Scents
An erotic Star Trek story by Dave Bryant
(My “Ensign Nancy” Story)
This work is not in the public domain
M’ress was annoyed. Why, she wasn’t sure, and that annoyed her further. She did, however, know what annoyed her: a young Human ensign, quartered just a few doors down from her own room.
At the moment, she was also more than a bit nervous. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to do what she was involved in, and certainly not during her work shift. But she badly wanted to find out what bothered her so about the man who, from her few brief conversations with him, seemed unfailingly polite, usually cheerful, and quite conscientious—and had to be well-adjusted, or he wouldn’t be in Starfleet in the first place.
So she’d finally given in to her curiosity and called up his personnel file, fudging a need-to-know to gain access to the crew records. It was something she’d never have attempted during a mission, but with Enterprise several days from the next stop on its inspection tour of local subspace radio repeater stations, the entire bridge crew appeared to be half-asleep.
The Caitan’s claws drummed on her console as she impatiently skimmed the displayed data: Rank, Ensign; Assignment, USS Enterprise; Specialty, Xenosociology; et cetera. Generally considered pleasant and likable; personality flaws—nothing extraordinary, just the usual foibles of an ordinary mortal. Then why? What did she find so objectionable about his presence that she always remembered the frightening experience of her first estrus cycle, when she’d nearly wrecked her parents’ home, like a crazed Terran cat? And why was there this vague familiarity to her reaction? She sighed unconsciously and hoped that she could finish this task without being found out.
It was a vain hope. From behind her, a slightly irritated voice tinged with concern spoke. “Lieutenant, are you all right?” Oh, woes! It was the Captain himself. She was mortified.
For his part, James Kirk had noticed an increasing uneasiness in the younger officer, and could read alien body language—especially that of familiar aliens—far better than the Caitan had estimated. He saw her ears go back and her tail droop, belying her “Yess, ssir.” A bit more concerned, he stood and strode over to her.
By now, the byplay had caught the attention of most of the bridge crew. M’ress glanced out of the corner of her eye, saw this, and wanted to sink through the deck under her seat. But Kirk stood next to her and said, not unkindly, “Lieutenant M’ress, if you aren’t well, we can spare you for the moment.” It was then that he saw what was displayed on her board. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms, his meaning as clear as if he’d shouted.
“It’ss . . . errr . . . perssonal, Captain,” she whispered, downcast. Her manner was so patently chastened that Kirk looked around, to see officers suddenly industrious with their own largely quiescent boards. Only First Officer Spock still looked on, openly curious. The captain nodded his head slightly at Spock’s library station. Taking the hint, the Vulcan turned back to his own work.
His own voice softer now, Kirk asked what was wrong. M’ress replied reluctantly with a brief explanation, then asked if her were going to put her on report. She looked like a kitten that knew it had done wrong.
Kirk did not have a heart of stone, though he put up a stern front. “You know that accessing confidential files is against regulations; you should have asked Dr. McCoy.” His voice dropped further as he continued. “Next time, do so. Carry on, Lieutenant.” He stepped down to his command chair and sat, swiveling it back to its normal position facing the main screen.
Shaking a bit with relief, M’ress banished the file back to its proper place; it hadn’t been much help anyway. She’d have to try another tack.
The young lieutenant had steeled herself for this encounter; she’d decided that the solution lay in confronting the problem directly. She called to the even younger man strolling down the corridor ahead of her. He stopped and turned, his brow furrowed with vague worry, as she trotted up to him.
“Errr . . . Ensign,” she repeated, then hesitated, working out what she would say. A sudden realization hit her: Her normal reaction to him hadn’t happened. This put her sufficiently off her stride that the hesitation stretched into an awkward pause.
“Uh, yes, Lieutenant?” The Human looked uncomfortable, and now her memory did twitch, just a bit. She jumped on that, commenting—rather loudly—on her usual response to his being around and the fact that this time it hadn’t happened immediately.
The Ensign’s face ran through several expressions, finally settling into one of dawning comprehension mixed with acute embarrassment. “Aah—well. I guess your sense of smell is better than I thought . . . or my self-control isn’t as good . . . or both.”
M’ress’ unpleasant mood faded, to be supplanted by puzzlement. What did he mean? It obviously had to do with his scent, but the only thing her mind could dredge up was a niggling phantom of a thought. Before she could drag it out into her conscious mind, her companion interrupted. “Umm, could we go to my cabin instead of discussing this in a public hallway?” She nodded, a bit miffed at having lost the half-formed notion.
A short walk later, they stood in a compact, well-lit room hung with a large number of framed drawings, color and black-and-white. They were all in the same style, and seemed predominantly to be portraits of various aliens and Human variants. As M’ress half-expected, a cloth-covered drawing table sat in one corner, racks of equipment stacked neatly around it. Her curiosity whetted, she moved over to it.
“May I?” She indicated the drawing surface.
“Yeahh . . . go ahead,” he replied, obviously ill-at-ease.
The Caitan saw why when she flipped the cloth back. The work’s subject was easily recognizable, despite being unfinished. She touched her own muzzle with one hand, while the other hovered a few millimeters over her image on the illustration board.
It depicted her walking forward, toward the viewer, capturing her smooth gait well. The most glaring aspect of it was the complete absence of clothing—only a few pieces of jewelry, including a pair of bells on a band around her tail, were sketched in. It was not exactly an icon, but it was clearly an unusually carefully executed labor of love. Her mind raced now; conclusions leaped at her. She turned.
“You’re very attractive, Lieutenant. In fact . . .” The discomfited artist coughed, uncertainty writ large on his face.
“Pheromones,” she said wonderingly. “I’ve smelled them in Humans before, but they didn’t usually bother me because I wasn’t too close. But you—” M’ress’ eyes widened. “Me?”
The other nodded. “You. I’m sorry I upset you so. I wasn’t sure how, or even if, I should approach you. I know about Caitans’ sense of smell, so I tried to suppress the . . . um . . . urge, but I suppose it didn’t work very well.” He looked genuinely, and thoroughly, contrite. “I’ve . . . wanted you . . . since I first saw you.”
The feline considered this, an intrigued tingle conflicting with the tacit assumptions of polite society. Her companion moved closer, but did not touch her, making plain both his renewed interest and his willingness to let her make her own choice.
What the hell? At least he hadn’t actually fallen in love with her—now that would be awkward. She reached out, raking the backs of her claws softly down the side of his face. He was tense enough to almost jump, but he plainly enjoyed the caress. In turn, he rubbed her neck and shoulders, sliding her uniform down over her arms. She wriggled, letting it slip off.
Her mane was an obvious source of delight to him; he ran his hands through it, stopping occasionally to rub her scalp—a surprisingly pleasant sensation. She purred, content to let the gentle foreplay run its course. He smiled, doffing his uniform as gracefully as he could.
M’ress slid her hands over her lover’s now-bare body, interested by the feel of smooth, virtually furless skin; he stroked her soft, fine pelt, lost in a dream come true. She could see, feel, and smell his desire, but it no longer frightened her—in fact, her body and mind were responding. She mewed softly and cuddled against him, feeling his phallus rolling against her hip.
He embraced her a bit roughly and buried his face in the Caitan’s furry shoulder, gripping it gently with his teeth. Her head went back with a throaty rumble; her hand found him and stroked gently. He growled through his mouthful of fur, then broke away to bend down and dab at her with his tongue.
This was new to her; she encouraged him with hands and sounds. His response was to probe deeper, to lap inside her. M’ress wilted a little under the strong sensations and gasped out a question: Would it work the other way too? He nodded, but showed no sign of ceasing his ministrations.
“S . . . stop-p. I want to . . .” she whispered, nudging him. He rocked back on his knees, and she almost-fell to hers. She shook her head once, then bent to look at his erection, which vibrated slightly in time to his accelerated heartbeat. She steadied it delicately with finger and thumb and licked at it, first hesitantly, then with more assurance. Her eyes found his, questioning. He nodded again and gave her murmured encouragement and instruction. She was not expert, but she was attentive, and soon she could feel the young man’s leg muscles tighten. He grabbed her sidelocks and gritted out a “Stop. . . .” She obeyed with alacrity and a touch of alarm.
“No . . . nothing’s wrong. But I don’t want to climax now—it’s too soon. Besides, I don’t know if you could deal with it the first time you’ve tried this. It’s very sudden, and you could choke and panic.”
She mulled this over and nodded. Then she stretched and swiveled around on all fours, flicking her tail from side to side and lowering her shoulders to the floor, looking back at him. Her hips inched toward him invitingly. He moved forward, using his tongue and lips again. It was not exactly what she’d had in mind, but she wasn’t going to complain. Finally, though, he’d nudged her to fever pitch, and she wanted to couple, badly.
The feline jerked away, gasping for him to mate her. One hand reached back, claws bared, to wave vaguely in his direction. He seemed to get the message, for suddenly she skidded forward, feeling him thrust into her firmly but carefully. Her mood was such that her lubrication allowed him to slide into her up to the hilt. He moved slowly at first, but by now M’ress was nearly gone in a red haze of carnivore-mind. She yowled at him to pound at her. He obliged, rocking her back and forth. Their breathing rasped; her ears twitched uncontrollably—as did her tail, until he put a knee over it to keep it out of his face.
They pumped hard and fast, the discomfort of bouncing over the carpeted floor submerged in the pleasure of the moment. She got up on all fours and swung her torso back to meet his pelvis with each stroke; he shoved himself deep into her. She could feel his tension reach the breaking point.
He gasped “Uh—oh! . . .” and stiffened like a board, ramming into her. She could just feel a stream of warmth inside her. He kept up gamely though, losing only a little of his hardness. For a moment she was afraid he would not be able to stroke her to her climax, but this though was dispelled as she felt the mounting sensation. Her own orgasm was as violent as his—she rebounded almost to her knees with a sobbing shout, in the process losing him.
They fell to the floor, tangled together and panting. He groaned, “Oh gods. . . .”, a sentiment with which she agreed wholeheartedly. His hand smoothed her mane away from her half-covered face. She flicked out a claw and traced his hairline, drawing his sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes.
“Next time . . .” he grinned, and she coughed out a weak chuckle. “Let’s try it human-style. We did it the Caitan way this time.” He winked a bit jauntily, then said with exhaustion clear in his tone, “But right now, I’m for some sleep. You?” When she agreed, he staggered to the bed and toppled onto it; M’ress tumbled onto him. They curled around each other and dropped off, she listening to the metronome of his heart, he to the rumble of her purr. Ω
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