I'm not sure about this one. I wrote it listening to the same four Bowie songs over and over and over again.
I did have fun writing it, and I'm planning on uploading the second chapter of it. That is, of course, unless everyone hates it.
In which case I'll sob.
Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation Starship Voyager sat slumped back in her chair, entirely motionless, and appearing every bit deceased. In fact, the entire bridge crew appeared so, many of them draped over their various stations, dead to the world around them.
Of course, many would have preferred to remain unconscious, because what happened when they all awoke…well, none of them would have expected it. It truly, truly changed lives, and probably not for the better –but let's not spoil the story.
After what may have been days, or hours, or minutes, Janeway's head began to loll drearily on her shoulders as some semblance of consciousness began to seep back into her mind, most definitely prompted by the obnoxious music drifting to her ears. It was…familiar, rather brutish and primitive, but at the same time oddly delightful. She sighed, unconsciously relaxing into it, before total realization sank its nasty teeth into her skull.
With a startled grunt, she sat bolt upright, only to find her bridge, and all of its unconscious inhabitants, bathed in horrific technicolour disco lights. The music throbbed from invisible speakers, the computer voice that once emanated from them now utterly dead to her frantic commands. Gasping for air, trying to steady herself, she looked around the bridge, realizing that everyone was dressed in rather fetching arrays of leather.
Indeed, Chakotay, shifted to the side, his chin resting on his chest, was dressed in assless chaps and tasseled pasties. Harry Kim appeared to be in a fetching studded vest, and Tom Paris only with a skimpy pair of leather panties, and, most shocking of all, Tuvok was wearing a strapless teddy that was two sizes too small. Then, dumbly, she realized that she herself was wearing tight leather jeans, with obnoxious high heeled boots, and a tight leather vest that made her breasts look three sizes bigger.
She sat on back on the edge of her chair, desperately trying to remember what had happened. She had been…she had been in Central Park, sitting at a picnic table, eating…eating strawberry ice cream…and, Emily Dickinson was serving her the ice cream as fast as she could eat it, and Walt Whitman was…Walt Whitman was yelling angrily at them, trying to replace her bowl of ice cream with a bowl of…of grass.
Then she had awoken in a terrified sweat. She had decided to go shower instead of sleep, and then…there had been a red alert, and then…
As the foggy remains of another memory surfaced in her head, her attention was suddenly drawn back to the music. "God, what was that?" she thought. It was so intoxicating, yet so repulsive. It made her want to plug her ears and scream, but it also made her want to…dance. She began to rock her head to the beat, her shoulders following suit. The rational part of her brain was fighting to the death with this new impulsive side of her, and losing terribly.
This couldn't be happening –this shouldn't be happening. Her ship was slipping through her fingers like grains of sand, dropping to the deck where her former mind, having escaped quite vexingly from her ears, was frantically building technicolour acid-trip sandcastles out of it. But there was denying the tingle of desire at the back of her neck –the secret need to just let go, to do what she truly felt, to feel…
Oh did she feel sexy in leather.
Her hips began to rock by their own volition; at first it was an irregular, chaotic motion, with her gluts contracting, thrusting her groin lewdly out in front of her; then, gradually, as the music began to swell, she fell into so perfect a rhythm that it seemed like the music was lulling on the very weight of her hips, led lovingly into each crescendo with each cheeky thrust of her crotch. She desperately clamped her hands over her mons in a futile effort to stop the convulsions, but immediately they began tracing a languid trail up her abdomen, over the swells of her breasts, and up to her hair, where her nimble fingers made quick work of her bun.
She gasped as she shook her hair, the auburn locks cascading over her shoulders, strands of it sticking to her sweaty face. Something happened then, deep inside –a magnificent cosmic burst inside her head, and suddenly even the dissolving of the cosmos could do little to worry her.
"Captain?!" someone shouted. Dimly, she was aware of the stunned gazes of her bridge crew as she danced provocatively, but she couldn't drag herself out of this bliss to care even the slightest.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Seven of Nine, even more stunning in her tight leather catsuit, appeared. She was visibly startled, her eyes absolutely huge as she gazed at the Captain, grinding and jutting to the music in the middle of the bridge. Her appearance seemed to have been the only thing that could stir the captain, and she danced her way over to the ex-Borg with a horribly randy grin.
"Captain?" Seven inquired, hoping that this was just a malfunction in her cortical node.
"Oh lordy, you know I need some lovin'," she gasped, "Touch me!"
She grabbed a stunned Seven's hands, and pressed them to her breasts, her hips still jutting furiously to the music. She grinned lewdly at the younger woman as she lifted her right leg, wrapping it around the ex-Borg's hips, drawing her into the heat of her inner thighs. Seven was at a loss for actions, contended to stand stiff as a pole even in this most intimate embrace –even as the Captain continued to thrust, her leather-clad crotch connecting deliciously with her own.
She couldn't deny the swollen feeling in her womanhood, or the devious tingles rocketing throughout her virginal body. She was hot. Her lust was growing by the second, its atrocious grasp constricting her brain, staunching every last logical thought to give way to her innate desires. Her vagina thinking ever bit for her, she began to thrust into the Captain, small gasps escaping her throat with each contact. Then, in one spectacular moment, something ineffably clicked and nothing mattered anymore.
"Oh, Captain," she moaned, "I feel sexy!"
She reached up and drew the pin from her hair, throwing it across the room and shaking her golden locks from their cruel containment. She squealed as she felt Janeway's hands reach around her hips to grasp her buttocks, her fingers pressing into her soft flesh as the older woman gleefully assessed her cheeks. She bent her head down, her lips connecting with the Captain's heatedly.
Janeway moaned, pushing Seven back into her command chair, straddling her, thrusting into the other woman fratnically, on the cusp of delicious orgasm.
The whole bridge crew, now suitably awake, sat stunned as the duo humped each other to the beat of the music, for long, long moments, until they too were swept up in the irresistible beat, their minds clouded with some unidentifiable substance. The ship descended into chaos, every deck a veritable disco, filled to the brim with sweating, humping, dancing crewmen, all consumed with the hazy cosmic jive.