Title: The Mate of the KuvaH'magh SoS

Author: Odon

Fandom: Star Trek Voyager

Pairing: Torres/Seven

Spoilers: Prophecy

Summary: B'Elanna Torres (daughter of Miral) tells the blood-stirring fire tale of how she bedded Seven of Nine (of the Collective of Borg).

Rated: NC-17. Contains violence, descriptions of lesbian sex, and numerous rowdy Klingons.

Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek: Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount and Viacom.

Feedback to odon05@hotmail.com.

Archiving and downloading is welcome as long as you credit the author.

Many thanks to Bengt Tegner for her assistance, and to Meagan for beta-ing this.



The Mate of the KuvaH'magh SoS
By Odon

"Chief Engineer's Personal Log, Stardate 54518.2. For the past few days we've been playing host to over two hundred inbred, foul-smelling Klingon rejects from the old Empire who've hitched a lift on Voyager in the crazy belief that my unborn child is the kuvaH'magh, the saviour of their people. The captain has ordered me to play along with this rubbish in order to prevent a holy war from breaking out on the ship. So I've spent the last two days reviewing the sacred scrolls in preparation for my appearance before the Klingon Council. It was also suggested I prepare a few 'colourful stories' to help win them over."

Voyager's mess hall looked like Sto-Vo-Kor on a Saturday night - full of bingeing, barfing, belching Klingons in black leather and bad attitudes. Wine flowed like blood at the Battle of Klach D'kel Brakt and the tables groaned under the weight of the feast Neelix had provided. Today was a good day to dine.

"That's when they beamed aboard the Flyer, weapons firing!" said B'Elanna, swaggering amongst the carousers like a Heroine of the Ancient Days. Leather gauntlets covered her arms and her long green robe swept food detritus across the floor. "Tuvok and Neelix fought valiantly, but there were too many Hirogen. I had to face . . . er . . . ten! Ten of their fiercest Hunters alone!" She waved her mug of bloodwine for emphasis, the contents sloshing over everyone in the vicinity.

Tom Paris, nursing his own mug, leaned over to Neelix. "Is that how you remember it?" he whispered.

Neelix just smiled. "Exaggeration is part of Klingon custom," he said, patting Tom's shoulder. "She's doing great."

"I had my phaser shot out of my hand," bullshitted B'Elanna boldly, "forcing me to take down the last Hunter in hand-to-hand combat. It was a glorious fight!"

The Council members hammered their fists on the tables, shouting in acclaim. B'Elanna grinned and took a hefty swig of her bloodwine.

"I wish she'd go easy on that booze," said Tom, edging away from a piece of gagh that was crawling towards him. "She's not used to it."

"Oh I don't know," said Neelix, munching on a slice of blood pie. "She looks like she's enjoying her heritage for once. I've been studying the Klingon database, you know. They're a fascinating people - very robust. And they certainly seem to appreciate my culinary skills ARRRGHH!" he yelped as a heavyset Klingon leaned across the table, grabbed him by the lapels and shook him furiously.

"Galley rat, my Klingon Revenge has not been served cold! And what manner of swill is *this*?" he growled, shoving a cup in front of the Talaxian's face.

"Er . . . prune juice."

"Worrier's drink," muttered the Klingon, uneasily calculating the distance to the nearest toilet.

Captain Kohlar, leader of the Council, rose and bowed to B'Elanna. "Your ancestors would be honoured."

A loud snort of contempt came from the other side of the room and another Klingon staggered to his feet, brandishing a stuffed todbaj leg. "You tell a good story," T'Greth scoffed. "But that's not why you're here. Some say you are the mother of the kuvaH'magh, the one who will guide us to a new homeworld." The Klingon bared his teeth, and a horrible sight it was. "Has your unborn child told you where it is?"

Kohlar bit into a pIpyuS claw like he wanted to bite T'Greth's gonads. "You villainous Kirk-shagger!" he spluttered, meat and gristle flying from his mouth. "How dare you insult the kuvaH'magh SoS! May you die of boredom whilst lying on comfortable feather cushions!"

B'Elanna took a long, deep draught of wine, playing for time while she thought of an answer. There was a noticeable slur to her voice when she finally responded. "The scrolls say, 'You will follow in my footsteps before I have made them.' Well, your vessel was wandering aimlessly around this quadrant a hundred years before our coffee-powered klutz of a captain decided to follow suit, so in a manner of speaking__"

"Are you insulting us you half-breed spawn of a gutless peace?" roared T'Greth, hacking madly away at an inoffensive broiled karada. "You whose ridges are the wrong way round, and whose teeth are flatter than your father's forehead! Why, you don't even show your cleavage like a decent Klingon woman should!"

B'Elanna sculled the rest of her bloodwine and hurled the mug at the nearest replicator, fusing it out in a blaze of sparks. "Of *course* I'm insulting you, you foul-smelling forshak! Do you think I'm some brainless Bolian who can't even curse well; a timid Trill twitching beneath her spots? May the fetid stench of your breath become a Ferengi aphrodisiac, your bedchamber be infested by Cardassian voles on your wedding night, and your grandsons all receive honorary degrees in landscape gardening!"

The Council farted and belched their appreciation of this excellent curse-warfare. B'Elanna seized another bottle, yanked out the cork with her teeth and guzzled the contents, punctuating her statement with an extremely loud burp.

T'Greth glared like a warbird's engines at full impulse. "It is also written that the mate of the kuvaH'magh SoS will be a mighty warrior." He spat out an enormous hunk of gristle that smacked Tom right in the face. "Are you calling this pallid p'tahk a warrior? You're like a Ferengi huckster trying to flog off a pair of deep-fried tribbles as Kahless's Holy Testicles!"

B'Elanna was so outraged she smashed her bottle over Neelix's head. "The only reason I don't slaughter you with my bare teeth, T'Greth, is that your brain is obviously addled from a century of inbreeding. Why, if your mother had screwed any other man besides her brother, I would kill you where you stand!"

T'Greth's eyes bulged so much he resembled the Emperor Gowron undergoing explosive decompression. Seizing a huge targ stuffed with juicy tlhatlh leaves, he hurled it straight at B'Elanna, who only ducked just in time. The entire concoction flew over her shoulder and smashed into Tom Paris, knocking him clean off his seat.

"And as J.R.R. Tolkiek (yet another great Klingon author plagiarised by some human biHnuch!) said, 'I would cut off your head with my bat'leth, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground!' Kohlar has told us you defeated an army of ten thousand warriors, but you are so short you could barely defeat a horde of ravenous tribbles, cursed creatures that they are!"

Kohlar's fists slammed the table so hard pieces of gagh flew about his ears. "You dishonored son of a Bolian lapdancer; are you saying I'm some lying tah-keck? The captain of this vessel herself has told me of the noble part B'Elanna Torres played in the destruction of a Borg cube."

"Pah! The only cubes that captain has seen destroyed are the ones she drowns in her coffee."

B'Elanna kicked aside the unconscious body of her husband and clambered onto the nearest table. "I'll tell you about my victory over the Borg, you Ha'DIbaH!" she cried, swaying dangerously. "I'll tell you of the time I conquered the Borg Queen herself!"

"For hours I had been slaving over a hot warp drive, battling the fickle fluctuations of its fiery transphasic fields. I'd just finished wrestling the EPS power relays into bloody submission by crushing them with the overwhelming strength of my electro-plasma regulator when I saw *her*, the Borg Ice Queen. Her breasts forged a path through Engineering like the prow of a mighty battleship; a dermaplastic garment clung to her as sweat does to a rutting targ. Her blue-eyed gaze pierced me like an assassin's blade."

"'The technique you are using is inefficient,' she said, vain as any Romulan praetor. 'You should use the subspace field manipulator to raise the hyperstill level in increments of 0.47 per nanosecond until you achieve primary flux control.'"

"My anger knew no bounds. That stuck-up drone was trying to lecture *me* on warp-core engineering! To suggest that primary flux control could be manipulated through incremental hyperstills - it was an insult to my very honour!"

The other Klingons growled in agreement (though none of them could understand a word she was saying).

"The Borg turned on her high-heels, fleeing before my wrath like a Ferengi merchant from the Federation Trade Standards Commission. But she fired a parting shot over her shoulder like a treacherous Cardassian gul."

"'Furthermore,' she said, 'after my observations on Deck Nine, Section Twelve I have concluded that you would achieve a more satisfactory orgasm by extending your period of foreplay with Ensign Paris by another twelve minutes twenty-three seconds.'"

"That arrogant automaton! How dare she give me advice on the Battles of the Bedchamber! She whose romantic interactions are restricted to a tattooed holotoy with the expression range of a Vulcan tax assessor! With a cry of rage that shook the very particles of Voyager's structural integrity field, I swore by the spirit of my grandmother L'Naan, She-Who-Made-Me-Banana-Pancakes, that I would make this Borg kneel before me and acknowledge the might of the House of Torres."

"As soon as my shift was over I hurried to my quarters and gathered my weaponry. Girding my body in blood-red Battle Pyjamas, I decided to besiege the Borg in her own lair, where she considered herself Master-Of-All-She-Surveyed. And thus we were gathered together in a place called Astrometrics."

"As usual that Barbie Borg had locked the door, but the security algorithm was helpless before the cunning of my isolinear phase inverter. I hurled apart the doors with my bare hands and cried: 'Off with the catsuit you shrink-wrapped sexdoll! Prepare to meet your shagger!'"

"Instead I found Tal Celes, gaping at me like the dumb cow she was."

"'Where is that p'tahk Seven of Nine?' I asked, my face turning as red as my pyjamas."

"'I am here,' said a voice from behind me. I turned to find Seven smirking like the catsuit who'd got the cream. 'As I was saying, Crewman Celes, your work is highly inefficient. I shall recommend to the captain that you be transferred to Engineering to be converted into a cheap fuel source__'"

"'I'm not having this Bajoran blockhead in my department!' I shouted. 'She can't even interpret a level three sensor analysis without banging her head against the wall - probably how she got that nose!'"

"The Borg raised her eyebrow like a Vulcan Master having a sustained multiple orgasm. 'I am busy, Lieutenant Torres. State your intentions, and the reason you are wearing your Battle Pyjamas.'"

"'I am here because you have insulted my honour, you masturbatory fantasy of a opera-singing holo-quack! You dared lecture me on the 47th position of the Risan Love Rumba. I thereby challenge you to a duel! I meet you here on equal terms!' I cried, ripping off my gown to reveal a skintight crotchless leather catsuit."

"Tal Celes fled the room as if being pursued by a nightmarish algorithm with trigonometric teeth and multivariate claws. But the Borg was made of sterner stuff. Pouting in fury at the sight of the mighty weapon I had strapped to my waist (twelve inches long and black as the depths of Rura Penthe) she pronounced, 'Lieutenant Torres, I am not interested in an intimate relationship.'"

"'What do you know about relationships, Busty of Borg? You strut around this ship, feigning ignorance over how your big tits are stunting the character growth of masturbating Starfleet ensigns__'"

"'I do not have 'tits',' Seven replied haughtily. 'Borg maturation chambers make the need for breast-feeding irrelevant. They are emergency shock absorbers in case the inertial dampeners fail. The high speed of a transwarp-powered cube means I need a very large pair of shock absorbers indeed.'"

"'Do you think I'm some pudding-head Pakled from Porakas IV?' I roared. 'You can't fool me! They're tits, and I intend to feed upon them!'"

"With a single flourish of my phase inverter I deactivated the bioelectric field that kept her dermaplastic garment clinging to those voluptuous curves. Her catsuit flowed from her body, revealing a sex as bald as the head of a Starfleet captain. My tongue unravelled from my mouth and rolled across the floor as a carpet she could walk on in her four-inch heels. My hands shook like a PADD-punching bureaucrat on his way into battle. My pulse pounded, my heart sang; my body sounded like a Klingon opera in full crescendo! They say Seven is a dish best tasted cold, but I was determined to thaw this iceborg with the heat of my passion and the bold thrust of my dildo!"

"Foreplay proved difficult; I tried to bite her cheek, but received a very Klingon sock in the jaw in reply. Excited by this come-on, I started ripping out the wall panels and throwing them at her in order to express my love. But instead of reciting love poetry Seven called for the Doctor and a hypospray of kelotane. Realising I would have to change my avenue of attack, I challenged her to a duel of oratory skill. The arrogant Borg accepted, and was just beginning to recite 'A Mega Memorandum on the Metaphysics of Mathematics', a 1000-stanza multilingual twister by Species 4986, when I threw her onto the nearest console and ravished her with my tongue!"

"Oh how her love juices flowed, gushing torrents sweet as Bajoran spring wine! My lips worked so fast they violated the Temporal Prime Directive, my tongue vibrated like the hull of a D-7 cruiser at Warp Eight, my teeth nibbled like an army of tribbles (cursed creatures that they are). As I feasted on that smorgasborg I could hear bells ringing in my ears - I thought I'd died and gone to Sto-Vo-Kor, but it turned out that I'd just forgotten to switch the console off. In vain she resisted the peak of her floodtide, but the Borg glacier had melted before my Klingon fire. The entire ship echoed with the sound of her climax! I gave her . . . er . . . ten! Ten orgasms with my lips and tongue alone! It was a glorious mating!"

"By now Tuvok and a security team were trying to burn through the sealed door with their phasers, but it wasn't over yet! 'Assimilate this,' I growled, as I slowly inserted the lubricant-coated handle of a hyperspanner up the Borg's tight arrhhhhh-h-hello Seven, how are you?"

The assembled Klingons turned en masse towards the entrance to the mess hall. Standing in the doorway, PADD in hand, was a tall human female dressed in a skintight bodysuit, a few minor implants adorning her face and body.

There was momentary silence, then a great roar of laughter erupted from T'Greth.

"THIS is your feared Borg mate? She's dressed like an Elloran masseuse! Show us your cleavage, woman!" The Klingon reached out to grope Seven's formidable chest and suddenly found himself flying through the air. He struck the wall with a sickening crunch and slid to the floor, a dazed expression on his face.

The Klingon Council roared in approval, pounding their fists so hard the tables collapsed beneath them. This Seven of Nine was indeed a mighty warrior! B'Elanna Torres was truly the mother of the kuvaH'magh!



THE END.