Author's Note: this story is completely unauthorized by the producers of Star
Trek or indeed anyone remotely associated with the show. The title roughly translates from Klingon as "First Time," with thanks to the writers of the Klingon Dictionary. 1996.
* * * * *
*You're half Betazoid,* her mother had chided. *It's shameful how you neglect your powers. Anyone with an ounce of sense could tell that he's attracted to you. Really, child. Don't look so shocked.*
She shook her head, as if the memory of her mother's smooth telepathic rebuke could be shaken loose, but of course it was useless.
Two ensigns passed her in the curved hallway. They were clean-cut, good-looking in their tight uniforms, fresh-faced young men just out of the Academy. They inclined their heads to her as she passed, showing respect for a superior officer, but she didn't even need her powers to sense them turning to watch her ass. Smiling to herself, she put a little extra swing in her hips as she rounded the corner.
She paused outside Worf's quarters and punched in the key code Alexander had given her. The doors slid open.
Alexander was in sick bay. He had come down with QupDIr'rop, an ailment similar to chicken pox. It was just as well that his father was away on leave. QupDIr'rop was commonplace among Klingon children but much more dangerous to adults who had never experienced the disease. Worf, raised partly on Earth, had never been exposed to it.
The boy was doing fine, but some peculiarities in his human blood made it necessary for him to stay a while for observation. He had asked her to get some of his schoolbooks so that he could catch up on his studies, and look in on his hissing beetle while she was at it.
Deana stepped into the darkened chamber. The doors closed behind her.
"Batlh Daqawlu'taH, pong'ra jub --"
She paused, startled. The deep voice, as rich as Romulan chocolate, was raised in song. It was partially drowned out by the steady rush of water, and was coming from the half-open door into the bathroom.
Deana nearly laughed aloud. Worf was singing! She had never known he could sing. What a talent he'd kept hidden from them all these years! He was singing in the shower!
Worf was singing in the shower.
Worf ... was in the shower.
She swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly dry. Her mother's words came back to her, clanging in her head like an alarm bell.
*He's attracted to you.*
Of course she had known. She was neither blind nor stupid. The interest was mutual. She could not deny that Worf was an intriguing man. Intense, tempermental, proud, stubborn, yes, he was all of those, but unfailingly gentle when he spoke to her. He kept the emotions he saw as "weaker" under tight control. He often felt alone, distant. Only once had he allowed himself to care for a female, and she had been violently taken from him. The loss of Alexander's mother had left a sadness and vulnerability in him that he kept hidden.
Not only was he emotionally a complex puzzle, but she had to admit that he was physically appealing. She gazed fixedly at the half-open door. She could see the edge of the sink, the steam-clouded mirror, and a crumple of gold and black cloth.
Without realizing fully how she got there, she found herself standing by the door. She bit her lip. She told herself to turn around and leave quietly, before he discovered her.
Caught in a tractor beam of compulsion, she did not listen to her own good advice but instead reached out and carefully pushed the door open a few more inches. Now she could see the shower stall. The glass was only slightly filmed with soap and water.
She could not attribute all of the moisture on her skin to the steam that filled the small room. Nor could the steam account for her rapid breathing and a tingling in her breasts as her nipples tightened.
He was facing away from her, head thrown back as he sang. His hair was a sodden stream over his broad shoulders. A series of ridges ran down his back, tiny waterfalls cascading from each one. The final ridge was a narrow spur just above his ass, which was as firm and solid as it looked through his clothes. His legs were muscular and well-defined.
Worf turned. Deana cringed back against the door. His eyes were closed, and humming now he stuck his head under the shower and began washing his hair. She dared another look, her eyes taking in the powerful chest, rock-hard stomach, and ...
She suddenly remembered Keiko O'Brian's bachelorette party. Beverley Crusher had gotten tipsy and delivered a long and hilarious dissertation on sexual physiology of the major galactic races. It was one thing to know academically that Klingons were built differently, and another thing to see with her own wide and amazed eyes.
He was ridged there, too. They began just below his navel, each one smaller than the one above it, pointing like an arrowhead to the thick column that dangled between his legs. Even that was ridged, and he was enormous.
She caught her breath. Even unaroused -- 'dormant' was the word her mind insisted on using, as if it wasn't a part of him at all but a beast in its own right that might waken at any moment -- he was far larger than any other man she'd been with.
Deana fled the bathroom. She stopped near a table cluttered with Worf's various trophies and took several deep breaths. Her palms were slick. Her legs were trembling. With her blood roaring in her ears, her mind did not even register the sound of the water being turned off. She kept wondering what it would be like to be pinned under him.
Most women, she knew from her psychology training harbored secret fantasies of being helplessly ravaged, even in the 24th century. She was surprised to suddenly find herself numbered among them. Civilization, equality, all that meant nothing. He was male, she was female. She could not help but respond with every fiber of her being.
She gasped and spun. Her hip slammed into the table. Trophies wobbled. One fell off the edge and she grabbed for it. A curved blade cut into her palm just below her thumb. She cried out and dropped it, staring at the thin line of blood.
Worf was wearing only a towel wrapped snug low on his hips. Beads of water gleamed on his chest. When he saw the blood, his expression of surprise changed to one of concern and he came toward her. "Are you hurt?"
"Worf -- no, I -- that is," she stammered.
He seized her wrist and raised it, applying pressure. The bleeding had already stopped. She looked up, met his eyes, blushed. His nostrils flared slightly, and she remembered hearing that a Klingon warrior could smell fear on his enemy. She wondered if he could smell her arousal.
A trickle of water ran from his hair down over his chest. She followed it with her eyes, down, down, over the flatness of his stomach, over the first of his groin ridges, to be absorbed by the towel. Lower still, below the white thick cloth, something stirred, something large.
She forced herself to look at his face again. Now, unbidden, her empathic powers burst forth. She sensed his passion, feeling the texture of his emotions much as she wished to feel the texture of his skin. He growled low in his throat. She reacted to it on some primitive level, her pulse quickening until it was a thunder in her veins. She was moist, aching, needing to be filled.
Worf lifted her captive hand to his mouth and slowly licked the blood from her skin, his eyes never leaving hers. His tongue was warm and slightly rough, like a cat's. She shivered.
"Deana," he said. His voice was a low rumble, sending more tremors through her.
She rose on tiptoe and lightly brushed his lips with her own. He responded with another growl and she sensed that he wished to crush her against him, but held back out of fear of hurting or frightening her. She had heard him mention before how fragile the women of other races were. So, to assuage his fears, she sank her teeth into his shoulder with a cute little growl of her own.
Worf hissed in mingled pain and pleasure. He kissed her savagely, bruising her full lips. She pressed her breasts to his chest, pressed her hips against his thighs. He was hardening, pushing against her belly, immense. A wanton abandon swept over her. Before she fully knew what she was doing she was gripping his ass through the towel, thrusting her tongue past his sharp teeth.
His large hands found her breasts and plundered them, squeezing them, making them bulge into the deep neckline of her dress. It was the blue one, Will's favorite. The thought of Will Riker made her suddenly angry. Will, who had wanted her all to himself though he romped around Risa with dozens of women. Will, who had been jealous of Worf since before there had been any reason to be. Will, who had doubtless lied when he bragged about his conquests during the time he'd been assigned to the Klingon vessel because surely if Worf was any indication, the Klingon females expected far more than the First Officer had to offer.
She seized the bodice of the dress herself and tore it. Worf helped, shredding the cloth. The skirt puddled around her feet. He lifted her out of it. He handled her as easily as he might have picked up a child. She kicked off her shoes as he carried her toward his bed.
He laid her down and stood over her, looming like the ravaging brute of her fantasies. He cast off the towel. She drew in a sharp breath. Fully erect, his organ was almost the length and circumference of her forearm.
Apprehension clouded her desire but did not eclipse it completely. Worf knelt on the edge of the bed. "I do not wish to hurt you, Deana," he said.
"You won't," she said, barely recognizing that breathless whisper as her own voice. She touched him, finding that she could not encircle him with one hand.
She had expected his skin to be tough there as well but it was velvety. She rubbed him between both hands, enjoying the thickness of it, the feel of it. Worf closed his eyes. He was growling continuously, almost a purr. Not the purr of a housecat but of a lion, a great hunting cat.
Instead of a loose sac encasing his testicles, she saw what looked to be a pouch covered with ridged plates. She remembered hearing that in battle, Klingons withdrew their sexual organs into an armored pouch, rendering them invulnerable to a blow that crippled males of most other species.
The head was a dark plum color, and shaped, she saw with surprise, much like one of the styles of Klingon battle-cruiser. Surely Klingon engineers did not deliberately design ships to resemble ...
She ran her tongue around the head. Even stretching her jaws to their widest, she did not think she could get it into her mouth, and if she somehow managed, she was sure it would not easily come out. She could not imagine trying to explain to Dr. Crusher if they got stuck, so she did not even try. She settled for licking and stroking and a few gentle nibbles, until Worf's breathing was ragged and he pulled away.
"Slowly," he said. "This must be for both of us." So saying, he pushed her back against the pillows and lowered his head to her breasts. His mouth was hot and demanding, sucking and nuzzling with passionate urgency.
She clutched his shoulders, rubbed the ridges along his spine. He worked one hand between her thighs and found her damp and ready. He peeled off her silk panties. She spread her legs. He blew gently onto her mound, stirring the silky dark hair with his cool breath. He used his thumbs to part her labia and began probing her with his tongue.
He brought her to the very edge of climax, slowly, teasingly, until she was writhing and clawing at him. "Worf! Worf, I need you now!" she panted.
"Not yet," he said. He slid a finger deep into her, pressing her clitoris with his thumb and biting softly on her inner thigh.
Her orgasm exploded through her like a supernova. Her back arched, her heels drummed on the mattress, her fists clenched in his hair, and a hoarse cry escaped her throat. The initial shockwave passed, but Worf fastened his mouth to her again and relentlessly wrung a second orgasm from her. This time she shrieked, flinging an arm over her face to muffle her cries.
He moved to lay beside her. She could do little more than gasp and whimper for several minutes, but he did not seem rushed. As he tenderly touched her face, she sensed something that she had never sensed from a previous partner. He was more concerned about her pleasure than his own, and would be satisfied even if they stopped now. All the rest had been selfishly concerned with their own release, or determined to prove something. There was a depth of caring in Worf that she had never experienced before. She realized that her mother had been wrong. He was not merely attracted to her. Worf loved her.
This realization brought tears to her eyes. Alarmed, he started to speak, but she silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips. He kissed the saltiness from her cheeks.
"You are magnificent," she whispered.
"You are beautiful," he replied.
She kissed him, a long sweet kiss, caressing his face. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you knew. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't realize until today, but now I know I've wanted this for a long time." She rose up on one elbow and looked at him, so nobly featured and handsome with his hair spread out over the pillows. "I love you." In halting Klingon, she repeated it. "JIbang SoH."
Though it normally made Klingons uncomfortable to talk about their feelings, he said with no awkwardness at all, "I love you, Deana."
She kissed him again, with more passion this time. The aftershocks of her two devastating climaxes had passed, and though she normally would have been exhausted, she was eager for more. When he tried to sit up, she pressed him down and began playfully trailing her long dark hair across his body. She showered kisses on his chest, his thighs. He clenched his fists in the blankets when she reached his stiffness.
Deana swung her leg over him, straddling him. He gripped her by the waist for balance. She rubbed the head of his organ along the moist furrow between her legs. It was still enormous, this weapon of love, but she was now more than ready for it. She lowered herself slowly onto him.
Worf lay motionless beneath her, his rough hands caressing her hips and ass, giving her time to adjust to his size. She could not take in the entire length but managed enough to delight them both when she at last could remain still no longer. She began with a gentle rocking, which caused her clitoris to rub against his ridges. It sent her swiftly to the brink of another dizzying orgasm.
To stifle her cries, she bit him again and dug her fingernails into his arms. He raked his sharp teeth over her shoulder, careful not to break the skin. He moved to meet her downward thrusts, nearly lifting her from the mattress as the pace of their coupling increased.
Soon Deana was riding him wildly, her hair a flying whirlwind in her face, no longer caring who heard them. Worf's snarls and growls culminated in a full-throated roar, every muscle taut, and she felt his hot seed spill into her.
He held her against him, his strong arms like bands of iron, and rolled so that she was pinned under his weight. She raised her legs and locked her ankles just over the last ridge of his spine. He gently pressed into her, and now that he was beginning to soften he slid in to the ridged base. Her breath escaped her in a long shuddering sigh.
They lay like that for some time. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She murmured his name, pleasantly exhausted, happier than she had been in years. The warmth of his love as well as that of his body comforted her.
Finally, he looked down at her and his brow furrowed. "Tell me, Counselor, what were you doing in my quarters?"