The BLTS Archive- Spoils of War --- Disclaimer: These characters belong to Paramount etc. This story features BDSM, interspecies sex. Please don't read it if that offends you. --- After the initial boarding, the red glow of lasers in the blackened corridors and the stench of burned flesh - both human and otherwise - Tasha Yar lost all track of time. The battle had been going on for as long as days, or perhaps only hours, but she hadn't dared risk going to the computer to find out. The fleet of the triad, the alliance of Klingons, Cardassians and Bajorans, had fallen upon them swiftly, catching the captain and crew of the _Starfire_ by surprise as they dropped their shields for a desperately needed refueling. She'd been on the bridge when the first battle cruiser decloaked to their starboard side, taken back her position at tactical when her relief was killed and targeted the enemy only to find out that the Klingon's first well aimed shot had completely disarmed them. Tom Riker had immediately torn open the wall panel to reveal the weapons stash, sixteen disruptors and a half dozen phaser rifles. She caught the rifle hard against her chest, securing and activating it just before the smoke cut off her line of sight. She heard the computer being locked out to her right, and the sound of running crewmates evacuating the bridge all around her. Tasha waited until the sounds subsided and then felt her way off of the bridge, stumbling over what she knew was the body of her dead relief, Shelby. Catching herself on the way down, she reached the door before it slammed shut and immediately had to duck out of the way of enemy fire as it mowed through her crewmates. All she could do now, she knew, was to die proudly, having taken out as many Klingons as possible beforehand. Now, bloodied and aching, she stood among a small line of her compatriots, eight in all out of an original crew of one hundred fifty. Her jaw throbbed, having been cracked hard by the Klingon who she had had to battle hand to hand after depleting her weapon's charge. A lucky chop to the throat of the first of her captors had taken him out, but only left her at the mercy of the second, who had apprehended her after a short but brutal fight with his superior strength. So here in the belly of the battle cruiser, her uniform torn at the shoulder to reveal a raw wound, she waited to see the monster behind it all - the one who would gloat over the slaughter of the rebels. She heard the doors behind her woosh open and the click of boot heels coming to attention but fought the instinct to turn and face him and instead looked straight and defiantly forward. The laugh was a cruel, chilling rumble that emanated from deep within her enemy's throat, and his voice like the low rolling thunder that served as harbinger to a black and violent storm. "I am Worf," it said, "and you are now slaves of the Alliance. I have not yet decided whether your lives or deaths will serve us better." He crossed before them then, looking over each prisoner in turn. Already, her heart swelled with pride to be one of them. Not one looked down, or away, or begged mercy of this huge monster, over six feet tall, dark and heavily ridged, his slightly rippled dark mane flowing loosely behind him and across his back. His beard and moustache were trimmed into a severe goatee, and his enormous shoulders held the weight of his heavy metal sash. He had a single weapon at his side, the d'k Tagh, and Tasha had no doubt whatsoever that he was adept with it. One did not rise to the captaincy of a Klingon ship through niceties. "You fought well, and honorably," he continued, "but your rebel comrades are all dead, except for you. You," he addressed them all, his eyes briefly lingering on her, "have been allocated to our pleasures. May Kahless have mercy on your souls." "Which of these killed my brother?" he demanded. Tasha was taken roughly by the shoulder and pushed forward. Her hands were bound behind her back so that she could neither catch herself nor attack. But she turned on the one who had done the shoving and growled angrily. "PetaQ!" she swore in his own language. The leader, Worf, caught her by the collar and forced her eyes upward. "I have little use or patience for human women," he hissed. "You may last a week but I give you the honor of being my choice because of your skill in combat. Do not provoke me with such insults." Tasha, despite her loathing and fear, looked unflinchingly into his eyes, drew back and spit in his face. She felt the crack of his palm stinging across her cheek and the warm imprint she knew was visible. "I will not submit to an animal," she growled. "Save yourself a humiliating death by killing me now, for I will be the death of you, I swear it." The scowl on his face softened abruptly and he threw back his head in laughter. "Yes, maybe you will last a week." He quickly signed an order to one of the guards, who came forward with two others to take her away. Worf left without another word. She screamed and kicked and fought as they took her away, reveling in the pleasure of feeling her feet strike flesh even if they never did utter a sound acknowledging pain. The room they threw her into was not small, not by Klingon standards, but it did feature a standard issue flat metal bunk and there were hideously dangerous weapons of unknown manufacture on the walls. The first guard caught the focus of her stare and laughed. He stroked his hand near the wall and a blue charge gathered at his fingertips. "Force field, so don't even think about it." The other two had her pinned down to the floor, but did not molest her in any way. Instead, they merely lifted her, in one swift movement, to the wall where she was bound and left to hang. Once they had gone, she pressed her forehead to the cool metal of the wall and tried to think. She wasn't hungry, but she was thirsty and gods only knew when she'd get the chance to do either again, or if indeed she ever would. Rape she could deal with, it had been a way of life on her homeworld, where the rape gangs flourished and indeed were encouraged. Maybe tonight he would beat her so severely that she would just die, or rape her badly enough that there would be nothing left of her. She hoped for that. But most of all hoped that he would become careless in his torment and gloating, and that she would be granted the opportunity to kill him. Even during the process of rape a man could be very vulnerable. But then, what she was facing wasn't a man at all. She stayed on her feet as long as she could before leaning back in her chains and stretching out her sore arms. She knew that she'd need to be limber if her chance to strike came. She was deep in thought when the door opened once more, and she quickly righted herself, struggling to pull herself back to the wall and regain her footing. She needn't have bothered. "Klingon males find blonde hair a curiosity," he chuckled, and she could hear something liquid being poured. "It is unfortunate that you are so combative, or I would have had you cleaned up." Tasha remained silent, but that did not seem to bother her captor overmuch. She heard him swallow whatever liquid he was imbibing in and then felt a heavy hand on her head, stroking the shoulder length hair. She screamed out against the intimacy and twisted her head away, but to no avail. "Yes, for a human woman you are beautiful, aren't you? But I have an impression that you are not popular among the males of your species because of your roughness. Fortunately for you, your nature piques my interest and I will keep you alive as long as I find you interesting." "I have no wish to be your plaything," she hissed. "Your wishes are no longer important. I am a man of power, as you can see, and you will take my orders and accept my embraces, or you will not live long to revel in your refusals. I will turn you over to the common men and they will not be so kind. Your life, although short, will be unthinkable." "Then give me to them," she spat. He laughed again. "And you _do_ mean it. Perhaps I will, but not until I've had my sport with you." She heard his sash hit the bunk, his heavy robes fall to the floor and then he was very close behind her, so close that she could feel his hot breath on her hair. "You will submit," he whispered, "and perhaps after you've had a Klingon male you will look back on humans in disgust." She howled and hurled herself backwards, knocking him a few inches back. The gesture, however, provided him with nothing but amusement. From out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move to the wall and take down a simple knife. Unclothed from the waist up, he was a rich deep brown and very muscular, his spine covered in protective ridges over which the skin stretched and buckled. He was not unlike a human male, from this angle, a fact which she found surprising. It was only his hair, really, that set him apart as something alien. He's going to cut me, she thought, and steeled herself for the pain. However, when he disappeared behind her again, it was her uniform that she felt being cut, slit down the back and peeled away, and then her pants. His free hand was pressed flat against her back, pushing her against the wall to prevent her from impaling herself, but somehow he managed to remove her uniform, leaving her in only her undergarments. He put the knife away and stood silently behind her for a long time. "You are thin," he announced, "but muscular. You could be used for breeding purposes if you last longer than the week." She heard him step away again and the sound of water running. When he returned he pressed a cool compress to her shoulder, one that started stinging almost immediately and made her flinch. It seemed to take forever for him to tend to her wounds, and he didn't use the latest technology, instead relying on alcohol to do it's work. Not a single damn sealer in sight. "You bore that pain well," he rumbled in approval. "So pain doesn't bother you, but submission does. Interesting for a human woman - it's usually the other way around. I wonder what effect pleasure has on you," he mused. Her entire body froze at that moment and she became aware of exactly how exposed and vulnerable she was. She mustered all of her courage and laughed. "Pleasure? At the hand of an animal?" His hands clasped around her waist, they were so large that he almost encircled it. "We shall see." The hands were very warm, but not terribly calloused or rough, and it took every ounce of her strength to keep from bashing her head against the wall as they roamed upwards and over her bra. She was relieved, when he unsnapped the hook and tore the cups away, that she was facing the wall. It was then with an outraged realization that the new warmth she was experiencing was his hands on her, squeezing and toying with her breasts for his own pleasure. She screamed again, and twisted violently in the bindings. Laughter again, and then release. "Are you hungry?" Yes she was, but she wasn't about to admit it. "No." "Did you enjoy that?" "No," she hissed, her face warm and flushed. "I find that hard to believe," he chuckled. "As your nipples are hard and I have been told that human women only experience that when they are aroused or cold. The temperature in here is quite nice." She didn't say anything. She didn't know why they were hard, but she was damn well sure it wasn't about pleasure. "I do enjoy watching you suffer," he told her. "Have you ever been whipped?" "Yes," she admitted. "What for?" "Administrative punishment," she replied. "So there was no pleasure?" "Of course not," she retorted, unsure as to where this line of questioning was going. "I'm going to whip you," he informed her, "until you enjoy it." "What kind of a sick bastard are you?" she demanded. "Your Master," he replied. The whipping was brutal, although she was sure that he never cut the skin. The pain, although easily borne at first, wore at her frayed nerves in its endless barrage. He stopped right before she lost control. That's when the hands returned. Over and across her breasts, ever so gentle at first and then tugging and pulling at the hard teats until she accidentally let out a small moan. Then his hands were on her back, pinching and scoring at the tender flesh so that she had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out. He would continue until she let out a whimper and then return to her breasts and then her back again, alternating each time she gave in. After a few cycles, her head was spinning and she as losing track of her sensations. Thankfully, it was also then that he stopped and left. He left her alone for hours, hanging at his wall in shame and confusion, wondering what was next. This was not as she expected, as she had been molested but not raped. Whipped but not ravaged. It went on like this for a few days, and she spent the nights chained to the floor by his bed, unable to even rise far enough to do more than hear him breathe. By the third day, she was eating of her own free will, more to escape the threat of pleasure than of pain. The betrayal of her body was a thing that she could not abide. There was always a fight in getting her moved from one post to another, involving her nails, teeth and whatever else happened to be free. The simple fact of life, however, was that he out massed her by at least her own body weight and at always ended the same way, with herself chained to the wall and him chuckling in amusement. Now, on the third day, he chained her so that she was facing away from the wall, and had stripped her of her panties, her only piece of remaining clothing. He spent long hours just watching her, clearly aroused but seemingly more interested in her suffering than his own sexual satisfaction. "Why don't you just rape me and get it over with," she growled, wearying of his games. "Because I enjoy defeating you, you are a worthy adversary and must be treated with honor." _"Honor?_ What does a PetaQ like you know about honor?" He rose and slapped her hard across the face. "It is unwise to provoke me, human. Besides, I am merely waiting until you admit to me what it is you want." "I wish only for my death, and yours," she hissed. He looked down at her with slitted eyes and lifted her chin, appraising her for a short while and then lowering his mouth, very slowly to hers. Tasha tried to back away, but his second hand was firmly behind her throat, holding her in place. Her nostrils filled with the scent of him, a raw, musky male aroma that she never found unpleasant, merely disconcerting. When his lips pressed against hers, all warm and surprisingly pliant, she felt a familiar stirring from deep within her, a shameful lust that she was loathe to acknowledge. She parted her lips ever so slightly and yielded, waiting until he delved in with his tongue before she bit him. The warmth of his blood spread through her mouth and she released to allow him to withdraw but instead he growled, taking her hair and chin in his hands and deepening the kiss. Tasha, reeling in shock, backed against the wall to attempt escape but we went with her, pressing her into the cold metal and bruising her mouth in his passion. His kiss lasted for minutes, hours -- she could no longer tell, or cared, as she surrendered to it, her disgust momentarily forgotten in the wild exotic pleasure of it. She whimpered in anguish when he pulled away, their mingled blood on his lips. His eyes were frightening, overfull with a passion Tasha had never before witnessed, looking at her as though she were nothing more than a bitch in heat and he, entirely helpless before his own drives. He dropped his robe, this time allowing her to see his chest and arms, powerfully made and beautiful in their proportions, more like a god than any man. Oh yes, this was the type of man she'd always dreamed of, able to bend her to his will both physically and psychologically. And she knew that he could see it in her eyes. The tiniest feral smile touched his lips as he approached her again. He placed one hand on the wall to each side of her and slowly licked the blood from her lips, growling and baring his uneven teeth whenever she moved so much as an inch. Once the blood was gone, he lowered his head to her throat, and she could feel him inhaling her scent, undoubtedly strong and heady with pheremones. The feather soft touch of his nose and breath against her neck came close to driving her mad, even through the fear that was rising up inside her. When she saw his eyes again, they were glazed over, no more logic behind them, and they were staring straight through to her very soul. "Please," she whispered, trembling in the restraints. But there was no one there to hear her, Worf was gone and in his place stood something altogether driven by instinct. When he went to his knees before her and parted her labia with his thumbs, she let out a barely muffled scream, and when he moved his mouth to caress her, she could do nothing but sob in the shame of her desire. She felt as though she was dying with it, that the old Tasha was being overtaken by something driven only by the need for pleasure and distracted by momentary lusts. She found herself spreading her thighs wide for him, pressing hard against his face as he devoured her, moaning her consent loudly. She was released almost before she knew it, sobbing at the momentary absence of pleasure and clutching at the being she could no longer see but sensed with her fingers, nose, and ears. Below her, for she was now on the floor, was the thick scratchy robe of the Klingon warrior, rich with his scent. A roar and a tearing sound registered in her ears and he was over her, massive in his proportions and unyielding in his desires, his breath hot on her face. The penetration, had she been unwilling, would have been brutal. Instead, he stretched and filled her almost past her limits, groaning his almost painful pleasure in a loud series of roars. Over and over again, he thrust deep inside her, holding her by the shoulders to keep her in place and not altering the rhythm by so much as a stroke. Her nails, she knew, were deep in his flesh, spurring him on and her legs were wrapped tightly around his midsection. The pleasure, if it could indeed be called that, was brutal in its intensity and the orgasm he'd been denying her for days ripped through her violently, plunging her into an abyss of fire and light, leaving her senseless in its wake. Tasha never felt him finish and withdraw, and only vaguely remembered being rechained. When she opened her eyes again, he was standing before her, fully dressed and surveying her with a look that came close to mockery. And somehow, she knew she was going to live for a long, long time. --- The End