The Taming 3, version A

By Skazinetilsky, PB Wrapper and Karmen Ghia

"Chekov, are you all right?"

"I thought I saw..." The lieutenant stared at the street vendor's cart where only an old woman stood now. "...someone I knew."

Sulu was too polite to express his disbelief more strongly than in the soft dubious laugh he gave before taking his helmpartner's arm and guiding him forward.

It did seem highly unlikely that the navigator would run into an acquaintance on Gandrine 3. It was a planet on the edges of territory claimed by both the Federation forces and the Klingons. Gandrine played the coquette allowing herself to be wooed by Federation and Empire without pledging herself to either. Chekov reassessed looking at the street scene. More likely Gandrine was playing the whore, jumping into bed with whoever had the most valuables at the moment.

All in all Gandrine wasn't the sort of place that people you'd like to know lived and did business. Then again, the person Chekov thought he saw was not someone he was pleased to have known.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sulu repeated after a moment. "You look pale.

Perfectly natural after seeing a ghost, Chekov thought. What he said aloud was, "It's very hot. Could we get a drink?"

"Let me check the list." The helmsman broke out a small device that looked like a tricorder. "What's on the menu today?"

For security reasons, personnel on leave were required to travel in pairs during the day and groups of at least five at night. As a further precaution, they were given a list of establishments to patronize. The selection rotated each day so no one business would get the reputation of being a Star Fleet hangout. Since this arrangement tended to make on-leave personnel to travel in packs, it also created a false impression for the locals of how many of them there were. Which was what the Enterprise was here to do -- maintain the impression of a strong Federation presence. Gandrine certainly hadn't been chosen as a shore leave planet for its scenic qualities.

"Here's a good one," Sulu said, grinning as he tapped the read out. "Local Bar #234. Prices -- moderate. Beverage selection: mind-numbingly unimaginative. Cuisine: The best that can be said is that it will not linger in your digestive system very long. Atmosphere: quiet desperation."

Chekov rolled his eyes. "Who is writing these?"

"Someone in the Science department -- maybe one of the sociologists. Obviously someone who doesn't want to be doing that job much longer."

"They're taking the wrong approach," Chekov said, shaking his head. "Mr. Spock will merely reprimand the person for being frivolous. He'd only take the individual off the assignment for being inaccurate -- Unfortunately."

"Oh, come on. I don't see any harm in it."

"I do." Chekov crossed his arms. "We're visiting all the worst places on the planet simply because you find their descriptions amusing."

"Here's another good one," Sulu said eagerly, ignoring him in favor of the tiny screen's read out. "Local bar 236 -- A picturesque spot from which to be shanghaied. Beverages -- Ill advised. Cuisine -- slightly less lethal than the patrons. Atmosphere -- Abandon all hope ye who enter here."

The navigator sighed. "I think I prefer the one with quiet desperation. Is it far?"

"We're practically on top of it," Sulu replied, snapping the lid of the device closed and heading off confidently.

This, Chekov knew, didn't mean anything. Sulu was a superb pilot, but one didn't have to travel on ground with him for very long to see why he'd not become a navigator. The Russian shrugged to himself and followed his helmpartner's lead resignedly.

As they travel down streets of unquiet desperation, (passing several perfectly nice bars that Chekov knew Sulu would tell him were not on the list today), the navigator thought about the Klingon he'd seen. *Thought* he'd seen. It couldn't be him. That one was dead. The one who had claimed him two years ago when he'd been captured by that Klingon ship....

"Dead," Chekov said to himself firmly, refusing to entertain even the smallest hint of a memory about the incident. He'd put all that behind him long ago.

Or had he? It worried the navigator that he'd thought he'd seen that particular Klingon. Was it an implicitly racist, 'All of them look alike' reaction? Or did this indicate that on some subconscious level, he still had issues left unresolved?

An unexpected noise brought Chekov back to the present and prompted him to full awareness of his surroundings. Sulu had led them into a twisting corridor between two rows of haphazardly placed storage units. The main passageway they'd been traveling down was not currently visible, nor was the street they were presumably walking towards. It had all the hallmarks of what Sulu would consider a shortcut, but was also a perfect spot for an ambush.

"Sulu," he said, slowing as he looked about him from where the noise had come. "I don't think we should...."

A blue stream of energy shot out from between two of the buildings. The helmsman crumpled to the pavement, stunned.

Chekov reached for his phaser. Before he could grasp it, what felt like a Klingon disruptor was pressed to the back of his head.

"No move," the distorted voice of the person holding the pistol ordered.

As his assailant relieved the navigator of his weapon and communicator, two rag-robed figures scurried from the shadows to do the same to his fallen comrade. Swathed from head to toe, it was impossible to tell who or even what manner of creatures they were. Too small for Klingons. Probably locals... of some sort.

One of the attackers took the tricorder Sulu had been carrying as the other dragged the helmsman into the alley from which they'd emerged. He... or she... or it... pushed the device up to the navigator's face. "Work this!" the mugger demanded through a raspy voice synthesizer, its eyes -- or eye shielded by an opaque visor.

Chekov frowned. Information that would enable one to predict the movements of Federation personnel on leave would have to be deemed quite valuable to criminal elements. He hoped it was not valuable enough for them to kill for. "No."

The attacker hesitated as the navigator hoped he would. "Shoot him," the criminal holding him decided.

Disappointingly, the other agreed seemed to agree that this was a sensible course of action.

Chekov closed his eyes as the disrupter was pointed at him, hoping that he was only going to be stunned.

There was a whine and a flash.

He opened his eyes, surprised to find that instead of him it was the creature with the gun who'd been evaporated. With a quiet thump, something made an impact against the back of the local holding him. Perhaps a knife. His captor went suddenly rigid, then its grip loosened.

Chekov tried shake it off and to turn to face the new entrant into the fray, but he found himself once more in the clutches of someone. Someone big. Someone with a strangely familiar smell.

"This is not a safe place for Humans," a nightmare voice said in a level, considerate tone that had Chekov wondering if he'd gone completely mad. "Follow me." Huge Klingon arms released him, and Chekov watched as the ghost picked up his unconscious helmpartner with mundane but impressive strength, and draping Sulu over a shoulder like a reinforced steel joist, set off down the alley. After a moment, Kahrag turned back. "They work in packs, those vrrish. There will be more of them arriving." The Klingon pulled a hand free from his burden and wiped it on his black tunic with a grimace. "And your comrade in arms is bleeding like a slit throat." He turned towards the very alley from which their attackers had emerged.

"Wait..."

Kahrag laughed. "I see you still like to argue, my prize."

Deprived of his communicator, his weapon, and his sense of direction, Chekov had to follow, or risk losing track of Sulu permanently. The alley was littered underfoot with crushed packages and empty bottles. It was also deep in shadow and smelled like a sewer. When the passageway narrowed further, and twisted sharply to the right, the lieutenant even had to run to keep up with the longer stride of the Klingon.

After a few more yards, Kahrag turned in through a door. "Here. This place is considered safe."

Chekov blinked, standing in the doorway with a pale shaft of daylight casting his shadow onto the filthy, cracked floor of what was clearly a favorite Klingon drinking den. Several of them were crowded round a gaming table. A female Klingon, in civilian dress, was carrying drinks to the patrons. Unaware of Chekov's hesitation, Kahrag bore Sulu to a long, low table at the back of the tavern and pushed the empty tankards onto the floor before laying his burden none too gently on the stained boards. He bellowed something in Klingon, Chekov guessed, to the hostess. Along with her clients, she ignored the newcomers. One of the gamblers turned to look at Chekov and snapped something at him.

"He told you to come in and shut the door," Kahrag translated considerately. Chekov swallowed. His whole body was trying to turn round and start running, as fast as it could and as far as it could. The effort needed to control this blind panic was so intense that Chekov was hardly thinking at all.

The gambler said something else, used a clearly obscene gesture to emphasize his latest instruction and rose to his feet, as if intending to enforce it unilaterally. Chekov stepped forward and let the door close. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the resulting deeper darkness, but he could then see that the hostess was delivering a bottle and glasses to the improvised hospital bed. Kahrag waved the bottle at Chekov. "Llarth!" he said cheerfully. "You remember?"

"I need to contact my ship."

The Klingon was busily filling three glasses. "No, if you call your friends in here, you'll start the next Klingon-Federation war. Our ships are just waiting for your land forces to enter the neutral zone and give us an excuse to fight."

"Neutral zone?" Chekov echoed stupidly. Then it occurred to him that there was another reason for the limited list of approved drinking establishments. No doubt someone was working hard to keep the opposing shore leave contingents as far apart as possible.

"You'd better bandage him up," Kahrag commented, poking curiously at the still unconscious Sulu. "He'll be empty in a few more moments."

Chekov was able to staunch the flow of blood from Sulu's body but knew he must get his friend and lover to Sickbay immediately.

The Russian looked into Kahrag's bland, watchful eyes: "He needs a doctor, Klingon. Now. Let me contact my ship."

"No."

"Please," Chekov hissed with more desperation than he'd intended.

Kahrag considered for a moment. "What's it worth to you, my prize?"

Chekov flung him a scathing look and would have struck him if he were not holding Sulu's vein closed.

"Well?" the Klingon persisted, sensing victory.

"What do you want?"

"You, willing, for the rest of the night," Kahrag stated flatly. "Your friend goes up to the ship without you. Deal?"

Chekov hesitated: "You'll let me go in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Swear that on your honor as a Klingon."

"I swear on my honor as a Klingon that I will let you go in the morning," Kahrag intoned, trying to keep the elation out of his voice. Adjusting his Klingon communicator to a civilian channel, he handed it to Chekov. "Call your ship, but quietly; we don't want to attract a lot of attention. Here," the Klingon moved to gently take Chekov's place holding Sulu's neck together, "call, quickly."

Trying not to contemplate the hellish bargain he'd just made, Chekov hailed the Enterprise and made the necessary arrangements with Sickbay and the Transporter room. "One to beam up, Mr. Kyle." He was glad no one asked him why he was staying on the surface. He watched Sulu's body disappear into safety and raised his eyes to the Klingon.

"Sit down, my prize," Kahrag growled.

Chekov sat down and stared at the blood pooled on the table. Kahrag picked up a glass of the vile Klingon spirit that Chekov remembered mainly as a painful topical antiseptic, and tilted it to his lips, but stopped before drinking. He yelled at the bartender. She yelled back. Kahrag apparently objected violently to what she said. She seemed to respond colorfully. The rest of the customers began to sit up and take notice. Chekov suddenly realized he was surrounded by nearly twenty Klingons, who had only just registered a Human in their midst.

The bartender came over and smeared the blood around with a wet rag.

Kahrag leaned over and pushed one of the other two glasses through one of the crimson puddles toward the lieutenant. "Drink," he instructed.

Chekov squeamishly wiped the bottom of the glass as well as he could on the table's top before picking it up. He raised it, but the smell of the llarth made his stomach churn.

Just then, he realized he was recognizing odd syllables of the remarks around him. "What are they saying?" he demanded.

"They want to know when the local whores started wearing Starfleet uniform." Kahrag smiled at Chekov's expression. "Do you wish me to defend your honor, my prize?"

Chekov took a mouthful of the llarth and almost choked. "I wish to get out of this place."

"Of course." Kahrag emptied his own glass and picked up the bottle. "We will leave."

"And go where?"

The Klingon crossed over to the bar and spoke fast and furiously with the hostess. He came back bearing a large steel key on a length of red braid. "There are rooms rented in this building, but I do not choose to seduce you in such a setting. I have obtained the use of the owner's quarters for the night." He dangled the key in front of his unwilling companion. "The price was considerable. I hope you appreciate this."

Chekov could feel everyone's eyes on him, and on the key and what it implied. He gritted his teeth. It wasn't as if anyone would decide to rescue him if he *did* insist that his uniform was genuine.

Taking Chekov's arm, Kahrag propelled him to a beaded curtain that hung across one of the shadowy corners at the back of the bar. Behind it, a staircase led directly up between two walls, into apparent darkness. Kahrag's eyes must have adapted quickly to the dark, because the Klingon climbed the stairs quite confidently, oppressively close to the more hesitant human whom he herded before him. As they turned a corner, a dim yellow light made their route clearer. They were on a landing, from which doors, covered in dents and scratches, opened at such frequent intervals that the rooms beyond must have been little larger than cupboards. The floor underfoot was soft, as if carpeted, but smooth as if worn down and trodden full of dirt. A few insects buzzed sleepily in the stale air, and a smell of long-boiled cabbage grew stronger as they moved deeper into the building.

One of the doors burst open and a drunken Klingon staggered out, pursued by a naked humanoid female, giggling hysterically. Oblivious to Chekov and Kahrag, they blundered along the landing for a few feet and into another door, releasing a burst of jangling music for a few seconds.

Another bead curtain concealed another flight of stairs. Chekov hesitated. The carpet now was so worn that scuffed wood could be seen in places beneath it. The handrail was broken half way up, and the light at the top was flickering.

"Move." Kahrag tapped the llarth bottle against Chekov's backside to encourage him.

At the top a slightly wider landing was being used to dry laundry. Four or five lines ran along its length, and sheets were draped over them, some almost dry, some so wet they were dripping onto the floor.

"A well run house," Kahrag pointed out approvingly. "Clean beds."

At the far end, bed linen was interspersed with undergarments of unusual designs. Kahrag fitted his key into the lock of the door which faced them at the end of the landing. As he opened the door, the lights in the room beyond came up automatically.

Somehow, Chekov knew that Kahrag was as startled as he was. The room was full of Klingon mannequins, each wearing a different costume. Against the walls, glass fronted cabinets held dolls, varying from miniatures to almost life size, and no two, to Chekov's inexpert eyes, alike.

"The wrong room," Kahrag announced, a little uncertainly.

Chekov pointed to the tiny kitchen unit he'd just discerned through the crush of dummies. "No, I think someone lives here."

Kahrag closed and locked the door, then pushed past Chekov towards the sink, drainer and shelves. He found two glasses in the cupboard under the sink and filled them both with llarth. "Look," he said, sounding more confident, "there's a bed too. Do you think the madame hires out her silent friends to her clients?"

"They look as if they belong in a museum," Chekov suggested irritably. It was bad enough being forced to have sex with a Klingon, without having to do it in the Klingon equivalent of a waxworks repository. He glanced at the mannequins nearest to him, and was relieved to see that they didn't appear to be likenesses of actual people. Several shared the same face, and all the faces were smoothly anonymous.

"Exactly," Kahrag agreed. "They are k'pich, forms used by designers of armor and ritual robes, but presumably recent and of no great value. Still interesting..." Sipping from his own glass, the Klingon handed Chekov the other and began to stalk among the figures, examining them.

Chekov blew out a low, happy breath. He couldn't have been more relieved if the room had been full of books. "You know about these things?" he asked brightly. "How old are they?"

"Three, four centuries, in your reckoning. And you will notice something: to save time and materials, but allow the designs to be realistic and practical, the models are small, but not too small." Kahrag looked across at Chekov to see if he was paying attention.

He was right. They were small beside the live Klingon, but when Chekov looked at them, his eyes met their unseeing ones dead on.

"Battle armor." Kahrag pointed at a large cluster of the figures which wore outfits not too different to Kahrag's own attire: heavy boots, padded pants below a black tunic, and a tabard of interlinked metal plates. "Priests." These wore embroidered robes and elaborate helmets. "And prostitutes of the cult."

Chekov blinked at the latter classification. He swallowed and looked at the mannequins. The question he'd been about to ask died on his lips.

"Prostitutes of the Kvira warrior cult that died out three thousand of your standard years ago," Kahrag supplied as if reading his mind. "It was once unnecessary for warriors to marry or make any kind of sexual liaison for themselves. The Kvira religion provided for all the physical needs of the warrior class. So much so, the entire class became unable to do anything but make war and nearly destroyed itself. The cult was banned, the priests executed, the prostitutes scattered to the winds or shut up in brothels. But, oh my prize, the Kvira whores were the most beautiful youths and maidens of their generation. It was considered an honor to be raised in the cult and to serve the warriors. As you can see," Kahrag gestured to the intricate gown before him, "the fashion was to obscure the body in order to excite the curiosity of the viewer."

Chekov found he was fascinated by the gown Kahrag referred to. It was a dark metallic magenta, heavily embroidered with dull bronze threads and beaded with crystals. The skirts and sleeves were huge and were pleated and gathered in this way and that to further increase their volume. The neck as swathed in a silvery gauzy material, also beaded in crystals, that was swept up over the head as a veil and down over the shoulders, long enough to drape around the skirts of the garment. Chekov was hardly a fashion designer but it looked to the lieutenant that this dress must weight about twenty-two kilos. He turned to find the Klingon studying him.

"Put it on," Kahrag commanded.

***

"Captain, I have located Mr. Chekov's transponder ID code. He appears to be in the Klingon zone," Spock said, watching Dr. McCoy grimace next the command chair. "Permission to beam to the surface. I will require a local costume."

"Granted," Kirk said. He was not pleased that Sulu had been attacked and Chekov was in the Klingon zone.

"Can't you just beam him up?" McCoy asked.

"No." Kirk was not pleased to be sending Spock down there to get Chekov but another Federation transporter beam out of the Klingon zone would trigger the war they were all trying so hard not to start. The Klingons were just getting over their anger that Sulu was beamed out. It had calmed them to be able to trace Chekov's original transmission back to a Klingon communicator. But that was odd, too, why was Chekov using a Klingon communicator? Kirk watched Spock get in the turbolift and turned to Dr. McCoy: "How is Sulu?"

"Fine, he'll be back on duty tomorrow," McCoy said, hoping Chekov would be back with him. "Got him here not a moment too soon. He nearly bled to death."

"Yes," Kirk murmured, wondering if Spock was off the ship yet. "Haven't you got things to do in Sickbay?"

***

Chekov felt ridiculous but Kahrag was plainly delighted.

"My prize," he murmured, pulling the unresisting human and twenty-two kilos of gown into his arms.

***

Following Chekov's transponder transmission, Spock found himself outside the drinking/gaming/whoring establishment. He was glad of the falling darkness, it would make him less visible as he climbed up to the third story, where he hoped to find the navigator.

***

Seated on the unadorned bed, Kahrag had pulled Chekov astride his lap and was nuzzling the human's neck as he took his time about undoing the elaborate costume.

Chekov had simply closed his eyes and was hoping it would all be over quickly.

In their distractions, neither of them saw Spock come in through the bathroom window. The Vulcan made his way silently across the room and neck pinched Kahrag into unconsciousness.

Feeling Kahrag's hands fall away from his body, Chekov's eyes flew open. "Mr. Spock!" He leapt off the Klingon's lap. "What are you doing here?"

"Ascertaining your condition, Mr. Chekov and assisting you in your return to the Enterprise," Spock informed him. "A becoming costume, Lieutenant, but why are you out of uniform?"

"I ..." Chekov began, blushing charmingly (or so Spock thought). "I made a deal to get Sulu back to the Enterprise and ... " he trailed off.

Spock was staring hard at Kahrag. "Is this not the Klingon who molested you two point zero four years ago?" He watched Chekov nod. "Explain."

Chekov told him the story of the rescue and his promise. Spock was silent to the end of the brief recital.

"Mr. Sulu is out of danger," Spock said, "there is no further need for you to stay here..."

"I gave my word, Spock."

"...unless you want to stay here."

"I do not!"

"Then let us go."

"I gave my word. He rescued us. We would have been dead without him," Chekov whispered. "It's ... it's not right to break my word and ... I ... well - it's just one night."

"Mr. Chekov, I wonder if you are not seeking some psychological resolution with the Klingon."

"Sir?"

"A resolution of the unresolved sexual tension and anger you experienced with this Klingon in the past. You now have a unique opportunity to experience voluntary sex with him, resolve the past and be done with it." Spock disliked terran psychology but found it useful occasionally. He picked up the beaded gauze veil and handed it to Chekov. "I think you might profit by staying," he concluded, slipping behind a curtain as Kahrag began to stir.

"What happened, human?" the Klingon asked grumpily.

"You passed out," Chekov said as convincingly as possible. He was distracted by the knowledge that Spock was just behind the curtain.

"From kissing you?" Kahrag asked groggily.

"So it seems," Chekov shrugged. "How much llarth have you had today?"

"Not that much," Kahrag said, eyeing the room suspiciously.

Chekov boldly took hold of the Klingon's nose and turned him to face him. "Let's go, Klingon, I don't want to be here forever." He was cursing Spock for not leaving when he had the chance. He looked over Kahrag's shoulder at the Vulcan's hastily chosen hiding place as the Klingon began to undress him again. In addition to being fairly well concealed, Spock would have an excellent view of the bed and its occupants. Chekov noted this fact and wondered if it was deliberate choice. But he was distracted from this train of thought by Kahrag pulling the last of the gown aside and admiring his body.

"I have never forgotten how beautiful you are," Kahrag murmured into Chekov's shoulder. His huge hands traveled down to caress the Russian's back and lower to cup the mounds of his ass.

Chekov squirmed gently, mainly to remind himself that he was NOT enjoying this. It was interesting to compare the dream Kahrag, of whom he was afraid, and the real Kahrag, of whom he was not afraid. On the battlecruiser, Kahrag had made Chekov furious and ashamed but never afraid. The lieutenant's train of thought was interrupted by the Klingon's hand stroking his cock. He jumped slightly at the contact.

"Have I hurt you, human?" Kahrag asked, lightening his caress.

"No. I was just startled."

"What are you thinking of?" the Klingon asked as he laid Chekov gently on his back.

"I was wondering how you survived when I was told you were dead," Chekov lied.

Kahrag took his lips off the human's nipple and looked up at him: "The hull was breached in my section," the Klingon explained, running his hand down Chekov's flank. "Many of my comrades were killed immediately. The rest assumed themselves dead as the bulkheads closed trapping us inside the leaking hull. But I thought of you and crawled into a ventilation shaft. I and a few others found a pocket of air. It was days before the wreckage was cleared and we were found. Many of my companions died. But I had a reason to live." He pushed Chekov's legs apart so he could fondle the lieutenant's balls. "Imagine my disappointment when I was informed of your escape, my prize." He returned his lips to Chekov's chest.

Chekov propped himself up on one elbow. "Have you been looking for me?"

"No, but I have been aware of your cowardly ship's movements over the past two years," Kahrag said, neglecting to mention that the bounty hunters he'd contacted had flatly refused to kidnap anything off Kirk's Enterprise. "I was able to arrange to be here at the same time, that's all." He smiled as if a pleasant thought had occurred to him. "Why? Have you been looking for me?"

"I thought you were dead," Chekov spat, trying to put all the venom he could muster in his present position, and arousal, into the words.

"Then did you mourn me?"

Kahrag waited for a response, and sighed when none was forthcoming. "Clearly not. You took the advice of the great poet, K'rstna Rsstti." Drawing a deep breath, the Klingon declaimed, "When I am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs of me..."

"I find Klingon poetry deeply unarousing."

Kahrag smiled again. "You have been reading Klingon poetry? How moving..." He pushed Chekov back down and positioned himself between the human's legs. Kahrag spent a few moments nuzzling the navigator's silky pubic thatch before sliding his tongue along the base of his penis.

Chekov shivered at the contact. It was exactly the right sex with the wrong person. He was also disturbed by the fact that Kahrag was being much too casual about this. He then remembered that Spock was a few feet away and if not getting an eyeful, at least an earful and Chekov allowed himself to be disturbed about that too. He tensed and Kahrag felt it.

"Relax," the Klingon growled, shoving him down. "Your body is so much wiser than your mind, human," he said, licking the moisture off the tip of Chekov's cock. "At least this part of your body."

Wisely realizing there was nothing to be done at this moment, Chekov lay back and tried not to enjoy one of the best blowjobs he'd ever had in his life. He was deeply impressed by the earth shattering, mind crushing, shuddering orgasm Kahrag brought him right to the edge of ... and then stopped.

"I think we should slow down a little, my prize," Kahrag teased, kissing Chekov's quivering thigh.

The navigator was beyond shame, he put his hands on his own erection to get himself off if the Klingon wouldn't do it.

"No, no, my prize," Kahrag scolded, placing Chekov's hands firmly over his head. "If you won't keep your hands here, I'll have to see if I can find some restraints." He felt Chekov pull himself together and relax a little. "That's better," he soothed, reaching into his pocket and tossing a container of lubricant and a sheath on the bed next to the lieutenant. "Much better." The Klingon rose to remove his own clothing.

"I will not do that, Klingon," Chekov informed him.

"Do what, human?" Kahrag asked innocently, tossing off his trousers.

"That," Chekov said, looking away from the Klingon's large, erect cock and focusing on the little container of lube.

"Well, well, my prize," Kahrag chuckled, drawing the tense human into his huge arms, "if you know what 'that,'" he nodded at the container, "is for, then you must no longer be a virgin." Kahrag happily rubbed his cock against Chekov's. "A shame, in some ways, I had hoped to teach you how to please me. I am not disappointed, however, it will save time this evening." He gave the lieutenant a demanding kiss and returned to sucking his cock.

"Klingon, I'm serious," Chekov insisted and then jumped as a slick blunt, fingertip stoked the entrance to his body.

"Ummmmm."

"I...," Chekov clenched his muscles trying to keep the invading digit out of his body. "I don't want you to hurt me," he said at last, something between a command and a plea.

Kahrag took his mouth off the human and leaned back to look at him. "I won't hurt you," he said tenderly. "Relax for me, my prize, yes," he murmured, returning his attention to Chekov's cock.

Chekov's muscles gave up after a good fight and Kahrag eased his finger in up to the first joint. He paused to apply more lube and glided it in as far as it would go. He was pleased to find Chekov's prostate and stroked it with his fingertip, just to hear his prize moan with abandon. He gently added the second finger and gave the human some time to adjust to that. In the meantime, he concentrated on finding all the sensitive places in Chekov's groin.

Chekov was torn between trying not to enjoy Kahrag's maddening ministration and trying to forget that Spock was listening, if not watching. The Russian's one consolation in Spock's presence was that if he did need to be rescued from Kahrag, Spock was certainly the one to do it. Feeling a third finger entering him, he gasped and thrust against the Klingon's jaw. He thrashed about when he felt his prostrate tickled again. Chekov closed his eyes and forgot who was doing this to him and who was listening to it being done. He was so close to his climax, nothing else in the universe mattered to him.

So of course Kahrag stopped sucking his cock and sat up. "Tell me what you want," he husked, moving his fingers sinuously in and out.

Chekov looked up at him, panting, unable to speak.

"Tell me, my prize," Kahrag whispered, pumping him steadily.

Chekov looked at the Klingon's cock and suddenly, it didn't seem as daunting and overwhelming as it had before. It looked downright do-able now. But there was still some trepidation "...I can't..."

"I'll stop if you 'can't'," Kahrag informed him, hoping it was true. "But you have to tell me what you want." He lowered his lips to Chekov's painfully hard nipples. "You have to say it."

Chekov closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He nodded. "I want it ..." he breathed.

"Want what?" Kahrag teased softly.

Chekov swallowed again, trying for more control and failing. "I want you to ..."

"To ...?"

Chekov sighed something inaudible to everyone.

"What?" Kahrag breathed into the human's pink shell like ear.

"... fuck ... me..." the Russian whispered furiously.

Kahrag closed his eyes in triumph and rolled the unresisting human onto his stomach. He lubed up, thoughtfully slipped on the sheath, centered his cock... and paused. "Human, will your lover kill you for being unfaithful to him?" he asked quietly.

"... no," Chekov managed, squirming impatiently.

"I would," Kahrag observed, pressing forward, "if you were mine."

Chekov buried his face in the pillow to stifle his gasp of pain as the Klingon slipped the head in. He forced himself to relax and push against the hard flesh entering him. He was relieved when Kahrag stopped so he could adjust.

"All right, my prize?" Kahrag panted, just barely in control. Gratefully, he watched Chekov nod; he was unsure if he could stop even if he wanted to. He eased in carefully, allowing gravity to do most of the work. After quite awhile, the Klingon hit bottom and wrapped his arms around the human. He kissed Chekov's neck and began to fuck him gently.

Chekov was nearly swooning from the pressure on his prostate and the Klingon's breath on his neck. He was lost when Kahrag reached beneath him to stroke his cock. He subtly urged the Klingon into a harder, deeper rhythm, with which Kahrag was delighted to comply, and surrendered completely to his pleasure. The Russian didn't last much longer and when he came, his clenching sent Kahrag over the edge as well. They lay panting in a heap on the rumpled bed.

Eventually, Kahrag rose and went into the bathroom. He started the shower and called Chekov to join him, which Chekov did.

Spock took this opportunity to breathe deeply and settle himself a little more comfortably on the windowsill. He was glad he was wearing a warm coat against the chill. He considered leaving but decided against it; it was possible that Chekov could still need assistance this evening. And he found Kahrag fascinating; an odd mixture of fierceness and tenderness. 'Strange in a Klingon,' Spock mused, 'perhaps there is more to them than they have led us to believe, perhaps ...' This train of thought was interrupted by the lovers return to the bed.

Chekov slipped out of Kahrag's embrace and began to collect his uniform.

"Where are you going?" the Klingon growled, rising from the bed.

"Home."

"The night is young, my prize," Kahrag said, taking Chekov in his arms. "And you promised me the entire night."

Chekov hesitated, frowned, relented. "I did, didn't I?"

"Yes, come back to bed!" Kahrag swept him away without further protest.

Spock adjusted the curtain for a better view and settled in for a sleepless but fascinating night.

***

Dawns are leisurely on Gandrine 3. The inky sky streaks slowly with magenta and lightens in capricious stages instead of the long steady build one sees elsewhere.

Kahrag's inner clock woke him more than the lightening sky. He looked down at his prize, sleeping angelically next to him. He commenced an inner battle with his honor, his gonads and his self control that, transcribed as recitative, would bring audiences to their feet on the Klingon homeworld at every performance for the next 75 years. (Thereafter, opera was to fall out of fashion for quite some time.)

Inward peace having been achieved, Kahrag dressed, replaced the cultic costume on the mannequin, and stole away, locking the door and slipping the key underneath for Chekov's safety and convenience.

Spock hopped down from the windowsill and crossed to the bed. Since Chekov was still soundly asleep, and probably needed the rest, he allowed himself to be distracted by the costumes. He employed his photographic memory to catalogue forty-seven of the dummies before the lieutenant began to stir.

"Hmmm." Chekov flung out a hand which flapped around on the bed like a landed fish. "Hmm?"

Spock was surprised to realize that he was curious. He sat down on the bed and trapped the hand in his own. Chekov seemed reassured by this, and looked as if he was going to fall back into settled slumber. Experimentally, Spock raised the hand to his lips and kissed it. There was not much reaction. Pursing his lips, Spock fed one of the long fingers into his mouth. It tasted, unsurprisingly, of things neither Human nor Vulcan.

Chekov sighed and rolled onto his back. He spread his legs, kicking the covers aside at the same time.

Continuing the experiment, Spock moved his attention to the neighboring digit, and simultaneously applied his own fingers to the hardening nipples on the lieutenant's exposed chest.

With no warning, Chekov sat bolt upright, eyes wide open, just as Spock had decided to venture southwards to test the consistency of the reaction developing in that vicinity.

"Kah... Su... Mister Spock!"

"Ah," Spock said levelly. "You are awake. I was concerned that the Klingon might have injured you, but I have determined that you are well enough to move under your own power. Let us leave here expeditiously."

In the interest of speed and stealth, they climbed down the outside of the building. On the ground, they quickly made their way into the Federation zone.

They walked in silence through the wakening town. Chekov seemed lost in his thoughts. He'd never really considered how he would explain going with the Klingon. He looked up at Spock, whom he found studying him.

"Mr. Spock, about last night... " Chekov began. "Will it be necessary to... to document it?"

"I think not, Mr. Chekov," Spock said. "It will suffice to say that I found you in no danger and returned with you to the Enterprise. We were, however, delayed by the presence of a Klingon in the vicinity and found it safer to wait until he departed, which was not until early this morning. This rest is your personal business. I suggest, however," Spock added a few steps later, "that you have Dr. McCoy scan for sexually transmitted diseases."

"Yes, sir," Chekov murmured.

Spock hailed the ship and told Uhura they would beam up in a little while. He turned to Chekov and steered him to a secluded table in a sleepy cafe where he ordered tea for the lieutenant and mineral water for himself.

"Are you troubled, Chekov?"

"Yes, sir. There's a limited list of bars we're supposed to use..."

"I think I may be allowed to use my discretion in this matter," Spock said equably, "since I am neither drunk nor swayed by a human need to break the rules in order to impress my peers. Does anything else trouble you?"

Chekov frowned. "Well, yes. Sulu was knocked out by an energy beam, yet when K... the Klingon led us to take refuge in that bar, he was bleeding to death from a knife wound."

Spock raised an eyebrow even as he privately saluted Kahrag's strategy. "Fascinating."

"Also... I'm not sure how I can explain last night to anyone else, Mr. Spock." Chekov looked at his tea. "It made perfect sense when it was happening..." he trailed off.

"You seemed to be enjoying it," Spock prompted.

"I did, I was," Chekov said hastily. "But, well, how can I explain that I agreed to save Sulu's life and ended by enjoying it? Or that I did it at all?"

"Save Sulu's life?"

"No," Chekov said miserably. "Go to bed with the Klingon. How am I to explain that to... to certain people?"

"Perhaps you should not try to explain it."

"Sir?"

Spock paused while he sorted his thoughts. "You are confused by the strength of your reaction to the Klingon, by your willingness to respond to him. Your human mores - I should say, your overwhelmingly middle class human mores, colored by your status as the only child of a sexually repressed but emotionally dominant mother... Is something wrong, Mister Chekov?"

"I wasn't aware that you had met my mother, Mister Spock," Chekov said, very coldly.

"I do not need to. It is possible to deduce her existence from the evidence, as surely as I would deduce the presence of a black hole if the Enterprise was suddenly pulled off course by an overwhelming gravitational attraction. If I may continue, you feel you should be monogamous in your relationships, and yet you have discovered in the last twenty four hours that your instincts are anything but."

Chekov fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm just a typical human male, I think."

"Perhaps," Spock agreed. "But a guilty and defensive human male. Why not simply tell Lieutenant Sulu the truth, that Kahrag wished to sleep with you, and you wished to sleep with him, and both of you, in the opinion of an impartial observer, enjoyed the experience."

The lieutenant's eyes went wide, and apprehensive. "I couldn't. I could tell him I slept with the Klingon, in order to save his life. I could tell him it was not too bad, I suppose, but..."

"But you could not tell him the truth?" Spock allowed his eyebrow to rise again.

Chekov stared at him. "Yes, of course I could tell him the truth. Anything else would be... dishonest." He rose defiantly from his seat. "Let us return to the Enterprise."

Spock nodded his approval. He hailed the ship and they were beamed up.

***

Sulu had already been released from sickbay. He greeted Chekov rapturously in the transporter room, and under the indulgent eye of Mister Scott, allowed Chekov to fuss over him and take him away to 'rest'.

"So tell me what happened," he instructed, as Chekov plumped up the cushions around him on the lieutenant's bunk, and fetched him a glass of iron-enriched fruit juice, per McCoy's instructions.

Chekov swallowed, took a deep breath, and paused. Sulu rolled his eyes.

"After you were rendered unconscious, we were rescued by a Klingon officer."

"It's amazing, isn't it? The Federation and the Empire are supposedly at each other's throats, but when someone gets in trouble with the native scum, we all help each other out," Sulu said happily.

"Unfortunately," Chekov said, snatching back the limelight, "the officer concerned wasn't entirely motivated by inter-species solidarity. He wanted to sleep with me."

Sulu nodded at this entirely comprehensibly weakness in his saviour, and then looked up suspiciously. "But you didn't, right?"

"He would have let you bleed to death if I hadn't agreed. Or at least, he *said* he was prepared to let you bleed to death."

"So you agreed, and once you were alone with him, you knocked him out and escaped?" Sulu suggested.

"No, I, uh... I felt that having agreed, in order to save you - only in order to save you - I was bound by my word of honor."

Sulu's face went ominously blank. "Oh, Chekov..."

"If I hadn't..." Chekov improvised wildly. "If I hadn't, the next time he found a dying Starfleet officer in the street of a frontier town, he might have just left them there. That would be terrible."

Sulu looked as if he considered the scenario wildly unlikely. He sniffed. "I suppose your word is very important to you."

"It is," Chekov confirmed fervently. "I would have thought it was quite important to you, too."

"Oh, of course. So, you sacrificed your... your virtue to save me," Sulu began. He thought about it for a moment. "Oh, Chekov. Come here."

With a sigh of relief, the lieutenant let himself be pulled into a tender embrace.

"Was it too, too horrible? Did he hurt you?"

"He was... uh... being a Klingon, he was somewhat larger than you are, and somewhat more... textured."

Sulu's eyes began to narrow, and his brow to crease into a deep frown.

Chekov swallowed. "So it was uncomfortable, but he was surprisingly considerate."

"Considerate, eh?" Sulu mused. "Weren't you frightened? This was a Klingon, same species as the one on the battlecruiser..."

"You're not supposed to know about that," Chekov said firmly. "It's classified at Level five."

"You talk in your sleep," Sulu informed him with a smile. "'Get your hands off me, you fucking Klingon,' gave me a pretty good idea of what happened."

Chekov colored prettily, "It was the same Klingon all together," he said quietly.

"Oh, Chekov," Sulu drew him into a comforting embrace, glad to be alive to be able to do so. "And were you frightened?"

"Yes," the navigator admitted, "but less so when Spock arrived."

"Spock was there?" Sulu said in a hollow voice.

"Yes."

Pause. "Did he watch?"

"I don't know, he was hidden."

"Then how did you know..."

Swearing the helmsman to secrecy, Chekov told him the whole, unvarnished truth.

"Well," Sulu cleared his throat, "that's quite an adventure, Pavel."

Chekov nodded. "Are you angry?"

"Oh, heavens, no," Sulu assured him. "It's... it's kind of exciting..."

At the next big port, Sulu bought a Klingon uniform and wore is as a surprise for Chekov. He was himself surprised to see the navigator wrap himself in a length of dark magenta silk and a silvery veil.

Chekov never got around to telling him the yardage had been a gift from Spock, who didn't need a Klingon uniform to surprise the navigator.

* * *

The End