(Part Two)

"Regeneration cycle complete."

B'Elanna leapt backwards, a lance of pain shooting up through her spine as she landed hard on her buttocks. She looked up in horror to find Seven's eyes wide open and looking right at her.

OH SHIT SHIT SHIT SHE'S AWAKE!

B'Elanna scrambled off the alcove base and pulled herself to her feet. There was a slight click as Seven stepped out from the regenerative mechanism, only to be stopped by the material bunched tightly around her legs. She raised an eyebrow. "My uniform is damaged. Explain."

"Uh, that-that was . . that was just a joke." Oh FUCK how could she have been this stupid?

The Borg stared back at her. How she'd seriously thought she could embarrass this ice-goddess B'Elanna didn't know. "And the cunnilingus?"

"The . . . what?"

"Cunnilingus - oral stimulation of the vulva or clitoris. I believe that was what you were about to do with your tongue. Do you wish to copulate with me, lieutenant?"

"No! I was just . . I . . well . . . look just forget it, OK?" B'Elanna turned and fled the cargo bay as if the kos'karii of Gre'thor were snapping at her heels.

In the turbolift the half-Klingon stared at the moving light panels and forced herself to think. It was worse than when Tuvok busted her and Tom making out on that console. What if Seven reported this to the captain?

"Halt turbolift!"

B'Elanna tried to calm her breathing. This wouldn't do at all. She had to get a grip on herself.

'I can't let that Borg get the upper hand. She'll be smirking about this all the way to the Alpha Quadrant.'

"Take me back. I mean . . . Deck Eight."

* * * * * *

The dream always goes this way.

She lies naked on the metal slab, as someone has removed the padding from the biobed. A Klingon warrior does not require comfort. Her back is numb, her nipples and body hair rise in the chill temperature. Legs lie apart for examination, exposing herself to the Borg Queen. Seven of Nine stands at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind her back, eyebrow raised in cold contempt. B'Elanna doesn't like the cold.

"You are passionate, insecure, emotion-driven, ruled by your Klingon biology. It is a weakness."

Tom is sorting through some test tubes; busywork set by the Doctor. He winks at her, like there is nothing to worry about. But it should be Seven on this bed; B'Elanna knows that. She has to run a diagnostic on the Borg's cortical node. Janeway's fancy woman is disobeying orders as usual.

"Take off your clothes and lie down on the table, Borg!" B'Elanna snarls. A sudden fear - if Seven complies she will be lying on top of her, their naked bodies against each other; what then? It is almost a relief when the Borg makes no move to obey.

"I will demonstrate," she says in that familiar, arrogant tone. A hand comes out from behind her back, interlaced by sterile metallic implants. She places it on B'Elanna's crotch, barely touching. There is a humming sound; the implants begin to vibrate. The warrior feels the pressure building up in the nerves between her thighs. The pelvis lifts of its own accord, trying to rub against that detested Borg technology, demanding assimilation.

"I have calculated the optimal amount of stimulation you can tolerate, Lieutenant Torres. I can keep you like this for many hours. It would amuse me."

B'Elanna's spine arches and a deep groan erupts from her mouth. Her legs and arms are restrained, she pulls against them until the flesh tears - she smells the blood and it is arousing.

"Touch me!" B'Elanna realises she is begging. A warrior should not beg but she cannot help it. "Put your fingers inside me! QamuSHa', bangwI'!" The Klingon words come easily, like they always do in dreams.

Seven's lips twist up in a sneer. They are full and sensuous, demanding one's kiss. To see them is to lust, to fantasise about them clasped to your flesh. The nipples strain against her tight biosuit - it conceals nothing.

"Irrelevant. This is for my own research. You are incapable of love. You wish to be human, but you are only an animal. A slave to your anger and lust."

And to prove it, she places those lips against B'Elanna's sex, and turns her into an animal.

* * * * * *

Back in the cargo bay B'Elanna found Seven of Nine sitting on the edge of a cargo container, removing her boots. The former drone looked up as she entered. For a second the Klingon faltered before the intensity of those eyes, the light from the alcove reflected in the pupils, two flickering green fires.

B'Elanna took a deep breath. "Actually Seven, I do wish to . . . copulate with you." There was an odd formality to her words, as if proposing marriage.

"Here?" the Borg asked, as if talking about a routine shield recalibration.

"Sure, why not?" B'Elanna said, a hint of cockiness returning to her voice.

Seven pulled off her tattered uniform like she was stripping the insulation from a power conduit. She stood up, indifferent to her own nakedness, and tossed the biosuit into a waste recycler. B'Elanna felt her eyes drawn to Seven's breasts. The nipples were still erect, like fresh rosebuds. She had the sudden urge to taste them again.

The Borg's expression didn't change. "And why should I copulate with you?"

B'Elanna stared at her in surprise that quickly changed to smouldering fury. It was not the type of question the attractive half-Klingon was used to. "Well you MIGHT actually enjoy it!"

The ex-drone's mouth curled up in a subtle yet definite sneer. "Pleasure is irrelevant."

She moved towards a clothing locker but B'Elanna quickly stepped into her path. "What's wrong Seven? Aren't I 'perfect' enough for you? Not up to your lofty Borg standards?"

"This conversation wastes time. I have duties to perform." An arctic voice against her Klingon heat.

B'Elanna's lips pulled back over her teeth. "You were willing to 'copulate' with Harry." Her hand reached up and stroked Seven's cheek, imitating Janeway in the dream. To her surprise the Borg actually flinched. B'Elanna continued the movement, sliding her fingers over the star-shaped implant, tracing the line of the jaw, the hollow of her throat. "The captain said we should help you . . . explore your humanity." Her hand moved out onto the slope of the left breast, down the extended length of the nipple, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. Seven's lips quivered, just for a millisecond, but B'Elanna caught it. She stepped close so that the front of her nightie brushed against the young woman's breasts.

"But I can understand how you might be reluctant . . . nervous."

Seven's pupils were wide; she seemed unable to break B'Elanna's gaze.

"Even a little . . . frightened."

The last part had the desired effect on the egotistical blonde. Her chin snapped up, eyes flashing with anger. "I am not afraid, Lieutenant Torres!" B'Elanna felt steely fingers clasp the back of her head and their lips were abruptly pushed together. There was an intense spasm of fear as B'Elanna felt that cold exoskeleton touching her neck, remembered black lines advancing across the Captain's face . . .

Seven's tongue was pressing against her lips and she opened them to allow entry. They entwined around each other like lovers; Seven's tongue parting first to brush against the sharp ridges of B'Elanna's incisors, retreating then as if panic-stricken.

B'Elanna pursued her relentlessly, forcing her way into Seven's mouth, chasing the Borg's tongue with her own. She felt Seven pull back and they released each other, springing apart, their breath coming in short, rapid pants. With shaking hands B'Elanna yanked the blood-red gown over her head, while Seven quickly got down on her knees, peeling away underwear soaked with sweat and vaginal juices. Blonde strands brushed against raven pubic hair as Seven pulled the damp cloth down to B'Elanna ankles. She stood up, the panties clasped in her hand like a trophy.

The two naked women stared at each other. For the first time ever B'Elanna saw uncertainty on the Borg's face, as if she didn't know what the next stage in the process was supposed to be.

Or maybe not. "I suggest that we engage in mutual oral copulation, Lieutenant. It would be the most efficient means of achieving orgasm. I will adopt the superior position."

B'Elanna snorted in derision. "So what else is new?"

B'Elanna refused to have sex on the cold floor, so they opened one of the cargo containers. Three months ago Neelix had stored some alien seeds in a biogel tube that hadn't been properly sterilised. The result was an entire container-load full of thick purple tanglegrass that the Talaxian cook was dishing out as a highly unappetising stew. B'Elanna had been looking for an excuse to spoil it for ages.

Seven of Nine watched with bemused impatience as B'Elanna struggled to unravel the mass of alien plant matter so she could spread it out on the deck. After five minutes of cursing in Klingon, Spanish and Bajoran she gave up and dumped the whole lot in one great heap. It sat there like a multi-tentacled monster from Tom's Captain Proton holonovel.

B'Elanna glared at the Borg, pointing at the distinctly unromantic boudoir. "I'LL take the superior position, thank you very much. Lie down!"

With an urbane serenity that only served to piss off B'Elanna further, Seven stretched out on the purple grass, her legs parted unashamedly. Swallowing to quench a sudden dryness in her throat, B'Elanna lay on her side next to her, balancing awkwardly on the undulating surface. Placing her cheek on Seven's thigh, she rolled on top of the young Borg, supporting herself on her knees and elbows.

There was a pause then, as if this was a moment of truth, a line to be crossed.

Maybe it was. "Lieutenant Torres, according to my research into human mating behaviour, infidelity to one's partner is regarded as morally improper."

B'Elanna stared at the mons before her. She was shaved, for efficiency in hygiene no doubt; B'Elanna could see the blonde stubs where Seven had thermo-sealed the hair follicles. The lips of her sex were red, swelled out to conceal her clitoris.

"Your research is done with your hand between your legs," B'Elanna muttered, and lightly bit into Seven's thigh, feeling the blood filter up through the epidermis until she could taste it. There was a startled yelp from her opponent, then B'Elanna felt a sharp pain in her own mid-thigh. She growled in approval, licking the skin, tasting blood and salt. With slow nips and tongue strokes B'Elanna worked her way towards the crotch, never taking her teeth or lips away from the flesh. She could feel Seven reciprocating her movements, placing gentle kisses where she did, caressing her fingers lightly across the outer petals, blowing hot breaths onto the mons. At first B'Elanna though she was simply copying her through inexperience, but then Seven changed tactics, moving straight to the clit, lengthy and thick due to B'Elanna's Klingon physiology. Placing her thick lips on the engorged bud, she began to lick and suck in precisely measured strokes. B'Elanna gave an evil grin into the pussy before her. The Borg thought that orgasm was the sole objective, so she selected the most efficient means of achieving it. She had a lot to learn.

Sliding her thumbs down the wet length of the Borg's slit, B'Elanna parted it to her hungry gaze. She began to tease the sensitive folds with the very tip of her tongue. Ternary lungs enabled B'Elanna to pace herself without stopping for air. She danced her tongue along the valleys and ridges of Seven's cunt, tracing patterns, infinite spirals, tiny painted waves brought to life with the artist's brush.

"Just imagine you're polishing a Sacred Orb of the Prophets," Seska had whispered, and they'd both giggled like children as they clutched each other in the hold of the ship, B'Elanna stifled by a breast pushed aggressively into her mouth . . .

Memory of the traitor brought a sudden flare of rage and she intensified her movements, fingers slipping roughly inside Seven, only to be stopped by the barrier of an intact hymen. B'Elanna paused for a second, her anger and lust replaced by a stab of guilt. It disappeared abruptly as she felt Seven of Nine push what seemed to be an endlessly long tongue inside her. The Borg's fingers were moving in exactly spaced increments, expert yet awkward, unpracticed, as if she'd learnt her technique from a manual. Ignoring the building pressure between her legs, B'Elanna resisted the urge to go faster, to engage in a race. Moving carefully, like a panther about to strike, she curled her other hand around the curves of Seven's behind. As B'Elanna fastened her lips onto Seven's clit, she simultaneously touched an index finger to the Borg's ass, making her jump in response. B'Elanna pushed her finger firmly but gently between the tight buttocks, feeling the sphincter muscles clench instinctively against the invader, then surrender to its relentless advance. She inserted her digit to the second knuckle, using her finger and mouth in conjunction. B'Elanna felt Seven trying to copy her movements. A definite mistake - 'This takes a lot of practice, Borg'. B'Elanna recited the words of the Bajoran lovemaking poem in her head: 'Tur-besa-cami so, Tur-besa- se! Tur-mina-cula ta, To rea di!' her body moving in time to the rhythm. She'd learnt a bunch of tricks from that bitch Seska, that's for sure.

Deep growls of pleasure erupted from the back of B'Elanna's throat, deliberately loud so her lover could not avoid hearing them, a sexual bombardment on both physical and aural levels. Seven was making her own sounds but they were more like tiny, sharp cries that the Borg could no longer contain; B'Elanna thought she'd come just listening to her excitement and helplessness.

'Tur-besa-cami so, Tur-besa-se!'

Seven's caresses were becoming increasingly uncoordinated. B'Elanna pressed down hard on her face, grinding the pelvis against Seven's nose and lips, the pain of the ocular implant digging into her thigh only a spur to her demands. Beneath her mouth the Borg's cunt was steaming, the heady scent like ambrosia, slaking her thirst greedily on the outpouring of love juices. There was a lushness to that young virgin body that she wanted to devour, the blood roared in her ears like the thunder of a distant army. Past and present, Voyager and Janeway, short-tempered engineer and arrogant astrometrics officer - they no longer existed, the universe consisted only of pain and pleasure. She sensed the orgasm swelling up inside the Borg, an irresistible force and she roared her victory as she brought herself to climax: "QACHARGH!" - I conquer you! "QA- CHARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!"

It took a while for other noises to intrude past the sound of her thumping heart. The hum of Borg alcoves, the click of a biostasis chamber adjusting its environment. Footsteps passing in the corridor outside. B'Elanna sat up slowly, enjoying the low temperature for once, letting it cool her body. She looked over her shoulder at Seven, a wicked smile on her face.

The Borg lay unmoving on the grass mattress, her expression belying her debauched state. The tightly bound pleat had fallen apart and hair framed her face, concealing most of the facial implants. She looked like a frightened child. Tears carved their own course through the sticky wetness of her cheeks.

B'Elanna was suddenly overcome by an all-too-familiar sense of self-loathing. It was that detested Klingon side of her, stopping her from being the gentle lover she wished. She reached out and pulled Seven to her, rocking her gently as the young woman sobbed onto her shoulder. Unlike the time in the Jeffries tube, Seven didn't protest.

"It's alright," B'Elanna whispered. "You're not alone any more."

* * * * * *

"She was Cardassian," said B'Elanna. "A spy for the Obsidian Order. She killed that man just to keep her cover. Others as well."

There was another biosuit in one of the lockers, brown coloured. She helped Seven put it on, their movements stiff and awkward. After that brief moment of frightening vulnerability the defenses were once again in place.

"I am unused to the idea of deception. In the Borg there was no possibility of it, we were all linked to each other's minds. 'Politeness', 'good manners', - they are supposed to assist me in interacting with others yet only increase the potential for misunderstanding. You have asked that I tell no-one about this. Why copulate with me if the knowledge that you had done so would cause problems?"

"I guess that skin-tight biosuit is a metaphor then," mused B'Elanna, avoiding the question.

Seven frowned in annoyance. "Explain."

"Nothing concealed."

"This is who I am, Lieutenant Torres. Either learn to trust me or have the Captain remove me from this vessel."

B'Elanna hesitated at the doors. You don't just make love to someone and walk away, especially if it's her first time. But the words didn't come easily, like in dreams. They never did in real life. So, as always, she chose the cowardly option. No risk that way.

"Well in that case, see you tomorrow then. 0900 hours. We can try bringing the ODN relays back on line."

No honour.

Seven's reply was curt, as if she was already regretting her lapse into human weakness. "I will comply, Lieutenant."

* * * * * *

"Where were you?" asked Tom sleepily, as B'Elanna slipped in beside him. He had returned to the bed sometime during the night.

"I was off screwing Seven of Nine, what else?"

"You're too hard on that Borg," Tom muttered. "It hasn't been easy for her either, you know."

"She'll adapt," said B'Elanna, adding quietly; "So will I, I guess."

B'Elanna rested her head on his shoulder, and went to sleep.

* * * * * *

It had finally happened, the dark savage thing that lurked within her had taken over and everything that was human and civilised in B'Elanna Torres: friend, lover, engineer, Maquis, Starfleet, was gone. She stalked her mate through the endless winding tunnels of Sikari IV, the taste of his blood on her teeth, sharp fangs that forced themselves out of her mouth repelling those soft kisses and this was her true self, the monster that drove away all possible affection. Abandoned and rejected by all, to lurk in these lower regions like the dishonoured dead. They howled to her; an insane chorus of voices in a language she barely knew from her childhood, calling on her to satiate her rage and anguish in the slaughter of her enemies. And thus she rejoiced in death, the smell of blood was exhilarating, an aphrodisiac. She would wake in the middle of the night with her heart pounding and vagina soaked, using her mouth and fingers on her mate until he could take her again and again, not caring who heard their animal passion.

Tears came afterwards. "I'm a monster, a freak."

"You're beautiful," Tom would say. He didn't know the truth.

A wall of ice blocked her path, sealing both the tunnel and the woman in a frozen cage. Nipples erect in the cold, hair like woven sunfire, metal merged with pale flesh, isolated and alone from all her kind. There was a kindred spirit in that alien visage, she snarled and scratched her claws against the ice to free her, talons skittering harmlessly against the slick surface. Blue eyes stared out through the frozen water, lips curved in a smile that mocked her efforts, making what was once B'Elanna Torres howl in lust and fury.

It was a challenge.