Major Reed strolled into his office and sat down in front of the monitor on his desk.

Security protocols dictated that practically every moment of life aboard the Imperial flagship be recorded and reviewed. It was impossible to be too suspicious; traitors were everywhere. He'd even succeeded in rooting a few of them out since coming on board, and although engineering their demise had been enjoyable, even his skills hadn't made them suffer really long enough. That was one reason why he and Phlox were combining their skills on that new project. It was coming along nicely, too. The animal they'd used for the test subject in the prototype today had made some really astonishing noises, he reflected, smiling. The only disappointment was that it had died after a couple of hours (Phlox said, from shock) and that wouldn't do. They'd have to do a bit more refining before it was ready for use; the pity was that he had relatively little free time to devote to it, so progress might be slower than he would have liked.

So. Security issues.

It was a dull job, most times. He rostered out to subordinates the task of screening the more mundane items, though of course he laid traps on a fairly regular basis and woe betide anyone who failed to spot and report something that might have been noteworthy. (De la Haye had got careless last month. Well, he hadn't marked her anywhere that would show when she was in uniform, and the internal bruising would heal eventually.)

Yesterday, however, he'd instituted a lockdown on one particular set of recordings. It wasn't as though he restricted his staff from viewing their crewmates' more intimate activities, and occasionally more intriguing recordings went viral; nevertheless, he intended to reserve for himself the amusing scenes of that scarred oaf from Engineering trying to shag what amounted to a sex doll with a cardiovascular system. It'd be a bloody miracle if Tucker even got it up, though presumably getting it up had been what had put him in this predicament in the first place. Must have been desperate, trying it on with that frigid bitch in the first place – though that unfortunate incident with the radiation breach had certainly ruined his good looks for him, so perhaps an alien was the only shag he was likely to get. 'Better than masturbating, but only just' probably summed up the situation of bedding T'Pol. During his own initiation of her into life on board the Imperial flagship, he'd occasionally felt like stopping to check that she was actually still breathing.

He ran through the files with the speed of long practice, and found the one he required. The 'password protected' warning blinked at him knowingly.

Smiling, he keyed in the code and sat back to enjoy the fun.

"Why?"

"Trust me."

She looked at him. The Vulcan database hadn't mentioned this either, though it was extremely discreet about mentioning anything that Humans might consider sensitive information; the Empire had what passed for a reputation to keep up. Perhaps this came under that heading.

'Trust me', indeed. She trusted him considerably less far than she would have been able to throw him, but right now her options were limited. If she didn't cooperate, neither would he. And right now, she needed his cooperation.

Among other things.

Slowly she extended her arms.

He wrapped a thick layer of insulating foam around each wrist and anchored it carefully with duct tape before tying the one of the lengths of cable on top of it. He ordered her to check that she could still use her hands and she obeyed, though it seemed rather a pointless exercise, if she understood his intentions correctly.

"Good. Now lie back an' think of Vulcan."

She suspected this was another of those Human jokes, so she didn't attempt to comply as she lay back and allowed him to spread her arms.

She hadn't expected to feel real fear as she felt him securing the other end of the cables to the bed frame. She might be an alien, she told herself, but she was an officer; she had value, for what she could do if not for what she was. He wouldn't dare harm her.

Would he?

She was stronger than he, but not stronger than twelve-strand cable. And the knots weren't a joke.

He sat back and looked at her. There was a strange expression on his face. The thumping of her heart was already fast. Now it became erratic.

More insulation. More duct tape. Two more lengths of cable. And her ankles.

Reed sat forward.

His frozen incredulity moved up a notch.

The Shuttlepod?

There weren't actually any rules to say that crewmembers who were off sick couldn't take any action necessary to safeguard the property of the Empire, so he couldn't report them for breaking quarantine. They were both wearing steri-gloves, so as not to spread the infection. No incriminating them on that score. And checking a separate set of readouts, Tucker had found time from somewhere to run a scheduled diagnostic. He'd even found an error code and fixed the problem, even if it was a minor one.

At least they hadn't used the co-pilot's chair. He had to sit in that, when he was using the weapons console. And Commander Archer would undoubtedly have had strenuous objections if they'd used the pilot's seat, but unfortunately he couldn't report them on that score either.

That bench at the back would probably have sustained stress fractures if it had been made of ordinary metal. It was reinforced with duranium, though, like the rest of the craft. The chief engineer had obviously thought of that before he bent her over it.

Bastard.

He went into the bathroom again and emerged carrying a small bowl of water and another object that she recognized after a moment as a sponge. Vulcans did not use such things, as they were so obviously an ideal breeding-ground for bacteria. Humans were known to be less particular in their hygiene practices; witness the fact that they actually touched their food with their bare hands.

Not to mention kissing. Though she'd already discovered for herself that this reprehensible practice had dismayingly strong compensations for its lack of hygiene.

He'd made sure her head was resting on the pillow, so she could get a good view of events.

There was a folded towel over his arm. He maneuvered her body to get the thick soft material underneath her, and then he picked up the sponge again.

It was slick with gel, but the ooze did little to mask the slight roughness of it sliding slowly across her flesh.

He was thorough. He soaped her from one set of bindings to the other, taking his time. The pressure of the sponge varied, sometimes hard enough almost to draw a half-gasp of protest from her, at others so light it almost ghosted over her skin.

When she was slick from heel to wrist, he threw down the sponge and mounted her without a word.

He neither spoke nor looked at her, simply penetrated her and began thrusting. With deliberate, agonizing slowness. The sensation of his body sliding on top of hers was incredible, not to mention the renewed stimulation of tissues still hypersensitive from his efforts in the shower. She heard herself begin moaning, and knew that begging wasn't far away, but she looked at his closed, indifferent face and knew he wouldn't heed her.

No. Not in the Mess Hall.

Admittedly it was rare for gamma-shift crew to take time off to snatch a drink when they weren't actually on break, and this visit had obviously been carefully timed, but still, occasionally somebody would obtain permission from a Department Head who'd got laid the night before.

So it was risky.

But Tucker was evidently more of a risk-taker than he'd been given credit for.

And the regulations didn't say anything about sitting in a chair in the Mess with a half-naked Vulcan under the table in front of you. At least, they didn't yet. And unfortunately, he didn't think he could make any changes retroactive.

Switch camera angles as he might, he couldn't get a close-up on what was actually going on, but given the fact that Tucker's sweat-pants were round his ankles he could make an educated guess. And the expressions on the engineer's face were a bit of a giveaway too, just in case he needed one.

Much to his annoyance, they were wearing new steri-gloves too. A different colour, just to make it obvious. And afterwards, just as they'd done in the shuttlepod, they carefully wiped any surfaces they might have touched with anti-bacterial wipes, which they disposed of exactly as per regulations.

Aaaah. Aaaaah. Aaaaaah.

She couldn't bear the tension, couldn't bear the sensations. She could feel the pressure of her climax building with every slow, powerful surge of his body.

Closer. Closer. Her arms strained against the cables. But for the padding, her wrists would be bleeding by now.

Closer. Very close. Terrifyingly close. Just – there –!

He pulled out of her.

An almost animal howl of deprivation broke into a million echoing shards against the wall of his inflexibility, and didn't even scratch it.

He slid off the bed and picked up the sponge again.

The water in the bowl was cold. Gooseflesh followed its trail, and her cries echoed off the walls of the cabin. The cords squeaked against the bed frame as she fought to get free. Without success.

His breath was warm against her chilled flesh. Warm, but almost intangible, when she was half insane with the craving for contact, for completion.

Tiny dabs of his tongue formed a trail through the wetness. He lapped water daintily out of her navel.

Arousal and cold had made her nipples hard. She could feel his eyes on them, but his mouth took its time. He drew patterns with his tongue on her breasts, circling and gliding but always missing, while her moans and cries fell on deaf ears. Then – a lick as light as a snowflake falling, though no snowflake could burn against her skin that way –

The cords squeaked again, violently. Went on squeaking.

So deft and gentle, a tiny, repeated torture that sent shockwaves through her body. She arched and writhed, trying to drive him on.

He got back on to the bed.

Yes. Oh, yes.

Yes. Yes! Yes-!

No.

He got off it again.

Vulcan dignity dictated that abuse was beneath her. Epithets ricocheted off the bulkheads, interspersed with pleading. She was beyond dignity, beyond anything but needing him.

He was suckling at her now, still gentle. The only part of him that was touching her was his mouth. She howled, thrusting her pelvis upwards, begging him to have her.

After some minutes, he stopped. He still didn't speak, but he picked up her discarded undershirt and slipped it over her head, leaving it halfway down. The fabric was nowhere near dense enough to impede her breathing, but she could no longer see.

She whimpered.

The silence after that was denser than mortal dread. Her ears strained, trying to pick up from the slight sounds of movement what he was doing.

Her ankles slammed against the cords. A noise that hardly qualified as coming from a sentient being tore from her throat.

His head was between her legs. The sensations ripped through her. Tongue and fingers, working in perfect unison, with deadly precision.

She couldn't stop now, didn't want to stop. The climax burst in her groin, and she announced every pulse of it through her body with a shriek that could have been heard on the Bridge. Halfway through her raving, she dimly felt a flurry of movement. Seconds later, a different but absolutely as effective form of stimulation took the place of the first. His erection smashed into her, completing the ruin of her sanity; she could hardly even hear his bellowing as he ejaculated his heat into her yet again.

Reality returned slowly. But not quite reality as it had been before. As he collapsed on top of her, spent, she began shakily reassembling her thoughts, and found something had changed.

Something was different; not in her body, now quivering and sated, but in her mind.

She could – feel him.

With mingled horror and excitement, she analyzed the situation. Agonizingly careful not to alert him to what had happened, though his almost drugged stupor helped her here; touching the very edges of this strange consciousness with aching caution, lest it become aware of hers in its turn.

Between Vulcans, the pon farr could create a mating bond. She hadn't believed it possible that it could happen between a Vulcan and a Human. But apparently it could – and it had.

She had access to his mind.

On the one hand, this was terrifyingly dangerous. If he became aware of it, he would quite possibly arrange for her to have a fatal accident in very short order. Life on board an Imperial warship was dangerous enough without having someone else with the ability to make you what Humans called their 'catspaw'. He'd harbor no illusions about her willingness to do so.

On the other, he would make a very, very useful catspaw indeed if ever events gave her need of one. Now she'd created the hunger for her in him, she could make use of it to draw him in. Just the suggestion of her wanting him would trigger his response, however his native suspicion of her urged him to resist. And as long as she could keep him in ignorance of the bond, he would be totally unaware of her capacity to ensnare and control him. That wouldn't be difficult; Humans had so little mental discipline that they were barely above animals, living in the sensory stream without ever bothering to check their mental structures for flaws.

She was still tied to the bed. Doubtless as soon as he recovered he'd set about releasing her, and at a guess he'd order one of his subordinates to bring food to his cabin. They'd eat, and afterwards … well, the fever was subsiding, but it wasn't over yet. If she was very, very careful, she could … practice.

T'Pol of Vulcan might be tied by the wrists and ankles, but without his even knowing it, Chief Engineer Charles Tucker III was now tied by a far more dangerous method.

His brain.

Not the Armoury. They wouldn't dare. Besides, there was someone there at all times. He knew that. If any of his staff had left it unattended – if they so much as set foot in the place…

His shaking, furious breath of relief was premature.

The weapons storage area was off limits to anyone except Armoury personnel. He sat forward. Just touch that door control, Commander bloody Tucker, and I'll have you nailed naked on the deflector dish –

+++ SENSOR MALFUNCTION+++RECORDING TERMINATED+++

The End