The BLTS Archive - Culturally Specific Treatment
by Ainzfern (ainzfern@hotmail.com)

---

Disclaimer: Paramount owns STAR TREK ... etc and so on
and so forth! My only pay here is personal joy.

Archiving: Cool- if you want to- please let me know.

Feedback: Yes please! I'm keen to see what you think
of this pairing.

---

"Quark to infirmary – We have a situation down here Doctor!"

Bashir looked up from where he had been catching up on his
Medical Journals with a vague expression of annoyance.
"What's the matter, Quark? I hope it's a MEDICAL situation
this time." Julian was still smarting from the last time
Quark had insisted that the immediate attention of DS9's
Chief Medical Officer had been required in his bar.

The doctor had attended Quark's upon receiving the call only
to find out that he'd been rather rudely set-up. Apparently
Morn had imbibed a little more than usual and started
bragging. The next thing anyone knew Quark had a book
running on whether or not Morn could beat an enhanced Julian
Bashir in an arm wrestle and had come up with the idea of
tricking Julian into attending the impromptu sporting venue.
After all – 'it's only a little bit of fun Doctor, no harm
intended... you Federation types just can't take a joke' –
Julian had been so incensed that he stormed right back out
again and refused to talk to Quark for two days.

It was only Quark's gracious offer of a free two hour
Holo-adventure AND a grudging apology (when Major Kira,
found out she had given the slippery little Ferengi a very
detailed description of what would happen to him if he
DIDN'T say sorry) that put an end to it.

Quark's voice came back sounding slightly wounded and oh so
sincere. "No kidding this time, Doctor Bashir," he insisted,
"I need you down here."

"Look Quark – you know I don't normally leave the infirmary
– even during a late shift - unless it's an emergency!"
Bashir responded firmly.

"Doctor..." Quark rushed on, "This is a delicate
situation... I can't talk too loud in case HE hears me and I
am NOT about to attempt to suggest HE do anything he doesn't
want to. I was just hoping you might be able to talk some
sense into him is all."

Intrigued despite himself, Bashir sighed. "All right Quark,
I'm on my way – don't panic".

Grabbing his med-kit and signaling to the night-nurse
working in the outer office, he left the infirmary and
headed toward the Promenade. As he strode quickly through
the quiet station he wondered just what on earth he was
walking into this time.

When he reached Quark's Bar, the nervous Ferengi met him at
the entrance. "Thank Latinum. You made it! " he exclaimed.
"He's just through here," he continued as he led the young
doctor into the dim interior.

Across the room Bashir sighted General Martok. A Klingon
picture of abject misery, sitting by himself at a corner
table, a table that was littered with a half-dozen emptied
goblets of Blood Wine. That the celebrated war hero was
drinking alone was unusual enough, but what really made
Bashir stare was the bloody head wound that the General was
sporting across his ridged brow, untended and still slowly
seeping thick, dark Klingon blood.

"Good Grief," he murmured softly

"Grief is right Doctor," Quark said out of the side of his
mouth, "You've GOT to get him out of here...he's depressing
the customers – besides you know what Klingons are like.
Once they start on the Blood Wine, it's either mate or
fight." Quark smirked and leaned closer to whisper
conspiratorially in Bashir's ear. "Although from what I
gather went on between The General and his wife tonight, I'd
say that the first option is definitely out...and I want HIM
out, before he starts breaking up the furniture."

Bashir blinked in surprise. "How do you know that Lady
Sirella and Martok had a falling out tonight?" he asked
suspiciously.

"Simple deduction, Doctor." Quark nodded towards the bleeding
general. "That's a Klingon 'not tonight dear' if ever I saw
one..."

"Why didn't you contact Odo about this?" Bashir asked him
quietly.

"What? – and set Martok right off by accusing him of causing
trouble? – No, thank you!" Quark shuddered. "That why I
called you! Use that enhanced intelligence of yours and coax
him OUT of here before anything starts...PLEASE!"

Still feeling somehow like he'd been taken in again, Bashir
squared his shoulders and approached the Klingon's table.
The General's single eye lit up when he spotted the young
human approaching.

"Ah Doctor!" he raised his gravelly voice in greeting. "Have
a seat! Drink with me!" he bellowed in a jovial tone.

Bashir sat slowly, carefully assessing the Klingon in the
dim light. His eye was definitely a little unfocused and
Bashir judged NOT from the Blood Wine. He'd seen Martok down
a virtual barrel of the stuff with little ill effect. It was
the head wound that concerned him and his medical training
kicked into overdrive.

"General Martok," he greeted the older man. "I'm pleased at
the invitation, but I'd much prefer to get you into the
infirmary so that I can treat that head wound of yours."

"Bah!" The Kling made a disgusted sound. "It's nothing! A
minor scratch that will heal on it's own! Pay it no mind.
Tell me instead how fares your evening, hmm? I've not seen
much of you lately. Busy preparing for the Kal Hyah before
the wedding I have no doubt... Ah! Glorious days I recall of
my own preparations so many years back! Sirella was so
magnificent, Doctor! She still is." His rambling speech
revealed a great deal to the perceptive young man in front
of him.

The General made a frustrated noise and then continued, "Who
can say what goes on in the head of a woman, Doctor...Can
you? Eh?" He glared at the human challenging him.

"It's a mystery to every man, General. Some things just
aren't meant to understood, I think," he replied.

Martok threw back head and laughed. "How right you are
Doctor Bashir!.. Aargh," he hissed suddenly clutching at his
wounded forehead in an uncharacteristic display of pain.

Instantly Bashir was on his feet and gently examining the
dazed Klingon. "Alright, General...Just exactly what did
Sirella hit you with?' he demanded.

"Bat'leth" Martok mumbled

"A Bat'leth?!" Bashir repeated incredulously, "She could
have killed you!"

"No...s'wasn't ceremonial...wasn't that sharp," Martok
insisted in his roughened voice

"It didn't bloody have to be! General – your skull is
fractured! I'm sorry, but I must insist that you accompany me
to the Infirmary for treatment." Bashir didn't bother
waiting for an answer, instead slipping his arm under the
Klingon's shoulder and hoisting him to his feet. The very
fact that the bigger man did not instantly start kicking
Bashir up and down the Promenade for his impertinence
worried him greatly – as it was an excellent indication of
how truly ill the General was feeling.

"Ops" Bashir called as he tapped him com badge with his long
slender fingers. "Two to transport to Infirmary –
Authorization Bashir Alpha."

Moments later he had Martok seated on a bio bed in the private
examination cubical at the back of the infirmary. Knowing
how most Klingons felt about submitting to a doctor's
ministrations, Julian knew he would receive far more
cooperation if his patient wasn't worried about being
spotted by any other Klingons wandering about near the
Infirmary.

As he worked on the General, administering a hypospray to
help him metabolize the alcohol he'd earlier ingested and
scanning, then treating the hairline fracture across his
armored brow, Martok began to come back to himself.

He watched the young human closely as he moved around the
examination room, checking his patient's vital signs and
recovery rate. As he sat there, Martok began to feel more
than a little disappointed with the way his night had turned
out. After so long away from Sirella he had naturally hoped
for a softening of her countenance towards him – but it was
not to be so on this occasion. Then to make matters worse,
this well-meaning little human had denied him the chance to
vent his frustrations properly by getting appropriately
drunk and perhaps even indulging in a fight or two with some
suitable opponent.

As he wrestled with his thoughts, he found himself paying
more and more attention to the doctor's movements about him.
He had worked among humans for a long while now and had
always considered them somewhat weak and delicate creatures
– courageous enough for all of that - but still awfully
prone to injury. His head tilted thoughtfully as he regarded
the young man with a narrowed eye. This one was different...
He had noticed that during their sojourn together in that
damnable Dominion prison. The Doctor has endured some truly
brutal treatment at times from the Jem'Hadar guards and had
shown surprising resilience to pain and exhaustion. His
slender, delicate appearance belied a supple strength. He
would be a suitable conquest...

Conquest?! Now just where in the name of Kahless had THAT
come from?... Perhaps Sirella has delivered a mightier blow
than he initially thought.

Shaking his head, Martok attempted to clear the
inappropriate image from his mind. But as the doctor leaned
over him again to perform a final scan, the General's
nostrils flared as he caught the delicate, warm scent of the
young man. Bashir was obviously wearing some sort of
fragrance or unguent (not a practice that was followed by
Klingons - male or female) – but to the preternaturally
sharp senses of a trained warrior, it failed to mask the
natural smell of the human – a scent that was, to the
Klingon in his current physical state, considerably more
attractive and arousing.

As the doctor turned back to the small desk to complete his
diagnostic report he missed seeing the tension entering the
Klingon's body. Martok's gaze drifted down the long lean
back, taking in the firm buttocks and measuring the elegant
straight length of the young human's legs. So different in
form and color to his usual taste, and yet still so very
alluring. The fact that he didn't seem to realize the effect
he was having on the General only heightened his appeal.

Pulling his lips back from his teeth slightly, Martok
inhaled deeply in sharp bursts, tasting the scent of human
on the air. Unbidden, images came to his mind's eye... long
golden limbs and smooth soft skin – under him...impaled on
him...writhing and twisting and clutching and screaming with
lust and need... a burning sweat-drenched sexual animal.

Ignorant of the turmoil roiling within the man behind him,
Bashir was starting his standard end of consultation
wind-up. "All-right... I think I can safely release you to
your own devices now, General. Everything seems to be in
ord...Whoa!.. what the?... Ohmigod!" Bashir's voice
constricted into a shocked whisper as he felt two large, hot
hands close over his upper arms. The grip increased slowly
to near painful intensity as a low undulating rumble began
so very close behind him.

Bashir's heart lurched... he knew what that sound meant.

He opened his mouth to protest only to find his ability for
speech gone as Martok slid his right hand up to grasp the
back of the doctor’s slender neck; thick fingers resting
along the elegant jaw line, thumb curled at the nape.
Inexorably, the young man's head was tilted sideways and
back slightly, exposing an appealing length of smooth golden
neck to the hungering Klingon.

Julian tensed himself for the sharp pain of Martok's bite,
but it never came. Instead the General leant close, his
mouth almost touching the soft human skin, and simply
sniffed at the human's flesh. Warm breath huffed
rhythmically against Julian's skin sending shivers racing
down his body. Slowly, as if savoring a rare delicacy, the
Klingon moved from side to side, tilting the doctor's head
back and forth as he breathed in deeply, inhaling the rising
odors of fear coupled with desire – and all the while that
low rumble which was felt as much as heard, continued to
roll endlessly from his throat.

Incredibly, Bashir found himself responding to Martok's
cavalier treatment. The surprisingly sensual assault that
the Klingon was subjecting his sensitive neck to was having
an undeniable effect. Blood surged and pulsed in his loins,
hardening him. He heard his own heart hammering wildly under
his ribs and he knew, just KNEW that Martok could smell his
arousal. If he were going to extricate himself from this
situation, he would have to do so now.

With an almost sorrowful cry, Bashir suddenly twisted
lithely out of the preoccupied Klingon's grip, ending up
facing him from several feet away with his hands out
defensively, as if ready to ward off the expected rush.
Panting hard, eyes wide and startled, hectic color darkening
his burning cheeks, Bashir stared at his dangerous patient.

Martok fought down his natural urge to lunge directly after
the human, to pin him down and ruthlessly claim his prize.
He knew, however, enough about humans to know that a move
like that now would be completely misinterpreted – taken as
a base act of aggression. Instead, Martok exerted an
ironclad control and took two slow and deliberate steps
sideways, leaving a clear run to the exit. It was the only
card he had left in a deck that was stacked against him and
the wily Klingon played it perfectly.

Their eyes locked. The moment spun out, expanded... grew
still. The air between them became thick with portent.

"You must leave now, Doctor, or not at all," Martok stated
simply.

Bashir stared intently into the General's single expressive
eye, seeing within his fierce intelligence and strength,
coupled with an all-consuming lust that would no longer be
denied. One way or another, Martok would have release this
night.

//No going back,// Julian thought wildly, //If I stay it
means I'm going to let him... My God, can I do this?... I
want to do this!...I don't think I can do this...//

Slowly...precisely...his gaze never breaking from the
General's, Bashir spoke. "Computer..." he said thickly,
"Privacy lock  examination cubicle. Authorization Bashir
Alpha."

The stasis broke...the Klingon pounced.

In one smooth movement, the slender young doctor was picked
up and literally slam-dunked onto his back across the desk.
Growling now deeply in his chest, Martok fumbled briefly
with the zipper tab at the neckband of Julian's uniform.
When his thick fingers failed to move it in short enough
order the frustrated Klingon snarled loudly – abandoning all
pretenses of finesse and hooked his hand under the material.
The massive shoulder bunched and with one sharp wrench, the
cloth was ripped downwards from neck to crotch, exposing the
smooth expanse of Julian's deep golden skin.

The warm copper tones of that sleekly muscled chest and the
smooth flat belly inflamed the Klingon even further. With a
savage sound, he tore the rest of the human's clothing away,
discarding the virtual rags onto the floor even as he
roughly began unclasping the front of his own heavy leather
and steel uniform. At the sight of the Klingon's solid,
thick, fully aroused member, Julian suddenly sat up –
effectively denying the General access to his body.
"Wait...wait..." he began.

The tone of Martok's snarls immediately turned vicious.
Julian looked into the Klingon's face and saw death there
and instinctively he reached up and stroked his hands over
the General’s ridged brow. "It's OK...I'm not saying no... I
won't say no...I just...I just need a moment is all," he
whispered.

Unaccustomed as he was to tender touches, the battle
hardened warrior was momentarily halted by the feel of cool,
gentle hands stroking his scarred and craggy face. Calming
his passion – soothing the Klingon's strong urge to
overpower and claim his human prize.

Julian quickly stretched across to reach a small shelf next
to the desk where he hooked his long fingers around a small
bottle of simple, unscented lotion. Dispensing a liberal
amount into his palms, he anointed the General's sex
carefully, giving the dark heavy shaft the glistening sheen
of polished mahogany.

Big hands slipped under Julian's thighs and with a quick
jerk, Martok had the young man back down on the desk again,
knees pushed against his chest. Not wanting to harm the
human, Martok began slowly, pushing against Julian's
sensitive opening with care. But as the head of his penis
entered the tight, hot passage he felt his control falter
and leave him. With a long, deep stroke he sank himself up
to the hilt in the doctor's body, bellowing in triumph –
realizing with intense pleasure that the young human was
enjoying this penetration, the slender hands gripping the
edge of the desk to provide enough leverage so that the slim
hips could lift up to match the Klingon's thrusts.

As the rhythm increased, Julian lifted one hand to stroke
his own aching sex, needing the stimulation, wanting to
climb the peak with Martok. With a loud bark of negation,
the General grabbed Julian's wrist and forced his hand back
down onto the desktop. Julian's frustrated groan of protest
was instantly cut off as he felt Martok take over, the large
warm hand pumping him firmly.

Having never had a human before, Martok was surprised for a
moment at the intensity of Julian's response to this. The
young man's slender hands re-doubled their grip on the edge
of the desk. His long back arched as he slammed his hips up
harder and harder, meeting the Klingon's quickening thrusts.
Martok kept up the regular stroking of Julian pulsing
member, his gaze riveted on the human's reactions. Julian's
head thrashed back and forth, his eyes tightly scrunched
shut, totally lost in sensation. In an uninhibited display
of total abandon, his earlier moans became full-throated
yells of pleasure as he shamelessly urged the General on.

Once again, Martok was struck by this little human's innate
attractiveness. Looking down on him like this, golden skin
glistening with sweat, smooth chest rising and falling
deeply, head flung back in complete surrender... It was one
of the most powerfully erotic sights the hard-bitten Klingon
has ever seen and it pushed him to the cusp of orgasm faster
than he would have believed possible.

He lost all control when the young human under him began
convulsing wildly in his own peak. The doctor's cries
becoming tinged with a note of desperation – unable now to
form anything but nonsense sounds and half-sentences.
"...oh...oh...yes...YES...oh General that's... that's
just...oh my God...OH...MY...GOD!"

The incredible sensation of Julian's supple body tightening
and clutching rhythmically around Martok's sensitized shaft,
while his surprisingly hot essence flowed out in pulsing
bursts across the Klingon's fist, completely undid him. With
a roar that practically shook the sound proof walls of the
examination room, Martok succumbed to a powerful climax that
ripped through his belly in violent bliss. He came over and
over into Julian's tight heat... astounded... grateful even
in his intense pleasure that the human was taking this from
him. As the last of the paroxysms faded, Martok clutched at
the  desk on either side of Julian's head, hanging on and
panting heavily as his legs momentarily threatened to fail.

No words were spoken as the big man gently disengaged from
the doctor's body. In silence they tidied themselves up,
Julian replicating a fresh uniform whilst Martok carefully
refastened his own clothing, each man lost in his private
thoughts.

As the Doctor escorted his patient back out into the main
infirmary towards the exit he picked up the thread of his
earlier speech. "You may experience a mild headache for a
few hours, General, but the fracture healed well...I don't
anticipate you having any problems attending Worf's Kal
Hyah." His elegant voice betraying nothing more than
professional concern.

"I thank you, Doctor," Martok replied in turn.

"You're very welcome," Julian inclined his head with a small
smile.

Martok moved to cross the exit way into the hall, but paused
at the last moment. Stepping close to the doctor he spoke in
low, soft voice that carried no further than their own ears.
"You have given me a great gift on this night, Doctor," the
older man said with surprising tenderness. "You are a
creature of great sensuality – meant to be cherished. Make
sure your next lover... is a worthy one."

With that he nodded good night and strode away, leaving
Julian to stare in wonder at his retreating back.

As the doctor re-entered the Infirmary, the Bajoran
night-nurse cast a curious glance in his direction.
"Anything the matter, Doctor?" she enquired politely.

"Oh, not at all..." Bashir assured her with a smile as he
rather carefully sat down in front of his medical journals
again, "...just dispensing a little culturally specific
treatment."

---

The End