The BLTS Archive - B'Elanna and the Infernal Device by Bianca O'Blivion (blancaoblivion@yahoo.com) --- Disclaimer: No. Nothing. Never. Rating: Move along, folks. Nothing to see here. Some wise literary smartass once remarked that anyone who doesn't find sex at least slightly ridiculous probably isn't doing it right. Imipolex G will be familiar to anybody who ever plowed all the way through "Gravity's Rainbow". Otherwise, it is pretty near inexplicable. --- For several minutes, Seven watched B'Elanna's struggles and listened to her muttered curses. Finally she asked, "Lieutenant, are you quite certain you know what you are doing?" B'Elanna looked up from a tangle of synthetic leather and plastic and growled, "Keep your shirt on, Blondie! I'm just about ready for you." "I am not wearing a shirt," Seven pointed out. She was not wearing anything else, either. She sat cross legged on the bed, a sight which ordinarily might render B'Elanna immobile or speechless or both. At the moment, however, B'Elanna was distracted. With a feigned air of innocence, Seven smirked, "If I were to put on a shirt, would that facilitate matters?" B'Elanna adjusted a strap and said, with some exasperation, "You know, Sev, I went through a lot of trouble to make this thing. This isn't some cheap replicated knock-off! Hand craftsmanship!. Fully researched, authentic materials, precise assembly. All for your benefit, too! I mean, this is an authentic reproduction of a 21st Century design!" Seven said, "Yes, and we all know what a golden era the 21st Century was. Wars, oppression, global catastrophes, bad politics and worse entertainment. The iPhone infection and crunk music." "Yeah? What'd you Borg accomplish in the 21st Century? Wait, I know. You assimilated some stuff. Big whoop!" B'Elanna cinched a belt tighter. "Is that comfortable?" Seven asked. "It does not look comfortable." B'Elanna lied, "Feels great. You worry about your end, Seven. I'm great on mine." She attempted to get the belt not to dig into her hipbones. "My end is rather an alarming color," Seven noted. "Are you quite certain that hue is authentic?" "Within the limitations of primitive offset printing, yeah, it's dead-on. Just like the catalog picture. See?" B'Elanna held out a PADD displaying a scan of an ancient, dog-eared catalog page. Very few fragments had escaped the fires of the Cheney Cleansing of 2008, so the page was only partially legible. "My database includes 2,478 humanoid species, " Seven said skeptically, examining the image. "And I am not familiar with any that have such an improbable epidermal tint." She watched B'Elanna fiddling with various adjustments and asked, "I do not suppose that your research uncovered an instruction sheet?" B'Elanna drew herself up indignantly. "I happen to be a fully qualified engineer, you know. I think I can figure this out, especially if I don't get a lot of interference from the peanut gallery!" "Well!" Seven pouted. "If you do not want helpful suggestions, perhaps I should just go back to my Cargo Bay and let you amuse yourself! Which should be a simple matter, given the present orientation of that part of your invention." "Huh? Oh, I get it. Backwards. This thing here is supposed to line up here. Piece of cake!" B'Elanna twisted a strap around and, hands on hips, asked, "Better? That pass inspection, Blondie?" "It seems more plausible, but you do not look any more comfortable. But I suppose that for a Klingon, comfort is irrelevant." B'Elanna retorted, "I'll be fine, Sev. It's your comfort you should worry about, once I get going. Good thing your own equipment has all those cybernetic enhancements and reinforcements. You'll need 'em, to keep up with me!" "Delusions of grandeur?" Seven mused, taking her left foot in her right hand and inspecting her metallic toenails. "This is what I get for letting you read Mr. Paris' old magazines. "Hot Lesbo Action" indeed!" "That's "Hot Girl On Girl Action"," B'Elanna told her. "You're thinking of "Lesbo Girls Go Wild"." "If you say so," Seven said. "Although my eidetic memory indicates that you are confusing that title with "Lesbo Sluts In Hot Action". In any event, I do not believe any of the women pictured were, in reality, lesbians." "Reality, schmerality," snorted B'Elanna, cinching her harness a little tighter. "If it weren't for Helmboy's dirty magazines, I'd never stumbled onto the "Eve's Garden" codex. And then where would we be?" "Making passionate love instead of watching you struggle with a recalcitrant harness?" "Kahless' Pocket Protector, Seven! You claimed you were open to new experiences, well, you're about to experience one! This is gonna be fun, you'll see!" Seven sighed and arranged the pillows for maximum cushioning. "We shall see. To this point, your hands have sufficed to satisfy my needs as to penetrative activities. If I had desired more, I am sure any number of Voyager's crew would be more than willing to assist me." "Yeah? Like who?" asked B'Elanna. "Oh..." Seven thought. "Perhaps Lieutenant Carey? The contours of his uniform indicate that he might be sufficiently equipped to satisfy my curiosity." "Oh, yeah, that'd work!" B'Elanna chortled. "Maybe you could break his other arm, and then his equipment." "Commander Chakotay, then," Seven sulked. "Chakotay?" B'Elanna asked. There was a long pause while both women struggled to retain a straight face. B'Elanna bit her lip. Seven mentally ran through tables of logarithms, and calculated several interesting prime numbers while trying not to laugh. Seven broke first, collapsing into electronic giggles. B'Elanna guffawed, "Chuckles? Oh, Kahless, I would pay big latinum to see that! And they say Borg got no sense of humor!" "Alright," Seven snickered. "I suppose you will have to do. If nothing else, you have more endurance than anyone else on the ship. And I expect you can prolong your performance longer as well." "Size, too!" B'Elanna agreed. "I made five sizes. This is number three, thought we'd start in the middle. If it's too much, just say the word and we'll go down a step." "The Borg are highly adaptable," Seven said, laying back on the pillows in what her research indicated was a seductive position. "Does your creation include neural induction stimulation? Or produce pheromone-enriched fluids?" "Nope, and nope," B'Elanna said, wondering just how one went about beginning. "Just one hundred percent pure medical grade silicone. Plain and simple and manually operated. Y'know, Klingon style!" "It does not even vibrate?" Seven asked, holding her arms out to her partner. "Sev, you just let me take care of the vibrating. Your job is to be accommodating, lubricating and fornicating. You up for this?" Seven placed her forearm across her eyes in the manner of a swooning ingenue. "Captain Butler, I fear you are taking advantage of me!" B'Elanna purred, "I'll not be denied tonight, Scarlett!." She moved in for the kill. After a few moments of fumbling, she muttered under her breath. "Perhaps you should hold your end still while I attempt a docking maneuver?" Seven asked helpfully. "Damn it, just let me get this uncooperative thing....oh, yeah! There we are!" B'Elanna said. "Now we're getting someplace! Just takes a little manual guidance!" After a minute, Seven wriggled her hips and sighed, "Perhaps the 21st Century was good for more than horrible gene-splicing disasters and jet-pack collisions." B'Elanna gasped between exertions, "So you admit that sometimes the old fashioned way is best?" "Perhaps. You may ask me again in one hour and twenty-three minutes," Seven told her. "An hour? You trying to kill me, woman?" B'Elanna groaned. Seven pulled a sweating, straining B'Elanna into a tighter embrace and told her, "Will you require more time? I have to make a report to the Captain in two hours. She wishes to discuss the our trajectory as regards the next unpleasant aliens. I will need thirty seven minutes to shower, dress and fabricate some plausible reason to avoid the Hyenapoid system. But if necessary, I could manage another eight minutes." B'Elanna squared her shoulders and applied herself to her work. So the Borg thought she could outlast a Klingon warrior, did she? B'Elanna would teach her different, if it killed her. As a strap dug into one of her tender spots, she thought it very well might. Seven happily rode through a moderately intense climax and began to mentally design an appliance of her own. B'Elanna's basic concept was sound enough, but Seven thought she could improve on the materials. Imipolex G, perhaps, in place of silicone. And there were various connections she could make between her implants and the device. That should enhance the experience for both of them. B'Elanna was thinking, "Only forty nine minutes to go. Maybe forty eight." --- The End