Title: A Captain's Pleasure
Author: Jungle Kitty
Fandom: Star Trek, The
Original Series
Pairing: Not revealed
Rating: NC-17
Status: New to this group
Archive: OK
E-mail address for feedback: kittyjungle@earthlink.net
Other websites: http://www.invisibleplanets.com
Disclaimers: (c) 1999 Jungle Kitty. Star Trek and its
characters are the property of
Notes: This trilogy was inspired by Robin Lawrie, who
identified that padd that a beautiful yeoman is
always bringing Kirk for his signature. It's the spanking list. <wink>
This is the second story of the "Duty, Pleasure
and Privilege" trilogy. It was inspired by Robin who identified that padd that a beautiful yeoman is always bringing Kirk for
his signature. It's the spanking list. <wink>
A Captain's Pleasure
by Jungle
Kitty
The captain growled as he punched the
Delete button with his index finger.
The nerve! Why, it was practically sedition! At the
very least, it showed an appalling lack of sensitivity.
He hoped that the other recipients would delete the
message as quickly as he had, if only out of pity for the ignorant fools who
had sent it. If any of them forwarded it to Starfleet Command, those two
sniveling whiners would quickly find themselves stripped of rank and command.
What could they have been thinking of?
A petition requesting the
elimination of the Captain's Discipline.
Why the hell did they think people wanted to captain a
starship? The responsibility? The
paperwork? The pay? Hell, you could have all
that back on earth *and* wear clothes that fit properly.
There was only one reason to shoulder such a burden.
Because it carried with it the exquisite pleasure of the Captain's Discipline.
And in five minutes, James T. Kirk, youngest captain
in the Fleet, the hero of Gioghe, so new to his
command that he was surprised every time he noticed the additional braid on his
sleeve... In exactly five minutes, he would step into
his place as the latest in a long line of Starfleet captains.
The Captain's Discipline was his right. He had earned
it. And he intended to enjoy it.
Ever since he'd first set foot on the bridge of the
Still, he couldn't help worrying about the ones who
had barely met his eyes after 0900 hours that morning. At 0900, the random
computer selection had been made. At 0900, the chosen officer had been
notified. At 0900, the computer had informed Kirk that the rite would take
place in his quarters at 1900 hours.
He glanced at the chron.
1856 hours. Four minutes until his initiation into the monthly ritual of the
Captain's Discipline. God and Starfleet willing, the first of
many such rituals.
He moved to the wall safe and entered the combination,
his cock already stirring in anticipation. One by one, he removed the contents
of the safe and held each briefly.
The wooden switch, slender and
smooth. A
precision instrument, one capable of striking with keen accuracy. He
swung it in the air and heard the whispered promise of its sleek design.
The flog, with its many tiny whips, their ends adorned by
sharp knots. Knots whose scattershot prickle would be felt long after the flog was returned to its resting place.
And the paddle.
He had purchased it within six hours of receiving his
promotion and had not even allowed himself to look at it since. But he had
thought about it. Yes, he had thought about it. He had even dreamed about it
once or twice.
He picked it up reverently and rested it against his
cheek. It felt cool--or was he fevered with excitement? No matter. If this, the
pride of his collection, were selected as the method of discipline, it would
soon be warmed. As would the flesh it would touch.
It briefly stuck to his face, and, for a moment, he
entertained the fanciful notion that the tool was as hungry to begin the work
as he was.
"Wait," he murmured, as much to the paddle
as to himself.
He smiled as he ran his fingers along the pattern
carved into the taut leather surface. The work of a true
craftsman--no, an artist. No workman could have made something that
would so stir the heart of a warrior. No laborer could have tuned his tools to
such a fine intensity that their creation would resonate with the soul of a
commander. None but an artist would have adorned his masterpiece with brightest
gold. The color of the sun under which Kirk had been born.
The color of the command to which he had risen. The color that shone in stark contrast to the black leather,
displaying the elegant simplicity of the Starfleet insignia.
And on the other side...
Kirk turned the paddle over and ran his hand over its
surface, shivering as his palm caressed the excruciatingly small studs that
peppered the sleek ebony leather. Their touch, too, would be more than
remembered by the skin it blessed, although their sharpness stopped just short
of puncturing. He tipped the instrument, and his pulse quickened as the tiny
stones caught the light and sparkled like starfire.
Strong, proud, and breathtakingly beautiful, like the
stirring history it represented.
Would its splendor be appreciated?
Would it cry out that it *must* be used, at least this
time, the first time?
Would it be wielded by a hand worthy of it?
As he carried the three implements to his desk and
laid them out in a neat line, he tried to imagine such a hand. And he realized
that there were quite a few qualities he didn't want in his first Disciplinary
Officer.
Not someone who was intimidated by Kirk's accomplishments.
Not someone who had never done this before. Not someone who had any qualms
about such a duty. Not someone who would be timid, gentle, or lax in the
application.
And above all, not Gary Mitchell.
Kirk could picture it.
Kirk knew he would remember his first time for the
rest of his life, and he entreated the gods of the galaxy to grant him a
Disciplinary Officer who wouldn't besmirch the ritual that was at the very
heart of Starfleet.
The door chime sounded. Kirk returned to the wall safe
and removed one last item. Then, moving to the center of the room, he pulled
the soft blindfold down over his eyes and felt his cock rise to its fullest as
he said, "Come."
***
It wasn't Gary Mitchell.
Kirk knew that from the instant the doors opened and
he heard quick, light footfalls that were neither heavy enough nor firm enough
to be
A woman.
The air had changed in the unmistakable way it always
did in the presence of a desirable female. Kirk remembered how stunned he'd
been when he'd learned that most men lacked this awareness. But it had never
failed him or fooled him.
He didn't need to see her. He didn't need to hear her
voice. He didn't need to touch the smooth skin of her face. The straining steel
of his cock against his trousers told him everything he needed to know. His
first Disciplinary Officer was female. And a damned
attractive one, at that.
***
"If you would drop your pants,
please, Captain."
The universal translator distorted her voice,
rendering it sexless, but not colorless. There was a hint of amusement there.
There was also a harshness, but Kirk couldn't tell if
it had been put there by the device or the woman herself.
"Of course," he replied as he unfastened his
trousers and pushed them down, but not too quickly or too eagerly. He knew that
any ceremony, if rushed, was diminished. He hoped she understood that. Nor did
he let them down too slowly. After all, he wasn't a stripper, slyly teasing his
audience. He hoped she appreciated that, too.
When his ass was exposed, he waited. He heard her
slowly walk around him. And when she was directly in front of him, she stopped.
He almost breathed a sigh of relief. Anyone brazen enough to openly stare at
her CO's erection wasn't going to back away from the duty of the Disciplinary
Officer.
She was on the move again, quickly completing the rest
of the circle. And then she was strode to the other side of the room and
stopped. At the desk? Almost
certainly.
Kirk's heart thundered, as he imagined his anonymous
companion. Medium height perhaps. Slender
yet voluptuous. Soft chestnut hair that hung loosely about her
shoulders, a sharp contrast to her taut muscles. Long,
shapely legs that could move swiftly if they needed to, or wrap themselves slowly
around a man if they wanted to. And eyes as green as
emeralds, flashing with amber desire.
Something inside whispered that that description did
not fit any female officer aboard the Enterprise.
*But perhaps that's the point of the blindfold.*
A high-pitched hssst, almost
a whine, shattered the silence. The switch. She was
cutting the air with the switch. Why had she chosen it? Did she feel a kinship
with its slender elegance? Did she enjoy the thought of the long stripes it
would paint across his cheeks?
He heard her set it down. And then another sound crept
through the breathless quiet. The seductive, clicking swish
of the multi-stringed flog flicking the desk.
Chink! Chink!
He felt the moisture gathering at the tip of his cock
as the sound taunted his ears, as the knots would taunt his flesh.
CHINK!
He heard a soft exhalation in the echo of the sharp
patter of the flog. Did she respond to that sound, so
similar to wire brushes against a snare drum? Did she wish to command an army
of tiny tormentors, driving a hundred stinging blows with each snap of her
wrist?
The gentle drumming of the knots as they came to rest
on the desk told him that she had not yet made her decision.
Was she picking up the paddle? Was she studying the
delicate inlay of the insignia? Was she pressing the studs against her
fingertips? Was she--
tap tap tap
tap
She was patting the paddle against the flat of her
palm, teasing him with gentle applause.
tap tap tap
The enticing cadence was broken by a loud swoosh as
the paddle sheared the air with the sweep of a winged demon.
And then silence.
A silence in which Kirk prayed that
the beauty and power of the instrument would move her. That the weighty significance of
the starscape and the insignia would sway her.
That she would understand that nothing would satisfy this moment except the
deep,
For he was forbidden to speak.
By setting out all three implements, he had indicated
that any would be acceptable. But to express a preference, to
have presented only one would have been shameful. Just as each of his
officers was free to make a recommendation in a briefing, the captain was
duty-bound to allow freedom of choice in the Discipline. And just as the final
decision rested with the captain in all other situations, the ultimate choice
here was hers. He would not shame them both by arguing or pleading.
And she could still reject them all and use her hand.
"If you would assume the
position, sir."
Her electronically enhanced voice crackled across his
skin and the hairs on the back of his neck snapped to attention as he bent over
and rested his trembling hands on his knees.
She hadn't set the paddle down.
Slow, lazy footfalls approaching. One. Two.
Three. Four. She was standing
next to him.
He gasped as the cool leather brushed his ass. A slow,
circular motion warmed his flesh like gentle breath on barely glowing embers. Embers that wanted to roar into a conflagration that would
incinerate them both.
Over and over, the paddle moved across his ass, roving
leisurely along the curve of each cheek. The seductive touch beckoned to him,
drawing him deeper into a world of aching need. The wanting twisted his
insides, made the air too heavy to breathe, painted colors against the
blindfold, and still the unbearably tender caresses went on.
And there was nothing he could do to command the
Discipline. Despite the pulsing of his cock, despite the moan barely held in
check, despite the entreating attitude of his ass... The power was hers. The
action was hers. The paddle was hers.
And, at last, it was lifted. A last moment to savor
what was to come, a fervent prayer to be bound to his ship by this sacrament, a
silent plea to deflower his unpunished flesh.
At the moment the paddle claimed his ass, time slowed
to a stately crawl, allowing him an eternity in which to revel in sensation.
His head snapped up sharply--so sharply that he knew his neck would be stiff
later--but it felt as if he had slowly turned his face heavenward. He knew the
pain before he felt it, and when he felt it, it drove the breath from his
lungs. It was sharp and slow to fade, but it was felt at first by only the top
layer of his skin. And then the searing heat moved deeper into his flesh, into
his muscles, into his soul. It radiated outward and set his balls tingling. As
a thousand electrified tongues licked at his thighs, he realized that the most
immediate sensation had diminished and now an even, heavy heat was spreading
throughout his body. A unceasing heat that marched to
the pounding of his heart.
One blow. She had done all that with one blow.
TWO!
The sharp crack broke the spell, and the heat moved
swiftly now, filling his body and pushing a gasped yelp up through his throat,
to his lips, and out into the air. And before he could truly feel the shame of
having cried out--
THREE!
The same cheek, where the flames had
only begun to spread. That was why
it felt so different, because it came so quickly after the previous blow,
because it whipped the freshly lit fire into a frenzy of dark pleasure,
because...
Because she had turned the paddle, and now, in the wake
of the stroke, he felt the sharp bite of the studs. He hung his head and shook
as the fine-cut gems poked holes in the almost comforting evenness of the
leather's aftermath. Stinging wasps, sharp needles, pointed foils pricked and
pierced and rent the darkness with blinding, white-hot light.
Aware that the thought was irrational, but feeling
nonetheless that his throbbing cock offered a stronger support than his quaking
legs, he wrapped one fist around it and held on for dear life.
FOUR!
And now the studs bore into the other cheek. He
breathed in short huffs, shallow breaths that drove him deeper into the
rapture. Stinging, burning, smarting, aching... There were no words to describe
the spectrum of swirling agony and tumbling bliss.
Yes, there was a word. Red.
Red beyond what could be seen. He felt the heat of melting rubies, tasted the
bitter spice of peppers, heard the cry of the blood
ravens of Rigel. He knew red. He lived red. And
she--oh, she was the maker of red desire, the giver of red pleasure, the
wielder of red power.
She poured out the scarlet nectar of submission,
brought vermilion dreams to vibrant life, granted peace through
crimson-sheathed surrender.
She was the Red Queen.
FIVE!
And she now decreed that the universe must be
shattered, for red was too pale, too fragile, too
weak. There was another color, deeper, truer, and more complete than red.
Black.
For black is nothing and absorbs all. And Kirk was
nothing, nothing but wanting. He was drowning in his own emptiness, hurtling
through a never-ending void, until suddenly he was filled with all the colors,
and they were embraced by the ebony of his desire.
He squeezed his eyes shut until tears ran, clutched
his cock until his balls all but crawled up into his body, clenched his muscles
until they threatened to tear apart. Because whatever was
filling his nothingness must not be allowed to escape.
SIX!
But escape it did, and on that explosive release, as
his cum shot across the room, as he tumbled to his knees, as a roar of ecstasy
tore through his throat, he shattered into a thousand sharp pieces that flew
before his eyes in a shimmer of falling stars.
***
It took him some time to recognize a sensation that
seemed irrevocably foreign, almost unknowable.
Cool. The floor was cool to his burning skin. He
rolled over and suppressed a moan as a smooth, hard surface that did not bring
heat touched his ass.
He could not have said how long he lay there,
conscious of nothing beyond that place, that moment, that feeling.
But at last a sound summoned his attention. A sound
that was also barely recognizable. It was harsh and persistent, yet there was
beauty in its regularity, in what had caused it, and in what it promised for
the future. It was his own shameless panting.
James T. Kirk. Captain of the
He allowed himself one more moment to savor this, his
first time, knowing that he would replay it endlessly, yet never recapture its essence. Then he rolled again and pushed up
from the floor, fighting the slippage of his sweat-soaked hands. As he
struggled to his feet, he felt a hand under his arm, supporting him until he
had steadied himself.
"Thank you, Captain," said a metallic voice.
But now she was standing very close, now he heard
something beyond the distortion, now he smelled a warm, earthy scent.
Now he knew who she was.
He turned toward her and almost--almost reached for
the blindfold. But that, too, must be her choice.
She moved away in a soft breath of air, and after the
doors hissed twice--open! close!--Kirk removed the blindfold, blinked in the
bright light, and smiled with deep satisfaction as he was consumed by one
thought and one thought only.
Come hell or high water, Lieutenant Uhura was going to find herself at the top of the spanking
list.
The End