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"The Locum"
By Alelou

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to CBS/Paramount, not me.

Author's Note: Thanks to JustTripn for beta. Thanks to the reviewers for the reviews! This one is short and let me tell you I'll be glad when it's over with. Hopefully, anyone who's left can just read the following chapters wondering what will happen next rather than who is gonna rape whom. (I'm not saying it won't ever go NC17 again, though, because it might.)

Part 10

Vehlen groaned, twisting in his captivity.

Kendra went to get some water. “Drink,” she said, holding the glass up to his mouth.

He knocked it away with his head, spilling it on himself and the bed and turned, straining, toward her. “Release me!”

“No,” she said. She should have realized it was the ponvau. Had he realized? He’d spoken of a a possible complicating condition. Couldn’t he have been a little more explicit? Her mind had been on the recurring illness he’d mentioned and its similarities to her own field of expertise. She’d even entertained a vague hope that she might get her hands on a sample of the microbe.

Which just proved she was an idiot.

“Please, Kendra,” he begged pitifully. “Please. Please. I’m begging you!”

She walked over to the desk and sat down, where the weapon sat unattended. She wondered if she should attempt to check on Tucker and T’Pol, make sure the Vulcan wasn’t killing him. Gingerly, she started touching the screen, checking each area as Vehlen had done during their evenings together.

Her eyes widened. They hadn’t even made it out of the hallway. But nobody was dead. Definitely not dead. Indeed, Trip appeared to be playing the role of bond mate with notable enthusiasm. She felt her face flush hot and quickly closed the window.

She turned back to Vehlen and discovered he had gone limp. He was panting and his arms hung loosely in their restraints. She went over and put a hand on his forehead – it was painfully hot. He didn’t open his eyes, just moaned and turned his head into her hand.

She sighed. It was impossible not to notice that a prodigious erection now tented his robe. Kendra eyed it unhappily. “You know, guys on my planet sometimes say they’re gonna die if they don’t get laid, but you Vulcans and Romulans are the only people I know who actually will. One minute you’re perfectly reasonable, intelligent beings and then suddenly you turn into salmon or something.”

His eyes fluttered open and he fixed a beseeching stare on her, panting.

“Was this what you meant when you kept asking me about my Hippocratic Oath?” she said. “Because I don’t think Hippocrates could have foreseen this particular situation.”

His eyes shut. She checked with the scanner. His respiration seemed to be getting shallower, his heartbeat more erratic. If this condition killed healthy men, it would surely kill him.

Scowling, she parted his robe to examine the issue at hand. She blew out a long breath. It was impressively large and dark bronze and if there was any foreskin, it had not kept up with the erection. What pubic hair there was formed an odd, angular pattern, almost like a star. The scrotal sac was … well, it looked painfully deformed it was so swollen. But maybe that was normal for an aroused Romulan in ponvau. She had no way of knowing.

Would a hand job do the trick? Surely no one would ever die if that was all it took. Which meant it had to be some other mechanism that resolved the event. Something to do with temperature? Enzymes? DNA? Of course, all this meant that even if she wanted to pull the ultimate Florence Nightingale and fuck his brains out, it might not work, because she wasn’t Romulan.

Oh, God. What if T’Pol’s pon farr couldn’t be satisfied by Tucker? Would T’Pol need Vehlen after all?

Talk about a no-win scenario.

Vehlen’s pathetic moans were making her crazy.

Damn it!

“Look, don’t expect me to do this ever again,” she said, and gingerly put her hand on it. He groaned and thrust up against her. Despite herself, she felt a little frisson of arousal mix in with the disgust. It had been a long time since she’d had any sexual contact with a man.

How pitiful was it that she was even thinking of this as sexual contact?

He was clearly desperate, so she licked her hand to provide some lubrication for him and went at it. His appreciative moans made her want to squirm with embarrassment – and perhaps something more – which made her feel even ickier.

About two minutes later, he came all over his chest, groaning.

“Okay then,” she said, relieved that it was over.

But his erection didn’t lessen in the slightest. Neither did his panting. “Please,” he panted. “Please.”

Damn it.

“I’m sorry, Vehlen,” she said. “I didn’t sign up for this. I just really didn’t.”

“I’m begging you. I’ll give you … anything!”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said. “Not that you have anything to give me anyway.”

“Secrets,” he said. “I’ll give you secrets.” He panted. “Military secrets.”

“You already said you weren’t a military man.”

“But I know secrets.”

She didn’t believe him for a minute. “If we try that again, will that help you?”

“No,” he said, sounding choked. “I have to …” He blinked back tears. “I need to… please! I’m begging you, Kendra! Let me go!”

“You murdered the last human you had sex with,” she said. Poor sad, stupid, dead Lieutenant Remley in her blindfold. Maybe Kendra could look at this as poetic justice. Harden her heart against all the desperate pleading.

“I didn’t want to!”

“But you did it anyway.”

She got up and went into the adjoining bathroom. He screamed “Please!” and thrashed noisily, desperately, until the bed was literally banging against the bulkhead. She washed her hands, wishing she could stop up her ears, wishing she didn’t have to hear his frantic cries and struggles. If she had a sedative, she’d put him out of his misery – and hers. It wasn’t, perhaps, entirely ethical, but he was going to die anyway, unless T’Pol felt like taking pity on him, and T’Pol was otherwise occupied.

She suddenly realized that he’d gone silent.

Maybe he’d passed out. That would be a mercy.

She walked out and stared at the empty bed, the bed frame literally twisted out of its socket. Where…?

But then he was on her, holding the chain of the cuffs pulled tight against her throat until she couldn’t breathe. She gasped, choking, her hands desperately pulling on his taut arms.

Oh God, she was going to die.

And Trip and T’Pol were in no state to defend themselves. They would die too.

“Take off your leggings,” he said, loosening the cuffs against her throat just enough for her to draw a desperate breath, and then another. “Off!” he yelled, and in terror she obeyed him. Perhaps, if he wasn’t going to kill her immediately, she had a shot at surviving this.

Now he stuck his thumbs on either side of her neck and guided her forward until they reached the bed. “Bend over.”

Numbly, she obeyed. She had been such a fool to leave him unsupervised. To believe that he was too ill to pose any danger. He didn’t seem that ill now. He was hot and trembling, but there was no sign of weakness. She could feel his penis battering against her, desperately seeking entrance.

“Help me,” he gasped, and she whimpered. He tightened the cuffs against her throat and she whimpered again, then helped him find her entrance. And then he was in her, filling her, thrusting hard and fast. It wasn’t painful – she had indeed gotten aroused earlier – but she was certain he would kill her just as soon as he was satisfied … assuming he ever was satisfied.

Maybe if Trip and T’Pol finished before him … maybe they would...

He came with a strangled cry and a series of jerks and she waited, trembling, for his hands to close on her throat. But instead he lowered them, still trapped in their cuffs, to the bed so he could support himself as he began thrusting again.

His wrists were ringed by cuts and green with clotting blood. He must have struggled incredibly hard to pull the bed rail loose. What if she bit down on one of those battered wrists hard enough? Would that stop him? Or would it just enrage him?

She just couldn’t bring herself to attempt it. Life was better than death. That was what it came down to. Humiliating as it was to be captured and used in this way, it wasn’t as bad as being dead. It wasn’t even particularly painful. Ironically, she and Ruben had fairly often enjoyed a good hard fuck in something very close to this position.

Close behind that thought, she was appalled to realize that she had begun to tremble not just with terror but with something more.

Oh, God.

He was raping her. She was being raped. She couldn’t…

But the pressure was unmistakably building, the desire for more, the urge even to rock back on him, and then she was coming, spasming violently and abruptly. He thrust even harder and faster and then came yet again, groaning loudly.

He all but collapsed on top of her, and they both lay there boneless for a moment, Kendra sobbing helplessly in outrage and in shame at her own body’s reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and backed away from her, lifting his arms to let her go.

Unexpectedly free, she scooted frantically for the weapon. Picking it up, she looked down at it, not sure what any of the controls meant, not sure if it had a safety she needed to remove first or anything else. She lifted it and pointed it at him. He didn’t even look up, just crawled into the bed as if it was all he could manage.


She nearly dropped the weapon. Tucker stood wearily in the doorway. His eyes widened as he took in her tears and the mangled bed frame, her bare legs under the robe she had taken earlier.

Vehlen appeared to have passed out.

Grimacing, Tucker held out his hand for the weapon, which she reluctantly handed over to him. He put a commiserating hand on her shoulder, then tipped her chin up so she would look at him. This just made her cry harder, so he sighed and held her against his chest while she sobbed.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and patted her back awkwardly.

Eventually she said, “Is T’Pol all right?”

He nodded. “Out cold,” he said grimly. “Like him.”

She couldn’t look at Vehlen. She wouldn’t look at him ever again, if she didn’t have to.

“Are you all right?” she asked, finally backing away from him. “Any injuries?”

He shook his head no and smiled tiredly, though his eyes looked sad. “You?” he said, and she said, “I’m okay.” He gestured at the bathroom, the question obvious.

She nodded shakily and picked up her discarded leggings next to the bed before she went in. There were distinct red marks on her neck – chain marks and thumb prints – though the skin hadn’t been broken. She was sore below too, but that was only to be expected. She turned on the water and stood under the hot shower until it finally clicked itself off to conserve water.

She wondered if she would ever feel clean again.

Continue to Part 11
Back to Part 9

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