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Loose Ends
Note of What Has Gone Before: Lieutenant Barclay and Project Pathfinder institute Operation Watson, which established, regular, permanent communication with Voyager. Now in contact every day rather than once a month, the crew had a chance to communicate directly with their families on Earth. The Doctor contacted a publisher, who agreed to distribute his holonovel, "Photons Be Free." In expressing his concerns for the plight of artificial life forms, he colored Voyager's crew in an unfavorable light.
It's late, I'm very tired, and I can't sleep. Frankly, I'm really not interested in trying to compose at this ungodly hour, but I've run out of options. My mind is like thick clay, my body lead. Work is impossible. Reports are piled about my quarters forming a miniature Druidic shrine, matching the Incan ruins I've constructed in my Ready Room. I sit through my duty shifts not knowing if I should thank the lack of phenomena or seek it out as a means to break this deadening funk I've descended into. My crew has chosen to adapt without comment, and taken up the slack with rosters and schedules. They've taken it rather well, especially my Circle, especially Chakotay. I am so hard on them sometimes. This most be as maddening for them as it is for me. I've been staying away from them, except in official capacity, and even then only as necessary. I don't know why. This is not the first time I've chosen to stay away. But before I always knew the cause; annoyance, guilt, even despair. I'm just tired. For no good reason at all. Barrows. I've been staying away from Barrows. More than I've been staying away from the others. There has been no break between us, I've just stopped seeing her. She hasn't called me about it either. Perhaps she's being patient, perhaps she's given up. She's been on my mind a lot though. The real Barrows, the original Barrows, the flesh and blood Barrows. The dead Barrows. Tuvok brought the subject up with this absurd inquiry about Sela. Bureaucracy is Starfleet Intelligence's worst enemy. They've had years since our first contact through the Hirogen array, let alone our monthly mail drops, to resolve this issue. Yet now they felt compelled to address the subject. Why they even thought my input relevant when I haven't been at the Club in seven years is beyond me. Tuvok, of course, would not address the subject of motive. Not really appropriate. He was very formal about the entire affair, requesting a meeting in my Ready Room well in advance. We had just wrapped up the Doctor's lawsuit; which, I suppose, is what triggered the whole mess. With Starfleet already nervous about the image Photons Be Free depicted of its officers and crews, somewhere some drone must have begun a search into the backgrounds of Voyager's command staff, hoping to spot any embarrassing incidents before the rest of the quadrant did. I have no regrets about any of the choices I've made in my life. Decorum is a requirement if one is to pursue the duel interests of duty and sensation that are my defining passions. Regret is not permissible. I could live with the political implications of the details of my private life becoming public. There would be no records, no logs otherwise. But Starfleet was another matter. Years ago, when our voyage began, when we were all more likely dead than alive, loose threads like Sela just couldn't have seemed relevant. Now I'm sure they lived in fear of the day a journalist posed the question, "So Captain, was your affair with the Tal Shiar agent before or after you seduced the captain of the Federation flagship?" Twelve days ago, no, thirteen, Tuvok sat before me with a padd and his best game face. "Captain," he began. "Starfleet Intelligence has brought a matter to my attention that requires a formal investigation." "Go on, Lieutenant." He shifted in his seat. This was going to be more uncomfortable for him than me. "It concerns a Romulan intelligence operative named Sela." I may have rolled my eyes. "Oh yes, Sela." I gave him the bare bones of the encounter, thorough enough for a report yet sanitized for his Vulcan prudishness. Sela turned up on Earth attempting to infiltrate the Club as a prospective slave. We all knew she was a Tal Shiar agent, whose job was to turn Sabisat and her considerable knowledge of Federation dirty laundry back into a loyal Romulan. On Sabisat's recommendation, we kept them apart and I worked her over until she became the sub she claimed to be. It was definitely more uncomfortable for Tuvok than me. He finished the interview, asked to be dismissed, and got the hell out of my Ready Room as graciously as possible. He would report back to Starfleet Intelligence and ask further questions if necessary. I didn't worry about the inquiry, I didn't care. But our conversation
sparked something in my brain that wouldn't go away. It had been a long
time since I had dwelled on the memories of the dark days surrounding my
Mistress' parting. When I learned of her condition I was on a deep space assignment, a that term seems pretty meaningless when compared with our current position. My instinct was to return at once, but duty kept me trapped for weeks as we completed our survey. After our last scan was finished, I applied for a leave of absence and took a shuttle directly to the Club. She was near the end. Her mind was still as bright and clear as ever but she was so very tired. She smiled when I arrived, kneeling before her bed. She whispered to Sabisat, who beckoned me to her side. I was still in my captain's uniform, which seemed to please her. Incredulously, she asked me about my recent voyage. I told her about what we had seen and cataloged on our journey. She seemed particularly curious about any new stellar phenomena, and I explained about a gas ring near Vryes 395 that glowed bright blue with perfectly set masses of light whose color changed with the angle of the view. She took it all in, saying, "I miss the stars." She held out her hand, and I took it in mine. I stayed there through the day and the night, never leaving her side, and never letting go. Sabisat sat beside her as well, perfectly still and erect, watching over and protecting her. She never spoke, or showed any emotion. Her presence spoke for her. Throughout the day, many came by to see her, friends I knew and strangers as well. Some she talked to, others sat for a while as she slept. The next morning she passed away, and I went to my room to cry for the first of many times. The Club was the domain of fantasy, and the reality of Mistress Barrows' passing was, at the most mundane level, out of place. The slaves did not know how to react. The guests did not know how to react. How could one have pleasure under such circumstances? How could the Club exist without pleasure? The rules seemed to have changed, and no one knew what the new rules were. Her funeral provided some guidance. Mistress Barrows' had left very specific instructions about what she wanted. We threw her a party. There was sumptuous food, fine wines, lovely flowers, and colorful banners. The most dedicated subs provided the entertainment, serving as musicians, jugglers and fire eaters. I envied them. Their roles provided a mask to hide behind. The only role I could play was dedicated servant and colleague, bravely facing the unknown future. I would have preferred being a quivering mess, weeping uncontrollably in a fetal position. I sipped champagne and commiserated with the guests. Vic performed "The Lady is a Tramp," which Barrows called her favorite. He told me afterwards that he believed Barrows held on those last few weeks just for my arrival, not wanting to go before saying goodbye. Barrows was cremated, and Sabisat cast her ashes out over the ocean. We all coped differently. Some went for abstinence, others for bacchanal. Felix lost himself in his latest project, a holographic simulation of a previous Club owner, Dagmar Olanof. Dagmar was a mess, who having nothing better to do with her time, pursued her passions amongst the men and women present, regardless of whether they were guest or staff. Felix continued to adjust her program, much to Vic's consternation, who always viewed holograms as a poor substitute for the real thing. I simply avoided her. Everything at the Club reminded me of Barrows. My time here, first as a slave and then as a dominatrix were intimately tied to my relationship with her. I began spending my days at Starfleet Headquarters, losing myself in whatever little projects were about. I still wasn't really ready for command. In San Francisco, I could always retire to an office when it became to much. Here I could stay away from the demands of Starfleet for days at a time if necessary. There were times when it was necessary. My only real comforts at the Club were Susan and Molly. Mark had been unavailable for the funeral, his business taking him to Bolarus. He was able to call before the funeral, and we did stay in touch, but it wasn't the same as being here. Susan never left the Club and stayed with me always while I was there. I spent my nights in her arms, who held me the way I needed to be held; the way I'd wished Barrows could have held me. Looking back, I realize that this was as much an extension of her slave mind set as genuine compassion. Surely, sharing my pain must have seemed a greater act of devotion than the most strenuous beating. Molly, of course, showed the most unconditional love, as only an Irish Setter can. This was the unexpected setting in which Sela approached us. She reached Earth as part of the Romulan diplomatic mission. She contacted us from Paris, requesting a meeting. It was absurd. Even the most causal review of her background revealed her involvement with the Tal Shiar. My instinct was to reject her application outright, but the request was so outrageous that it demanded discussion. I met with Vic and Sabisat to consider the matter. I was worried for Sabisat. She continued to be present at all administrative functions, but otherwise had withdrawn to her room to grieve. She seemed so passionless on the surface. It was such a lie; Romulans are not Vulcans, they don't have the same dedication to repression. Maybe it was some element of her military training. Maybe it was to set an example in self control. It seemed so unfair; when it was too much, Vic could always go back to his old neighborhood, and I to Starfleet. Sabisat shared an association of the Club with Barrows decades longer than I, yet had no escape. Only the slightly harshest of expressions betrayed her as we reviewed Sela's background. To me, it was an open and shut case; the Lifestyle is based on trust, which would be impossible to establish with an active intelligence officer. Vic was considering all possibilities. "Any reason to believe she could actually benefit from the experience?" Men. Sabisat finally spoke. "That depends on whether she was sent or she volunteered." "Mistress?" I asked. "If she was assigned the mission, she can gain nothing by being here. However, if she volunteered, especially if she proposed the mission, there are possibilities. "We are a proud and insular people. Someone of Sela's parentage would have difficulty finding a proper place. That she chose intelligence as a career, where she would be required to act against her mother's people, indicates a desire to prove her loyalty beyond what would ever be expected of her." "She wants to be seen as more Romulan than Romulan," Vic offered. "Precisely. If she offered to place herself in a situation where she would be tested on the most basic psychic level, it may be because she wishes to test herself, and perhaps, fail." It wasn't working for me yet. "But she is in intelligence. Obviously she is trusted already." "Fear is the Tal Shiar's claws, but paranoia is its blood. She would be in the most potent environment to experience her insecurities." "Let's say you're right. What do we do with her? Turn her over to Starfleet Intelligence?" She ruffled a bit. Decades later and this was still a sticky subject. "Politics are irrelevant. Policy is fashion. The matter at hand is to ascertain what the submissive needs for their well-being. In this regard, Sela is no different from any other candidate." She had a point. I consented, with caution. Vic shrugged. The meeting adjourned. Vic would write her back and schedule an interview. I would alert Starfleet Intelligence, as was our practice whenever a high profile prospect arrived. It was one of the many little compromises we had developed to keep them out. It raised some eyebrows to be sure, but they seemed copasetic, as
Vic would say. Chakotay asked me to dinner. I said yes. We hadn't eaten together in a while. We met in my quarters. I wore something simple yet unprovocative. He did the same. Sex was not on the menu and he knew it. The Circle had been tripping over themselves in the last few weeks to be polite without being intrusive. All of them were less active. I had actually had a few sessions, but they were rote and my slaves knew it. There was an uncomfortable edge in the air that made play difficult. Even though I told them that I was not necessary for their own pleasure, I still knew that they had taken few opportunities to continue without me. We'd gone down this road several times before and they always react the same way. They hide it better now, but I still feel imposed upon. You'd think by now they'd learn. Not that their behavior is unreasonable on their part. If anything, it seems unfair for them to suffer through my mood swings. Sometimes it feels as if life would be much simpler without all of the trappings of the Circle. Or any relationships. I found myself resenting dinner with Chakotay. I do not doubt the depth of his commitment to me, or I to him. He waited so patiently, as he always does. It was so easy for him. I rather wish that he would lose his temper. Then his imperfections would mirror my own, instead of throwing them into sharp relief. Seven provided the recipe. She was researching possible meals for her upcoming dates with the Commander. She had been clearing every detail of her planned campaign in advance, although like everything else, the process had slowed recently. To my great surprise, Seven had been teaching me to cook. I confess that cooking has always been something of a mystery to me, an art beyond my scope. Seven examined cooking with a cold analytical eye. There was no difference to her between a delicate souffle and a complex synthetic molecule. Her analysis of procedure and ingredients had a scientific precision. I think Chakotay noticed the improvement in my work, but said nothing. He knew Seven was the reason, and knew why Seven was spending so much time on her own culinary skills. He wasn't about to make the mistake of discussing anything that had to do with him getting laid. But he did enjoy the meal, and allowed his expression to show so. We talked ship's business, which ran out before we finished. We completed the meal in silence as I waited for him to inevitably bring up the subject of my latest estrangement. I was unprepared for his opening statement. "So what about Sela?" "Excuse me?" He tidied himself with his napkin then gazed at me across the small table. "I was wondering about how you managed to seduce a dedicated Tal Shiar agent." "How did you... Don't tell me, I don't want to know. Tuvok's going to have a fit when he finds out that you've been tapping his communications with Starfleet." "Hey, I'm a wanted man. It's good to be cautious." I didn't respond. The Commander continued to gaze across the table at me, a placid smile on his face. It was so incredulous I forgot to be annoyed. The first problem would be who was to train her. Sabisat was off limits. Vic, while capable, might create associations with rape that would interfere with the process. While it was possible that this was ultimately what she wanted, it was better to be safe than sorry. "Vic?" Chakotay asked. Now I had him off guard. "How to explain Vic. Vic Fontaine was an oddity at the Club. In a place of pure sensuality, being as committedly straight as Vic was would be viewed on as hypocritical. But he was completely non-judgmental and so charming that you would have expected he was from the Deep South instead of South Philadelphia. "Between him and Felix, who never met a dick he didn't like, we
had enough for one bisexual man, so it all balanced out." I didn't want the job. My depression made walking difficult. Being sexual seemed impossible. I had many long conversations with Sabisat before she convinced me to proceed. No candidate ever has their first meeting at the Club. A neutral third site is essential. I selected a little restaurant I knew in New Orleans. Although popular, I arranged for us to meet mid afternoon, when they would be largely empty. The owner knew of my need for privacy, and seated me away from the other patrons. I adored this place. Simple, classic Cajun cooking and totally alien to anything Sela would have ever had. There is often a contest of wills between an initiate and a Dom at first. Oft times this is because the candidate is not a true submissive, and is simply attempting to trick the Dom into close access before switching. I'd seen this many times in the past; even at the Club's level, more candidates fail the screening then pass. A certain amount of role playing was to be expected. Given the highly suspicious nature of Sela's motives, I could take nothing for granted. She would have been very highly rehearsed, possibly conditioned, for all of the normal tests. Her clothes set the tone of our encounter. Needless to say, we were both in civilian attire. I wore a tailored silk suit, carefully cinched while appearing loose. It was white, with a finely embroidered vine climbing up my waist and around to my neck. Sela wore a bulkier, charcoal coat over a coarse woven blouse. It was utterly devoid of all ornamentation, including those hideous padded shoulders that were lately the fashion on Romulus. She had slightly changed her hair to give it more of a Vulcan appearance. It was very conservative -- except for the supple leather kid gloves. As she walked to me I wondered how many people had worked on preparing that outfit. She stood before my table next to the half extended chair, waiting for my acknowledgment. "Commander," I said casually. "Captain," she replied. One pretension out of the way. "In this environment, the correct term is Mistress." "Yes, Mistress. My apologies, Mistress." I motioned for her to have a seat. "Shall we have something to eat?" The waiter arrived with a pair of menus. She puzzled her way through it. I gave her a few moments, a slight smile forced onto my face. The waiter returned. "You ladies ready to order yet, or should I give you some more time?" I ordered. Cajun grilled lobster. The waiter turned to Sela, still uncertain. "Would you like me to select something for you?" I asked. She nodded. Decorum in public. I chose a well considered selection of dishes, all vegetarian. Decorum is a two way street. The waiter noticed the peculiarity of my choices, but said nothing. One never assumes about alien palates. He left and we were again alone. "Before we begin," I said. "Let me make a few things clear. If you pass muster, and I do not assume that you will, your movements at the Club will be very restricted. You will not be allowed to interact with most of the guests. And you not be allowed, under any circumstances, to meet or even observe Sabisat. She is off limits to you, forever." "Yes, Mistress." No request for explanations or second guessing. "The clubs on Romulus are not to your taste?" "I wouldn't know, Mistress. I've never been to one." "And why is this?" "They have never allowed me access." I've yet to hear of an intelligent, corporeal species that did not have some version of the Lifestyle. Even some Vulcans have proved so inclined on rare occasions. B&D does of course exist on Romulus, but very, very deeply underground. Sabisat herself had only heard rumors of them during her time there. "As an operative of the Tal Shiar, no gathering would risk my presence. There was always the implied threat that I was there to gather data on its members." "Understandable. How are we to assume you are not to do so here?" "You don't. But as you've already stated, my interactions would be closely monitored. Additionally, unlike Romulan clubs, you already have a relationship with the local intelligence agency." "We do?" "Of course. You couldn't have operated as long as you do, with the members you have, without Starfleet Intelligence's tacit... indulgence." Our food arrived. Sela paused a moment to consider her meal. The colors, the smells, the quantity surprised her. I went right to work on mine. "You assume a great deal." "I apologize, Mistress. It seemed logical." I found myself smiling again as I returned to my lobster. This line of questioning was at an end. It was time to move on. Normally, I would have sent her a questionnaire asking her about her favorite food, her favorite scent, how she bathed, all the usual stuff. I assumed she had been briefed for that, so I picked new questions, and asked her at the table. "What is your preference in underwear?" Softball. "Damistil." A soft, silk-like fabric. "Why?" "I don't get many occasions to feel sensuous. It's one of the few ways I have to express myself within the confines of the uniform." "Are you wearing them now?" "Yes, Mistress." "And if I asked you to prove that to me now, you would do so?" "Yes, Mistress." I considered having her leave for the restroom and return with them in hand. I shrugged mentally and cracked open a lobster tail with detached brutality. I had not ordered any for Sela. On the one hand, I didn't believe she'd know how to eat it. On the other, she would be compelled to consider what she was missing. The intrinsic incivility of lobster would be at odds with the warm and fuzzy image the Federation tried to cultivate. A lot of what I asked had already been covered in her many, many preliminary interviews. She had passed all of those. I asked her what her experience in the Lifestyle was, what her limits were and so on. She claimed to have only experimented with a few lovers over the years, experienced some yearnings that had remained unfulfilled, all very plausible and just as easily rehearsed. My questions became more obscure, and I could see her struggling with their unfamiliarity. In fact the later ones had nothing to do with the Lifestyle at all. I was more concerned with the meal. She viewed each item with trepidation, but after awhile, she moved easily from dish to dish. She took her time with each bite, but avoided the obvious trap of savoring every fork full. The real key was the rice. While quite delicious, its taste did not complement the others. Towards the end of the meal, Sela had stopped eating it altogether. Her interest in the Lifestyle may have been a contrivance, but her hedonism was not, and that was all I would need. As we parted I thanked her for the conversation and told her that I would contact her when I had made a decision. I had in fact made that decision, but needed time to prepare. I had gathered all the files I could find on Commander Sela, but something was missing -- Starfleet records can be a bit sterile. I wrote to Jean-Luc about her. I did not explain the exact reason for my request, but it was apparent that it was not connected to routine Starfleet activities. Then I cried for two days. I don't know why. It seemed appropriate. Susan would see the redness in my eyes, but had run out of ways to comfort me. She would give expressions of sympathy, hurry to fulfill my every request, but, in a subtle way, began to avoid me. Molly, would simply demand my presence, forcing me to pet her as she placed her head in my lap. Jean-Luc answered my inquiry with a deep evaluation of Sela, as well as that of her mother, and a detailed report by his friend Guinan of her cross temporal encounter. Apparently, twenty years earlier, the Enterprise C was thrown into a temporal rift while rescuing a Klingon outpost from a Romulan attack which created an alternate reality in which the Federation was at war with the Klingons. To restore the timeline, the Enterprise was repaired and sent back to the battle, fighting valiantly to the end, thus demonstrating Federation courage to the Klingons and helping to cement relations with the Empire. All of this would be confusing enough, except that when the Enterprise C went through the rift, it took Picard's security officer, Tasha Yar, with them. Mind you, according to Starfleet records, Lt. Yar died on an Away Mission two years earlier. I hate anomalies. This other Yar was taken prisoner and caught the eye of a Romulan officer, who made her his concubine, producing one daughter, Sela. As explained to Picard by Sela, at age 4, she interrupted her mother's escape attempt, leading directly to Yar's execution. By all accounts she has been a loyal citizen ever since, eventually working her way up to the dirty tricks division of the Tal Shiar. A Mistress might help, but what she really needed was a psychiatrist. Normally, I would have had a few more semiformal 'get to know' meetings to allow the prospect and I to become more comfortable with each other. Being comfortable with anyone right now would be extremely difficult. I skipped the meetings. Sela would just have to cope so I wouldn't have to. Her first session at the Club was scheduled. After she arrived, I had orders that she was to be bathed, fed and pampered. I was doing the same, working myself back into a Mistress state of mind. She was dressed in a fine silk robe and told to wait in a sumptuously appointed boudoir. I wore a matching robe. I made her wait almost an hour before I finally went in to see her. She was standing at attention in the exact center of the room. According to the monitors, she had been doing so the entire time. I carefully paced around her, examining her with a deliberate eye. "Disrobe, please." The robe slid of her shoulders revealing a fine, beautiful body, toned by military training. "Good afternoon." She bowed deeply at the waist. "Good afternoon, Mistress." I touched the tip of her chin, and she rose up to meet my gaze. Would I find defiance, apprehension, desire, fear? One could play the role much more easily from the safety of neutral ground. Here, in the lair of sensation, stripped of all possessions, options and pretensions, it was much, much more difficult to maintain the mask. I saw confusion. "Questions?" She glanced downward for an instant. "Ask." She remained silent. "That was not a request." "The protocols do not seem to match the parameters typically associated with this lifestyle." I smiled, and began to pace around her once more. Perhaps her briefings were not as complete as I suspected. "Dear, sweet pet. I find your ignorance adorable. Very well, let me teach you the correct way to present. On your knees, legs spread, wrists cross the small of your back, eyes averted." She complied, quickly and efficiently. "You will assume this position every time I am to see you, and whenever you are ordered to present. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mistress." "While it is true that the dominant submissive relationship is essentially driven by the submissive's needs, it is the dominant's prerogative to determine how best to fulfill those needs. While you have divulged much about your limits for pain, I have little understanding about your limits for pleasure." "Pardon me, Mistress, but I did not believe that was relevant." I tossed my robe aside. My Outfit was on underneath. I opened the armoire, and carefully selected a light, supple flogger. "Look at me," I said, snapping the flogger. She turned her head to face me, her breathing rising despite herself. "Before we continue further, you must select a safe word." "My pardon, Mistress, but I trust your judgement implicitly. A safe word will not be necessary." I snapped the flogger again. "You will select a safe word or you will leave immediately." She averted her eyes again. "Yes, Mistress." "Don't look away." She looked back. "No, Mistress." "I'm waiting." "I apologize, Mistress." She considered for a moment. "Bechi darta." I had to smile. Its closest equivalent was curtain rod. Not likely to come up in casual conversation. And it was in Romulan, so she wouldn't have to worry about fumbling for the translation. "Excellent. Understand, slave, that you are to use this in cases of extreme distress. Failure to do so can lead to emotional scarring, severe physical injury or death. Your machismo will not impress any of us if this is the result. Do you understand?" "Yes, Mistress." "Oakey dokey, then." I clapped my hands. Berthold, one of the Club's most talent and beautiful slaves, entered the room. His trim, sculpted body flexed under the loose fitting Club shirt and shorts. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Strap her to the bed." He stood, grabbed Sela by the elbow, and gently urged her to her feet. She was led to the four poster bed and then was carefully but securely tied down. I stood before her and dangled the flogger just about her heaving abdomen. "Some slaves find pleasure more difficult to accept than pain. I would be remiss in my evaluation if I did not investigate further." I turned my eye back to Berthold. "Pleasure her. And do not stop until I tell you to." Berthold bowed, and then began removing his clothes. Sela's pulse jumped. Berthold was well endowed without being ridiculous. And he was extremely talented. Even the act of disrobing was an act of animal sensuality. He paused for a moment, naked and magnificent before her. I produced a blindfold and slid it over her eyes. "This may make it easier for you." "Thank you, Mistress." I whispered in her ears. "Remember, if it becomes too difficult, you are free to use your safe word." "Yes, Mistress." I nodded to Berthold, who got to work. He was a true craftsman, who lavished attention on her body with skill and patience. I made note of which caresses, which kisses provoked responses in her. She was eventually shaking as he held his body over hers. "Now. Fuck her. And don't stop until I tell you to." He guided his tip to her wet opening and pushed in without hesitation. Sela cried out despite herself. As her sigh died away, he worked his way into her. When she had taken all of him, he paused. Then he began to move, building his thrusts in power. No one had told Sela that she couldn't come, but she tried to hold back as long as she could. It didn't work. She began moaning, then her hands flexed and pulled against the restraints, then she shouted, turning her head back and forth. Her orgasm was explosive. But the true fiendish aspect of my selection became apparent when Berthold continued on. She came again and again, and yet Berthold did not stop. His discipline was legend at the Club. Sela screamed herself hoarse, yet Berthold continued. Her whole body was covered in sweat, thrashing in pleasure until finally she collapsed unconscious. I gently tapped Berthold upon the shoulder, who brought himself to a stop, and carefully slid out of her. He had performed well, and deserved his reward. I wrapped my gloved hand about his member and with only a few short strokes, compelled him to release his discharge across Sela's body, leaving a trail that ran all the way to her collar. I petted him on the head. She made a very pretty mis en sene, and for a moment I considered leaving her that way, to experience waking, helpless, sated and marked. Perhaps another day. I had Berthold untie her and clean her up. I left. None of our more high profile members were in town, so she was given limited access to the rest of the Club. On her third day she asked for lobster, and after the waiter showed her the best way to eat it, she plundered the entire plate. I scheduled her next session for the following morning. It was in the same room. When I entered, she was already naked at my feet, presenting with perfect form. This was not a good sign. For someone with as limited exposure as Sela claimed, this degree of craft should not be evident. Certainly, her paramilitary background would be a good frame for developing such disciplines quickly, and yet... was this a genuine effort to please, or merely an attempt to lull me into a false sense of security? Barrows always loved the challenge of breaking down a submissive, and so did I. But surely I was not cautious because I was being denied that opportunity. The success of her training, if it was indeed possible, was paramount, not the time in which it took. The thought of Barrows shook me, and I began to feel the grief well up within me. I wanted to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. I couldn't move; it was an effort not to shake. Fortunately, Sela never moved and never raised her head. I gathered myself together to take my first steps, confident strides delineating a slow circle about her. They were to induce a sense of careful consideration, but were, in fact, my way of stalling for time as I desperately blocked out thoughts of death and loss and depression and centered on the matter at hand; my continuing relationship with my prospective slave. I completed my first circuit and was almost halfway around her again when I realized that I couldn't spend the afternoon doing donuts in the boudoir. I turned hard on my excessively tall heels, and exhaled sharply. "Excellent form." "Thank you, Mistress." Her head remained bowed. "Today's activities will begin light and then increase in intensity. Go to the St. Andrew's cross." She began glancing about the room, head still lowered. "It's that large rack to your left." "Thank you, Mistress." I was working with the pain, keeping the commands sharp and crisp. As Sela hastened to obey me, she kept her eyes averted, wasting the glower I had cobbled together. I followed behind and shackled her in place. I kept her facing the wall, eliminating the need for her to look at me. I walked with confident strides to the armoire, and selected the elkskin flogger. I was following a checklist in my mind. I return to my subject and calculated the pattern of blows to execute across her naked body. I was stuck by just how beautiful she was; muscles flexed against the restraints, body arched to receive the blows, a slight quiver of anticipation. It had never connected in my mind. Sela, slave initiate, confused daughter, spy, was a beautiful being. Had I told her so? I reached out a gloved hand and ran my fingers across her toned skin. She flinched ever so slightly as I touched her shoulder blades. "You are beautiful, Sela." "Thank you, Mistress." There was an unexpected crack in her voice. "Hasn't anyone ever told you you're beautiful?" "No... No, Mistress." It was the first time I felt pity for her. I ran my hand down her back, stopping just before her thigh. "Never?" "No, Mistress." "That is an injustice. You should be told that you are beautiful often." I backed away from her. "I'm going to warm the skin, to better increase sensation." "Yes, Mistress." I got to work, slowly and carefully moving across her back, varying the rhythm and intensity of the strokes, always avoiding impacts that were too painful. Pain was not the purpose. Between strokes I complimented her form, her skin, even her poise. She was indeed a lovely creature, and I began to feel greater empathy for her. I found that I wanted to touch her, to feel the heat radiating from her skin, and enjoy the reaction of my touch. I resisted. It was not time. She had not yet earned it. I had not earned it. With careful application, the flogger alone can bring a sub to orgasm. I did not attempt this with Sela. But I wanted her highly aroused. And when she had squirmed and moaned to my satisfaction, I inserted the flogger's handle between her delicate folds and thrust upwards. She cried out, and I removed the flogger and examined it. The physical signs of her arousal were before me, glistening in the light and scenting the air. No amount of briefing could fake this. I released her from the rack. It was time to turn up the intensity. "As I understand it, you have never had a woman." "No, Mistress." "On the bed, face down." Once again I clapped my hands, and Susan entered. She wore the standard Club issue silk robe. "The mark of a true submissive is that they are a prisoner to their desires. Susan here is one of the most obedient slaves I have ever trained. She obeys my every command, thoroughly, and without hesitation. Yet ultimately, she is a prisoner to her needs, and it is this enslavement that produces such unwavering loyalty. "My analysis of your background and interests indicates that you too are a prisoner of desire. It will be my role to cultivate that passion, so that you may channel it properly. To do so, it will be necessary to demonstrate to you the depths of your compulsion." I gave Susan a slight pat on the back. She disrobed and quietly slid onto the bed, positioning herself over the prostrate Romulan. Susan briefly appraised the situation, then began to delicately tongue Sela's upraised behind. As she explored about, one of her hands gave a gentle squeeze. Once again, I could hear Sela's breath begin to quicken. I settled into an overstuffed chair to watch Susan work. She had not been allowed to have me, so she was pouring all of her efforts into Sela. Quickly appraising her state, Susan rolled onto her back and latched onto Sela's pussy. It didn't take long for her to begin screaming, pounding her fists into the bed in ecstacy. But this was not to be a replay of the previous session. As Sela's orgasm faded, Susan withdrew, leaving Sela to collapse heaving on the mattress. I let her get her breath. "There now, pet, did you enjoy that?" "Yes... yes, Mistress," she panted. "Excellent. Now you must return the favor." For the first time today she stared at me, exhausted and uncertain of my meaning. I remained sitting, my legs crossed. She slowly turned, and saw Susan kneeling on the bed behind her. She gathered her strength, and crawled to her. Susan gathered her in her arms and pulled her into a deep kiss. If she had been surprised to find herself kissing a woman, she had stopped caring. Theire exchange was ferocious, almost feral. Sela's hands wandered, unsure where to go, and still trembling from her climax. Susan took control, gently breaking the kiss and urging Sela to her collar and then her breasts. She took Sela by the hair, and guided her from one nipple to another as she licked and kissed and massaged with fire. Susan's own breathing began to shorten and she pushed Sela lower, to her abdomen and beyond. Sela kissed Susan's inner thighs and then paused a moment before she tentatively licked at Susan's clit. Encouraged by Susan's moans, Sela proceeded further, and began to
attack Susan's pussy with gusto. Susan's moans became pants, then screams,
as she forced Sela's head against her dripping wetness. At the end she
had her legs locked around Sela's neck as she bucked against Sela's tongue.
As Susan's orgasm faded, Sela crawled up her body, and the two collapsed
in each others arms. Chakotay blinked. I stared at him. "I'm sorry," he said. "That must have been really hot." I exhaled. "I suppose so." I collected the dishes. Chakotay, not wanting to show off the erection he was struggling with, remained seated. His problem, not mine. "Of course, I just wanted to run away and cry." He scurried out later with all the dignity he could muster. That sounds harsh, but I got some satisfaction that he had revealed a chink in his armor. The glimpse of the pervert, hell, the man, was a relief. I didn't have to feel so guilty in denying him. For all of the image of stalwartness, much of Chakotay is about subterfuge. Maybe he would call it tact. Seven, however, has no understanding of tact, and confronted me the next day about Barrows. "I do not understand your actions in avoiding Barrows," she announced. We were alone in Astrometrics. "Seven, do you expect me to believe that your interest in this matter is purely out of altruism and not a means to resume copulating as vigorously and often as possible?" "I consider it a matter of enlightened self interest. While it is true that your emotional state of mind effects other members of the Circle, this in no way trivializes your pain. You are still my Captain, my Mistress and my friend... Kathryn." Bitch, bitch, bitch. She doesn't play fair either. "I'd rather not discuss it." "What exactly is it about Barrows that you find so difficult?" She wasn't going to give up. Alright, two can play this game. "Seven do you remember the pain you felt at One's loss?" "Yes." "Well, that's grief. And do you remember that after a while it went away?" "Yes." "Well, it comes back. And it keeps coming back at the most inopportune times." That gave her pause. "I am unclear. You have invested as much emotional attachment to the Barrows holoprogram as one would to a corporeal entity. If there were a simulation of One as sophisticated and compelling as she, I would be glad for it." How to explain it to her. How to explain it to myself. "I knew Barrows for many years. Her loss affected me deeply. Although I have enjoyed the relationship I have shared with the Barrows program, lately, after I was reminded of her loss, it suddenly seemed inappropriate to share the same feelings I had before." Seven continued staring at me. "I had told Barrows that I would have no Mistress other than her. Even though I know the simulation is as close to Barrows as it is possible to program, on some level it still feels like a betrayal." "My understanding is that the program was created at Barrows' insistence for you as a way to be part of your life after her death. Even if you view her as a completely separate entity, your relationship is sanctioned. Betrayal is impossible." "Eminently logical. However, grief has its own logic. If one has pledged to give their heart only to one other, then logically, in the event of loss, one would be prevented from ever giving one's heart again, regardless of the circumstances, even if the other wished it. For if one can love another, than how true a love was the original?" "Then this is about Mark." I think my jaw dropped. I know my head did. "Mark? How do you get to Mark?" Seven seemed surprised. "You were prepared to enter a committed relationship with an individual who betrayed that trust. It seems reasonable that you would hold yourself to a more stringent standard." Mark. Mark? Not Mark. Mark had been calling lately. Ever since we established the link,
his name was on the list of people trying to call me. Starfleet passed
on his first few messages until I patiently explained to Reg that he was
no longer my fiancé. That got him off the list for direct contact,
but did not stop him from sending little notes with the rest of my correspondence.
I read all of them, even though I never wrote back. Underutilized masochism,
I suppose. The early notes were polite enquires about how I was and how
I was doing and what the latest was back on Earth. Eventually he got to the
point. He wanted Susan reinstated at the Club. Not for his own benefit,
he claimed that he had no interest in returning himself, but it was important
to her. Susan was a die hard sub. Although smart, charming and self assured, she had a craving to serve that would have made her crawl over broken glass. She proved a very able lieutenant in all matters concerning the Club's operation, and was my chief liaison while I was away. She had always been in the Lifestyle more than Mark. He understood how it worked, but frankly, he was dating a Dominatrix, it was part of the package. We had experimented a little and he was a good sport, but it wasn't him. He had an open mind, a pervert's open mind, and when a session got a little... abstract, he would shrug it off, saying some people preferred snails and some oysters. Business continued to keep him away in the weeks as I trained Sela. But we talked almost everyday, sometimes for hours. I had been bothered by my lack of progress. We had advanced to basic discipline, coupled with pleasure. She had performed pointless menial labors, wrenched my shoulder absorbing my blows, pulled a train of volunteers; been cajoled, praised, humiliated and pampered. We engaged in activities in sessions that I would never do normally. Her form in all instances was flawless. Frankly, it was better than mine, as I hid my distaste for the words, props and fluids. She was completely malleable to whatever the situation required. Even in instances where sessions contradicted each other in impact, she acquiesced without any indication of discomfort. This was strange. Every sub has their tastes and their limits. Some things clearly turned her on more than others, but I was not approaching any true barrier to be breached. It was if her acquiescence was a means to avoid encountering the deeper levels of her psyche. It was very frustrating, and I was running out of activities that I could stomach. I vented at Mark. He listened quietly, then asked me to explain once again her background. "So let me see if I understand. Sela believes her human mother's execution was just punishment for her betrayal of Romulus, yet feels anger towards the Federation because they allowed her to be captured by the Romulans in the first place." "Yup." "You're right, she does needs a psychiatrist." "Yup." "And you're sure she's a sub?" "Oh yes, she enjoys the lash too much." "And her fanaticism is preventing her from truly letting go?" "Exactly. Her military and intelligence training give her enough self control to adapt to any scenario I produce." "And you suspect her fanaticism is a combination of a desire to fit in as well as a rationalization for her part in her mother's death." "Yes." "Well, you'll never crack that angle. At least not right away. So the other part is her hatred of the Federation." "Okay. Any suggestions?" "How about the direct approach?" Among the Club's many distinguished clientele was a lecturer in advanced temporal ethics from Berkley. I had Sela strapped nude to a St. Andrews cross propped at one end of the chamber as the professor explained in excruciating detail the exact nature of the temporal fissure the Enterprise encountered. Examples of temporal contamination and fragments were covered, including the recently discovered Gabriel Bell incident. We displayed the files related to the life and death of Tasha Yar, including her headstone. Now I had a reaction. We laid it all out, piece by piece, with such impenetrable logic that she was finally forced to concede that the people and places her mother spoke of were but echos of reality as we experienced it. But I didn't stop there. I dismissed the professor. "What is the responsibility of every prisoner?" I demanded. It took some effort to get a reply. "To escape." "And what would a Starfleet officer be expected to do in Yar's position?" "My father gave her shelter, a chance to live..." "Your father took a prize of war. Did she ever have any say in what happened to her?" "Now I see. Your agenda has become clear, Captain." I strode up to her, until we were almost touching. I stared into her eyes which did not flinch. "You are to address me as Mistress." "Of course, Mistress. The forms must be obeyed." I walked to a coffee table which held a remote for the cross. I tripped the release, and Sela dropped to the floor. "Perhaps I have been misunderstood. Politics are irrelevant here. This is not about the Federation and Romulus. This is about a man who used his position to force a woman into a relationship against her will. If you feel otherwise, there is nothing further I can do." "My father... my father..." "What is the standard for treatment of prisoners by Romulus?" "Incarceration... or execution." "Is it ever considered appropriate to bed them?" She wouldn't answer. "This is not about politics. By Romulan standards, what happened to Tasha Yar was improper." The strain had begun to show. Her voice cracked. "She could have refused... she could have said no." I stooped down to look her in the eye. "While there was life there was hope. She did what she had to until the opportunity to escape presented itself." "Why did she take me... I didn't want to go." "You were her daughter. Even though her task was made more difficult by trying to take a child with her, she couldn't bear to be without you. She loved you." She broke down. "I killed her. Oh, God, I killed her." I wanted to hold her. It wasn't time. "You were a child who couldn't understand why her life was being interrupted." "I killed her. I killed her." She was a puddle on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Nothing more could be done for now. I gathered myself together, straightening the room. "You must choose, Sela. You must choose between controlling your own life or allowing yourself to be a puppet to a past that you had no control over." I paused by the door. "I leave you here to meditate. You are free to leave the Club at any time." "Yes, Mistress," she whispered. I ignored her for about a week. In that time, she never left her room, her meals being brought to her. She cried a lot. So did I, although not for the same reasons. It bothered me how difficult the session had been. Any confrontation as deep as the one we experienced would be draining; what bothered me was the lack of contact. Of course I understood how important for Sela that I give her time to contemplate, that if I gave her the comfort she sought too early that it might create a bond not between dominant and submissive, but between friends. And we were not friends. She was a candidate for training. Respect was necessary, but friendship, true friendship, was not something that had been established. But even as I rationalized I knew I was lying. I didn't want friendship, hers or anyone else's. I didn't want to open my heart again after the tragedy I'd experienced. I saw the suffering of a fellow being in deep emotional pain and resented my desire to help. After a week she packed, and arranged to leave. Before she left she asked for me. She knelt on the floor before me, wearing the same clothes I had seen in New Orleans. "I have failed Mistress. I have failed in my responsibilities as an agent of the Empire, and I have failed as a sentient being in facing my own life. "All I can do is return to Romulus to contemplate my future." "You must do what you feel is right." It was very hard for her. She struggled to maintain her composure. "Mistress, please. I feel I must go, yet I want to stay. I want to be with you." It was time to make her choose. "The relationship between a dom and a sub is not something that can simply be turned on and off. You have asked to leave, so you should leave." She didn't move. She couldn't move. "Please, Mistress." "Please, what?" "Please, Mistress, please ask me to stay." "I will do nothing of the kind. Have you learned nothing from your time here? The Lifestyle is a place to test ones limits, to explore the senses and to release oneself from the constraints of everyday life. It is not an emotional crutch for the weak willed. "I have strived to have you free yourself of the emotional web you have trapped yourself in. I will not help you build a new one." I turned to leave. She dropped before my feet, begging to stay and serve. "Why should I allow it?" "Because I wish it, Mistress. Please let me serve you." The operative words were 'let me serve' and not 'ask me to serve.' "Present." She slid to her feet. Sela removed her clothing, slowly. Unlike previous times, she seemed genuinely shy, nervous and exposed. She moved with careful deliberation as she removed the last articles and sank to her knees. She was as beautiful as before, but the demeanor had changed. Her face and body revealed a deep submission, and apprehension of possible failure. She leaned even further forward to kiss my boot. "Please, Mistress. Please let me serve you. Please let me please you." The moment was finally here and I found myself exhausted as well. She licked and sucked the toe of my boot. "Please, Mistress. Please." And I remembered; it's ultimately about what the submissive needs. Sela had earned contact, and she had earned release, and what I wanted didn't matter anymore. "By the bed. Bend over." She almost jumped as she stumbled to the bed and splayed herself before me. I went to the armoire and produced the only implement I could handle at the moment; the strap on. I secured it carefully and returned to her side. I reached out to stroke her bare bottom, feeling her firm flesh beneath my gloved hand. "You are indeed beautiful, Sela. And you deserve a reward." "Yes, Mistress." "Prepare to receive me." "Thank you, Mistress." She was already wet as I slid into her. As I thrust forward she cried out in pleasure. I began slowly, but soon found myself pounding harder, deeper, faster. Her cries grew louder. I found myself resenting all of it, Sela, Sabisat's insistence that we train her, my own standards. Who was the puppet now? All of this resentment and anger drove down to my hips as I continued on, my movements becoming harsher and more feral. I swatted her hard across the ass. "Take it, bitch, take it all!" "Yes, Mistress," she panted between screams. I fucked her for everything I was worth. She was loving it and I didn't care. Her thighs were slick. "Come!" "Thank you, Mistress," she shouted as the orgasm overwhelmed her. As the waves and waves of pleasure surged through her, she began to buck back, thrusting herself against me and the dildo. She clenched, and with a sigh collapsed to the bed. I discarded the dildo and harness and returned to my room. I dismissed Susan and fell into a chair. I sat there for hours, still in my Outfit, Sela's scent lingering on me. It was over. If this is what it took to play, then I didn't want to anymore. I turned Sela's training over to Vic. She was given the option to leave if she chose, but that I would no longer participate. She accepted, and they began the lengthy process of acclimating all over again. Perhaps she felt hurt that I abandoned her, perhaps she didn't care who held the whip. But it no longer mattered to me, and that's why I had to leave. I spent some time at Starfleet Headquarters, and found out about the Intrepid class. Voyager would be needing a captain, and I needed space beneath my legs. It wasn't that hard to arrange. I had helped on tests of the bio-neural gel packs. Many of my crew had been reassigned while I was away. Tuvok was off on his mission to infiltrate the Maquis. I was available to assist with the shakedown. I returned to say my goodbyes to Sabisat and Vic. Felix presented me with the Barrows program. "She had been working with me on it for over a year. I think she knew even then..." I didn't know what to say. I tried honesty. "I'm touched, of course. But, a holoprogram? I don't know if I could... I mean..." Felix pressed the chip into my hand. "She wanted you to have it. I know right now, the last thing you want is to be reminded of her, but someday, you'll want to here her voice or ask her advice." I examined the isolinear chip. "Trust me, Dagmar is nothing compared to this." "Thank you." I thrust the chip into my bag, never expecting to ever load the program. I said goodbye to Susan as well. "Remember," I said. "You can come to see me in San Francisco any time you need to." "Yes, Mistress," she replied. "Kathryn," I said. "You must start calling me Kathryn." I took Molly and left for the apartment I kept near the Bay. Eventually,
Mark returned, and Susan would come as well, but I never went back to the
Club again. Tuvok had Starfleet Intelligence's final report. They had found my explanations acceptable, and considered the matter finally closed. I shrugged. Tuvok lingered. "Yes, Lieutenant?" "If I may, Captain. I would like to address a personal matter." "Go ahead." "Vulcans have lifespans much greater than many species. Over the many years that I have served in Starfleet, I have formed relationships with a number of humans. Inevitably, they would age and die." "Alright." "Respect the grief, but do not allow yourself to become overwhelmed by it." It was very late when I went to see Barrows. She was waiting patiently for me. I knelt before her. She waved me to come to her. I bowed again. "Forgive me, Mistress, for my absence." She stroked my hair. As she ran her hand to my chin, I found my eyes meeting hers. "Darling pet. These things happen. I've grieved many times, for many people in my long life, and I understand. These things happen. When you're ready, you'd come to me." "Thank you, Mistress." "I am unique. There are no duplicates of my program. Tonia Barrows wanted me here, beside you, wherever you went. Do you know why?" "No, Mistress." "Because it is by your side that she felt I could be the most use. That is why I am here and not at the Club." I could no longer hold back the tears. Barrows pulled me into her arms as I cried. "I've missed you so," I sobbed. "I know, dear," she replied. I cried as I had many times before in recent days. But here, in her arms, I felt comfort that I hadn't found even in the arms of my dear Chakotay. I cried until I could do so no more, then she held me tight and the pain ebbed away. As I gathered myself together, Barrows considered me. "Something is still amiss." "Mistress?" Was it? She pondered. "Mark." "You never approved of Mark." "True. I am suspicious of any relationship which is built on questionable foundations." I think I was getting angry. "Consider the relationships you'd had before Mark. They really weren't your type. Not like your preferences for play. Every man you ever had a serious relationship with were shadows of your father." I hadn't thought of it before. In the end, perhaps Sela wasn't the only one who'd needed a psychiatrist. "And Chakotay?" "Well, I've had my doubts, but at least he broke your Elektra complex." "I'm done with Mark. He is of no consequence to me." "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Betrayal is much like grief. Its anger can well up at the most unexpected times." "Triggered by..." "His constant calls. You've been avoiding him, thinking it's over, but there's still some unfinished business." Rank has its privileges. I arranged to have Mark patched through. It was late in San Francisco as well, and I was informed that it would take a little time before he would be ready. In the while, I showered and put on a fresh uniform. I was still haggard, but at least I didn't look haggard. Barrows agreed to run the hook up from inside the system, so I had a measure of privacy. "You're looking good," I said. He was. "Thank you, Kathryn, you do too." It took a few moments to get the niceties out of the way. Mark was holding it together pretty well, but underneath was anxious. I'd be too if my ex called me in the middle of the night from 30,000 light years away. "Did you get my letters?" He finally asked. "Yes, everyone of them." "Then have you considered my request?" "Why did you dump me?" "I... I didn't dump you. We thought you were dead." "Come on, Mark. Starfleet doesn't even declare a crew as probably lost for eight years." "We read the reports. It didn't look like anyone could have survived." "How long did you wait?" "We were suppose to get married after you returned from Bajor anyway." "How long?" "Eight months." "An eternity." "Kathryn, it's not like that at all. Susan needed to move on. When we were told you were still alive we were overjoyed. Then they said how far away you were. Long distance relationships are one thing, but be fair..." "We've already shaved decades off our time. For all you know we could be back in a couple months." "Or it might take another 15 years. Susan couldn't accept that. It's like you're still lost to her." "Oh yes. Dear loyal Susan. I suppose as long as one lover turns on you, it might as well be with the other one." "It wasn't like that. She was lost without you. You know what she's like." "Yes. Yes, I do." "Don't think either of us take this lightly. Right now Susan's in the next room crying her eyes out. I can't get her to face you. She feels really bad about the whole business." "I didn't ask to call her. Susan's always been weak. But you, you should have known better." "So I suppose you're not going to revoke the ban." "I hope you don't think me petty." "Kathryn, you know how much the Lifestyle means to her." "Mark, we may have grown up together, but I've been fucking Susan longer than I have you. I know exactly what it means to her. And she should understand the consequences of betraying the trust of her Mistress." "She never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt you." "It's evident from your behavior that what I felt never entered into it. I wish you both the best. But understand this. You cannot turn a relationship on and off. You chose to leave, you're adults, that's your right. But it's over. You are no longer a part of my life and that includes the Club." He'd run out of arguments. Maybe I wanted him to put up more of a fight. It didn't matter. "I understand. Goodbye, Kathryn." "Goodbye, Mark." There's still a lot left to do. I have a Circle to reacquaint myself with. I have a lover who deserves my attention. I have relationships to build. I will do all these things because I want to. But right now, I'm going to bed.
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