fact that yesterday you pushed me
against a rock-face and begged... "

Torres interrupted him with a shout.  "That wasn't me!"

"I suppose that was Kes who bit my cheek, claimed me for her own,
begged me to take her, and now wants to make it all go away?"

"I was picking up on that weird Vulcan telepathic thing!"  She wasn't
quite angry enough yet, Paris saw.  "Any male would have done!"

"Oh, any male?  Tuvok and Chakotay were available to you, too, you
know.  Not too mention Vorik."

"At that point I was near death!  That should tell you something about
the appeal of your charms!"

No more Mr. Nice Guy, thought Paris.  "Yeah, that you're so afraid
what sex might make you do that you have to wait until you're forced
by circumstances before you'll turn to someone you've been dying to
fuck for two years!"

"What?!?"

"Yeah.  You've wanted me and I've wanted you.  We've been enemies,
we've been friends, and now it's time for us to be... "  Rather than
finish the thought with words, Paris moved forward to slam Torres
against the turbo-lift bulkhead, biting at her neck and growling his
need just as Torres had done to him less than a day before.

For two seconds, B'Elanna did nothing, then reached up, circling her
hand around his throat to push him away from her.  A lesser man, one
not worthy of her, would have fallen to the deck or even careened off
the far bulkhead, but Paris stayed on his feet, albeit two feet from
her.   It was enough.  Those two seconds had been an eternity, a
microcosm of a lifetime's unformed desire, the longing of the last two
years summed up in an encounter that had left him shaking, sweating
and hard as stone.

Torres looked at him, ice and fire and fury in her eyes.  "Wanted you
for two years," she began, scorn dripping off her just as desire
emanated from him.  She took a deep breath to light into him, but
never finished the sentence.

Paris had been watching her intently, and saw the change immediately.
_She has my scent_, he thought triumphantly.  She was no longer angry,
she instead looked confused, a little frightened, and a lot aroused.
"What... " she said hesitantly, unsure of what she was asking.

He moved toward her again, slowly this time.  "That's me," he said
gently.  "You're smelling me, the need I have for you... "

She shook her head, denying herself.  "I can't," she said.  "I
don't...  I haven't... "  Torres trailed off.  It had been so long,
and the repression so thorough, that she no longer remembered the
words, the rituals.

Paris was now holding her.  "You can," he told her.  "You almost did."

"I lost control...  don't remind me of that," she said weakly.  Her
body remembered, though, and her hands were touching his face, her
hips thrusting toward his.

"You can," Paris repeated, strongly this time.  "You have to," he
commanded her to do what they both wanted.

"I have to... " she repeated.  "Your smell...  I need...  you smell
like... " She pulled him to her, their bodies now in full contact,
their arousal enfolding them.  She was undulating against him,
touching him wherever and however she could, each contact making her
restless for more.

"Like what," Paris gasped.  If he'd needed all his strength to stand
after she'd pushed him away, he needed more now.

"Like...  mine," B'Elanna said.  With that admission, all vestiges of
hesitation left her.  She was pulling his mouth to her chest, needing
his teeth on her breasts, even if only through her uniform.

Paris breathed in her scent.  "You don't smell right, though," he
growled.

"What?"  B'Elanna asked, though she hadn't really heard him.

Paris pulled his head back and forced her to look in his eyes.  "You
don't smell right," he told her again.  "You smell like soap and
sickbay and Starfleet.  You don't smell like B'Elanna.  You don't
smell Klingon."

B'Elanna looked at him in confusion.  "But I... "

"Don't," he said harshly.  "You're so afraid of that big scary Klingon
side of you.  I'm not.  That's what I want.  I want you to smell like
a Klingon, taste like one, fuck like one.  I want you as you are, not
as you think you should be.  I don't care if you break my collarbone.
I don't care if I break yours.  Because... that's... the... way...
we... are."

Before she could answer him, the computer interrupted.  "Shit!" Paris
exclaimed as the computer informed them that someone on Engineering
had over-ridden his halt command.

He looked at B'Elanna.  On the surface, she composed herself rapidly,
ready to face their interrupter.  But even as her Starfleet mask
descended, he could smell the start of stark, strong Klingon desire.

"Nineteen hundred hours, holodeck three," he said brusquely as the
turbolift stopped at Engineering.  B'Elanna nodded with
uncharacteristic submission as she picked up her data PADD and strode
into Engineering.  As she left, another boarded, presumably the author
of the untimely override.  Paris paid him no mind; he was thinking
instead of the last look that Torres had given him.

The new rider sniffed the air delicately.  "Hmmm," said Lt. Vorik.
"I think I can recommend some excellent meditation techniques if you
need them... ."

---

Paris had always loved seeing his dates unawares, and was not above
cheating to achieve that end.  He had carefully programmed the
environmentals outside Holodeck three to scent and swirl the air just
right, so that B'Elanna would be looking for him to her left even as
he watched her as he approached from the right.  Sneaky, but he was
glad he'd done it, especially when he saw her standing by the Holodeck
arch.

B'Elanna was waiting by Holodeck three, hair in bun and rose in hand.
She was wearing a frothy pink chiffon dress with matching stole, of a
style Paris had last seen in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.  He could see
the gleam of a pearl necklace on the nape of her neck.  He just barely
managed to keep from laughing out loud.  Even her shoes were
uncharacteristic: high heeled, strappy things that looked like
something a penitent would wear for trudging the last ten miles to
Canterbury.

Thanks to his reprogramming of the environmentals (with the assistance
of Lt. Vorik, eager to make amends to one and all), a hint of cool
breeze blew across B'Elanna and wafted toward him.  At least she'd
gotten *something* right.  After seeing her wardrobe choice of the
evening, he'd been afraid she'd reek of My Sin, First,  or, God
forbid, Evening in Paris.  But she'd taken enough of their turbo-lift
conversation to heart not to wear artificial scent; in fact, he'd
guess that she'd worked out hard since he'd last seen her and not
showered afterward.  Her smell countered the humor he was finding in
her dress; he was already hard.  He could feel his own pores start to
open and release the scent of his desire.  He coughed, partly to let
her know he was there, but mostly to work some rapidly accumulating
tension from his throat muscles.

B'Elanna turned to him, and suddenly her costume wasn't quite so
hilarious.  The chiffon followed every movement she made, clinging to
her body and releasing more of her scent.  Her face, either from
judicious use of make-up or because of the clothes and hairstyle,
seemed preternaturally delicate.  Yet it was still B'Elanna's face,
familiar and beautiful.

"There you are," she said briskly.  "Here."  She shoved her artificial
rose at him, giving him no choice but to take it.  A bit more
smoothly, he presented her with the flower he'd brought for her.

She grabbed it, looked at it wonderingly, and jumped slightly as a
thorn pricked her thumb.  She lifted it to her face to smell it.
"It's real," she breathed, and looked at the rose with awe, and at
him with gratitude.  "How did you ever get Kes... "

"Neelix put in a word for me.  He is, for some reason,  quite happy to
help me advance my love life," Tom said lightly.

"You told Neelix?"

Tom shrugged.  "The whole ship already knows.   You *know* what a
blabbermouth Tuvok is."  B'Elanna looked bemused, not amused.  "That
was a joke," he said.

"Right," she said, efficiency returning to her voice even as she
avoided meeting his eyes.  "Now, I know you probably have some sort of
program set up in three, but I'd prefer the program I've got lined up
in four, if you don't mind.  I think it's more appropriate for a first
date... "

"First date?  What the hell are you talking about?"

"Really, I've programmed an excellent venue," she said huffily.

"B'Elanna, do you even remember what's been happening to you...  to
us...  the last couple of days?"

Now she did look straight into his eyes.  "I remember," she said,
heating him with the tone of her voice.  Then she looked away again,
nerves replacing desire.  "It's just that this is all so new and...
well...  unaccustomed...  and I... "

"You're nervous!"  Tom exclaimed.  "You're totally nervous!  That's
why you're trying to control the setting for our... "

"Date!"  Torres exclaimed before he could finish the sentence.  "And I
am not nervous!"

"You're such a liar!"

"Just get in the damn Holodeck!"

"Not until you admit you're nervous."  Truthfully, Tom had already
reconciled himself to whatever was behind Door Number Four, but he
knew that he couldn't give her what she wanted without demanding
something of her in return.

B'Elanna looked at him, then at each Holodeck door in turn.  She wet
her lips...  _Christ, she fights dirty!_ Tom thought as he shifted
from one foot to the other.  "OK, OK, I'm nervous," she admitted.
"But, please, Tom, for the sake of friendship if nothing else, give me
this?" She had turned pleading eyes to him, and he was lost.

"After you," he said, pushing the control for Holodeck four, and
escorting her inside.

Tom waited for the maitre d' to finish seating them and vanish before
speaking.  "What, precisely, is this?"

"It's the Tour d'Argent," B'Elanna said.  "See?  Right there is Notre
Dame, and there the Seine, and those boats are called
'bateaux-mouches;' they're for sight-seeing.  They do a galactically
famous pressed du... "

"Shut up," said Tom, forcefully enough that she did.  "I was going to
let that...  dress pass, barely.  Don't get me started on the shoes,
though they might come in handy...  later.  And thanks for not
showering.  But this?  And that whole first date crap?  I ain't the JV
football captain, Torres, and this ain't the prom."

He could see that B'Elanna was getting angry, which suited him fine.
Better his belovedly familiar, rageful B'Elanna than some
chiffon-wearing, cheese-eating bimbo who wouldn't know what to do with
his cock if it slapped her in the face.

"Look, Paris, I don't know what kind of dirty stories you've picked up
about Klingon girls, but I like a little romance, some sweet talk.  It
was bad enough that you showed up in uniform... ."

"Sweet talk?  You're a stupendously bad bull-shitter, Torres."

Now Torres was truly angry.  She picked up her empty wine glass,
smashed it against the edge of the table, and menaced him with the
sharp remnant still in her hand.

"Oh, yeah, all romantics threaten their *dates* with broken barware,"
he goaded her.  "It's famous nice-girl behavior."

Torres rose from her chair, leaning across the table to threaten him
with the broken glass.  Paris moved quickly enough to bypass her
reflexes and snatch the glass from her.  As he tossed it aside, he
snarled at her.  "If you're going to threaten me, don't be so goddamn
puny about it.  I deserve better."

"You can't handle better," she growled at him.  He recognized the
sexual challenge; her scent was sharp, filling him with her desire and
his.  He grabbed her arms, hard enough that she would bear bruises,
and pulled her across the table.  He'd been willing to accommodate her
anxieties, but that was no longer necessary, or even wanted.

B'Elanna was struggling in his arms, but her scent told him it was
pretense.  She needed him to prove to her that he could and would take
her on.  His arms forced her body against him as his mouth covered
hers, teeth grinding against teeth, his tongue forcing hers to taste
him.

Then she changed.  He had proven himself, at least for now, and though
she still struggled, it was a struggle to get closer, to match him.
She could feel him against her, his muscles, his hands, his tongue,
and his cock all working to give her pleasure.  She wrenched at his
uniform, began pulling it off him when it refused to tear.

Her own clothing gave way easily to the pressure of his hands, and she
wondered dimly if she had chosen chiffon just so he could tear it from
her.  "I can't get close enough," she panted as they worked on
removing their clothes.  "I need... "

She didn't bother to finish, instead pulling his face against her
chest.  He was licking, sucking, biting at her breasts...  doing all
the things she needed and longed for.  He bit down hard on one nipple,
and as she screamed out loud for the pain and pleasure, she wondered
dimly if he'd drawn blood, hoped he had.

Paris had pulled all her clothes off, and was using one hand to hold
her against him, while the other felt her vulva, roughly pawing folds
of tender flesh, pushing in as far as possible even as she pushed
against his hand.

"Tom!" B'Elanna called to him, then lost speech for moans that spurred
his desire.  His cock was starting to drip, and he could feel his
entire body merge with it, until his desire, soul, body, blood, heart,
and mind felt like nothing but arousal, twitching and jumping with the
absolute need to join with B'Elanna.

As he continued to touch and bite, he supposed he must be hurting her.
He felt no guilt for the pain he caused, but envy.

"The rose," he groaned as he held himself at her outer folds.

"What?  I need you!"  She tried to bear down on him, but he held her
back.

"The rose," he commanded.  "Take it!"

She groped for it on the table next to her, clutched it in her hand.
Blood blossomed around the thorns as they bit her hand.

"Hold the blossom," he said through gritted teeth.

"I need you," she whimpered, ignoring him.

"I need this," he growled.  "Hold the blossom."  She did as he asked,
looking at him with frustration and curiosity.

"Use it," he told her, and comprehension came to her as thrust fully
into her.

"Christ!"  Paris had known it would be good, but this defied both
expectation and experience.  She was moving involuntarily around him,
but he needed more.  He began the thrusting that would bring friction,
tension, and release.

"Faster!" B'Elanna was commanding as she writhed against him, her
entire body alive and sparking against his.

Tom thrust again, again, again, again.  "You know," he gasped, barely
able to get the words out.  "You know how to...  make...  that...
happen."

She lifted the rose, holding the flower in her hand as she clutched
the base of the blossom between thumb and forefinger.  She raised the
flower high above them, then brought down the stem hard on his back.

Paris gasped as the thorns slapped him.  He felt the blow all through
his sensitized body, its sting of pain and pleasure spurring him on.
"Harder," he gasped, not sure if he was commanding himself or
B'Elanna.

Again and again she whipped him with the rose, at first using as much
force as she dared.  As Tom's thrusting grew stronger and went deeper,
she struck him as hard as she could.  With each blow, they could both
feel the power flowing between them.  Paris was riding her hard, yet
she rode him harder.  They had reached a plateau where both gave and
took, where his pain was her pleasure, her pleasure his pain.

Paris felt her contracting around him, the blows to his back reaching
a crescendo then weakening as she screamed again and again.  The sound
of her orgasm gave him permission for his, and he lifted his head back
and shuddered as pleasure wracked him.  He had wanted to look into her
eyes as he came in her body this first time, but he found he could no
more keep his eyelids from closing than he could keep his cock from
pulsing out his semen or his mouth from giving voice to her name.

As B'Elanna fell back, too exhausted to support herself, her name on
his lips trailed to a hoarse and  grateful chant.  He collapsed
against her, knowing he could never crush her.  Neither had words to
describe what they had just been through, yet Torres spoke
nevertheless.

"Why was I so nervous?"  Her voice was quiet, but rich with
satisfaction and triumph.  "It's just sex, after all."

_That, my mate, is your biggest mistake yet_ Tom thought, but said
nothing.  If he had to spend years at it, he knew that he could
eventually show her that what they shared was no more sex than the
rose he had brought her, its blossom now in tatters, was the same as
the artificial rose she had given him.

---

The End