Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. "Enterprise"
and the characters within are the property of Paramount and Viacom.

Warning: The following story contains graphic sex scenes. Do not read any
further if this is likely to offend you.

Fandom: Enterprise. Pairing: Reed/f

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Lieutenant Reed has a close encounter with those butterfly-eating
tongue dancers. Takes place during the events of 'Broken Bow, Part One'.

Feedback is required for sustenance, so please email me. Archiving and
downloading is welcome as long as you credit the author. Thanks to Sue and
Steff for their beta work.

Star Trek - Enterprise: Strange New Girls
by Odon ([email protected])

He said the Klingon had been there, so they followed the Ciimet to the bar.
That was one thing that never changed, said Mayweather, spouting the assured
knowledge of someone who'd been everywhere and done everything. Wherever you
had spaceports there were places where travelers could seek ecstasy or
oblivion with the minimal fuss or recrimination, working out the stress of
the long hauls. Reed resisted asking the ensign whether he'd ever felt the
need to render himself insensible in dimly lit dives with mind-altering

Two women were dancing on stage, bodysuits radiant against the drab bar and
dirty customers, their movements sensual without being risqué. Insects, some
kind of butterfly-analogue, fluttered in the iridescent laserlight. As they
watched, a dancer shot out an eight-inch tongue and caught one, snatching it
back into her mouth. Reed could only stare, fascinated.

"Are those...real butterflies or some kind of holograms?"

"Would you like to meet them? I can arrange it," said the Ciimet. His
eyes had no apparent pupils, black holes in his mottled green face. A
'facilitator' he called himself; at least that was how the universal
translator had interpreted it - he spoke in the Decii-Met trading
language but there were 527 different sub-dialects. "So many offworlders
come to Rigel Ten. In theory they all want the same things, but what one
finds...pleasurable another finds repulsive. It is a matter of matching
their needs to what is available. A difficult, sometimes dangerous task.
Especially with a species as ill-tempered as the Klingons." He pressed
both hands to his chest, fingers splayed. "But one at which I excel."

Reed wondered whether 'facilitator' should have been more accurately
translated as 'procurer'.

"Is this where you saw Klaang?" asked Mayweather.

"I'll show you where but first, you should enjoy yourselves."

"We should get going," said Mayweather, with clear 'we should get back to
business' overtones. Like the Ciimet, he'd mistaken Reed's interest in the

But Reed hadn't forgotten why they were here. "Did Klaang spend any time
with them?" he asked, nodding towards the dancers.

"I encountered him upstairs on the chance plains, but yes. He was feeling...
vigorous after his win." He cocked his head slightly, eyes sliding back and
forth between the two humans. "I normally try and match stronger mates to
Klingons. They tend to damage their partners. But he saw them and insisted."

"I want to talk to them."

"Of course." A knowing smile.


"Men like to boast to women," said Reed quietly. "He might have said
something. It's worth a try."

"Just remember, Dr Phlox said to avoid 'intimate' contact."

"Oh very funny, Ensign."

* * *

They'd purchased a large amount of local currency, at what Reed suspected
was a grossly unfavourable rate of exchange. He paid 300 rehls to the Ciimet,
who warned that anything else Reed might want from the women would have to
be negotiated with them.

"Take your time, sir," Mayweather said with a grin, as he left with the
Ciimet to check the gambling levels. The entry iris closed behind Reed,
cutting off the noise from the outside as if by a switch.

Reed studied the room he was in. It was twice the size of his cabin on
Enterprise, with no furniture that he could identify. The floor consisted
of a spongy material that flowed over puzzling geometric shapes, cubes and
cylinders and slanted platforms, continuing up the walls until it twisted
together into an apex above his head. There was no apparent lumination
source, the room radiating a soft orange hue.

Common sense told Reed there would be hidden security sensors. He was
checking the walls when the entry dilated once more to let in the two

Without their bodysuits Reed could not have told them apart. One blue, the
other a vivid shade of purple; the material adhered to them like a second
skin - he could see the movement of their muscles beneath. Both women were
the same height, with humanoid body structure and cranial ridges running
back over the skull. The mouth and jaw appeared no different from any human
female - how on Earth did they fit those tongues inside?

They said nothing, studying him with obsidian eyes. Reed cleared his throat
nervously. Women had always been foreign to him, possessed of hidden
mysteries and unfamiliar secrets. But these two were alien. For the first
time the true meaning of the word struck him.

"Hello. I'm Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. From the planet Earth."

No response.

"Uh...what are your names?"

The one in blue spoke, her voice seeming to echo faintly. Reed knew it was
an effect caused by the translator, but it only enhanced her esoteric
nature. "We are Cynese."

"No, your names. How should I address you?"

"We are Cynese." The other one now.

"Right," he muttered. Perhaps they had no individual identity? Their
movements on the stage had seemed unusually co-ordinated. Some kind of
empathic bond? Reed wished he'd done better in his xeno-psych classes.

He showed them a hardcopy image of the Klingon. "I'm trying to trace the
movements of this person. Have you ever seen him?"

Their eyes flicked down for half a second, returning at once to his face.

"When?" asked Reed, testing them.

"Seven days ago," said the blue Cynese.

"He said his name was...Klaang," said the other. "A conqueror of warriors
and women." There was a barely perceivable flicker of amusement between the
two, as if sharing a silent joke.

So far so good. "You talked to him?"

"We communicated with him."

"Regarding what, exactly?"

"Nothing was said between us."

Great. Was the universal translator working properly, or had they simply
misunderstood? They were speaking Rigellian, which was programmed into the
UT, but with any language it was not just a matter of knowing the words,
but their context as well. Did they understand 'communicate' the same way
he did? Reed wished Hoshi were here, or Sub-Commander T'Pol. Hell, anyone
but him.

'Explore strange new worlds, they said. My first interstellar mission and
I'm trying to talk to a couple of alien prostitutes in a sleazy bar
trillions of miles from Earth. I hope my father never gets to hear about

"Did you meet Klaang here...I mean, in this room?"

"He was brought to us here. As you were."

"Did you see him outside this room?"

"That is not important."

"It is to me," said Reed testily.

"Your species is--"

"--new," finished the other. "We have not encountered--"

"--your kind before."

They were alternating their speech; it was confusing, more so than it should
have been. He fumbled for his communicator, thinking to call Hoshi. "We're
new to this system. My species is--"




Reed spun round, startled, fully expecting to see Sub-Commander T'Pol there.
It was the blue Cynese; he hadn't even noticed her move behind him. She was
close, studying his form with predatory fascination. Faster than Reed could
react her tongue shot out, flickered over the hollow of his throat, tasting
his sweat. He jumped back; felt himself restrained by the other Cynese. Her
grip was gentle, with the impression of great strength held in reserve; the
hidden menace of a building thunderstorm.

A hand caressed the front of his jumpsuit, the skin beneath reacting to her
touch, nipples stiffening, goosebumps rising in concert with the passage of
her fingertips. How long had he been aroused? It seemed obvious now, his
erection straining against the zip-fastener, drawn by primal forces to the
female before him, mocking his serious questions and Starfleet demeanor.

After three months survival training in the jungles of Malaya his team
had been lifted out by VTOL and dumped into Kuala Lumpur still savage and
unshaven, in the midst of lithe young girls in their short skirts and
perfumed scent, ready smiles and flashing brown thighs and the onrush of
sexual need urgent and compelling like the hunger of an addict...

Reed seized her hand, pushed it away from his groin. "I'm not here for that."

"As you wish Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of the Planet Earth, however the need
for diversity requires all species to pass on their genetic code to as wide
a population as possible so for reasons of survival this need is hardwired
into the nature of the seeding sex. The ability to travel to other worlds
does not remove this urge, even though breeding with extraterrestrial species
should be theoretically impossible - never-the-less the unusual similarities
between so-called 'humanoids' suggest a common ancestry unlikely as this may
seem. So the question is moot, wouldn't you agree Malcolm? It should not
prevent you from obeying your natural instincts in this case."

Realising the lecturer was speaking to him, Reed started, knocking his data
pad off the table...

Reed blinked, stammered. "What-what did you say?"

Cynese glanced at each other, amused. "We said nothing."

...clattering onto the floor as they all turned to look at him, Illece
particularly, the exotic daughter of the Kemestk ambassador. He'd been
staring at the nipples stirring the front of her blouse, dozens of tiny
strands alive with movement, especially when she was excited - his face
burning with embarrassment now as she giggled along with her classmates...

Reed shook his head to clear it; the memories of adolescent lust pulling
close like the air of the room. He seemed unable to focus, though other
things were stark in their clarity - the blood pounding through his arteries
and groin, the stifling confines of his uniform, the breasts exposed through
the fading hues of Cynese's bodysuits, blue and purple colour-shifting to
match the skin, shifting back in rainbow patterns visible as bright
afterimages of red, blue and indigo. The part of Reed's mind that still
functioned thought of military chameleon suits, the empathic derma-scales
used by performance artists. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the
forbidden areas now open to his gaze; her vulva a multitude of acute petals,
red and brilliant like chrysanthemum lilies. They stirred at his touch,
wrapping gently around his fingers and pulling them inside. Slick fluid
irrigated his hand, its scent a heady ambrosia, making his thoughts float
apart from the erotic assault on his senses, from the clipped vo ice of his
biowarfare instructor: "Use of psychotropic agents as a tool of war or
population control...hallucinogenics or biologics designed to affect those
parts of the brain that generate fear, anxiety, hatred, violence, or

They didn't understand how to unzip his jumpsuit so Reed showed them,
instruments and power cells spilling out as they experimented on his chest
and thigh pockets, making high-pitched sounds that he realised were giggles
and he joined in, laughing as they all struggled with the baffling
intricacies of his bootlaces. And then Reed was lost in sensation as he
arched into Cynese, crying out in pain and pleasure as their flesh became
hot and cold and wet and warm and dry in turn, adjusting to his alien
temperature, his strange biology. In mere seconds that seemed like hours
they had mapped his body, sensing from his involuntary responses where the
sensitive regions were, attacking them with an eagerness foreign to such a
commercial coupling between strangers.

"The period leading up to the Eugenics Wars was a time of unparalleled moral
absence in human society...the creation not only of superbeings like Khan
Singh but also of genetically-created 'untermenschen', slave classes if you
will...soldiers, 'labour drones', 'pleasure units' with enhanced
neuro-tactile and empathic abilities...Starfleet has heard unconfirmed
reports of entire slave species, custom-made to serve the needs of their

The pointed tip of a tongue danced around his anus, slipping inside.
Instinctively he pulled away, the reaction pushing him further inside the
Cynese beneath. Peristaltic bands tightened around his cock - he couldn't
move despite the overwhelming urge to thrust and her gripping sex drained
his seed, his life forces, as Reed thrashed and tossed in his first or
fifth or tenth orgasm, the release of his fluids a sweet, craven death.

Image an existence of genetically engineered servitude. The conditioned
ecstasy and ingrained hatred of your work, to endlessly fight or labour or
copulate and die at the whims of your Creators. Pleasure as a means of
control, for the seduction of collaborators and placation of frustrated
soldiers. But what happens to the soldier when the war comes to an end?
What is your purpose when the Creators have no further use for you?

His penis was red and sore and limp. Their bodies flashing brilliant once
more, red-blue-indigo as Cynese callously pushed him aside - he was of no
further use to them now. They joined in a frenzy that made his own
experience seem like mere foreplay and Reed was driven to masturbate over
and over despite the pain.

Race memories of things he should not remember, events before his time. The
destruction of New Delhi by nuclear fire and the march of armies on the
African savannah. Tribes and cultures and entire nations obliterated or
mingled together by deportation, ethnic cleansing, organised rape and
enforced prostitution, divided once more by the bioharvesting viruses of
their religious and political leaders. This is the story of hundreds of
worlds - what is a mere soldier or whore against the tides of history, the
ambition of dictators?

Consciousness was slow to return. No, not consciousness; Reed had not fallen
asleep. More like...memory, that there was a world outside this room.

Sensation...of his parched mouth, the aching of ill-used muscles, a craving
for moisture.

Awareness...that time was once again moving in its linear fashion.


"Bloody HELL!" Scrabbling, grabbing at his clothes and boots, personal items
scattered haphazardly across the floor, nothing like his usual compulsive
neatness. There was a moment of panic when he couldn't find his EM-33; Reed's
career flashing before his eyes until he found the pistol lying beneath his

He winced as underwear was pulled over an aching crotch, his jumpsuit over
abraded and sweat-grimed skin. 'Need a shower. And a decontamination room.
And a medical check-up. Strictly confidential of course...' Reed pulled on
his boots and speed-laced them. Took a quick inventory as he refilled his
pockets. 'EM-33, holster, right hand side. Spare power cells, right upper
arm pocket. Communicator, left jacket pocket. Bag of local currency...'

Reed couldn't remember paying the women but a large percentage of the rehls
were missing. He knew better than to ask where it went.

'First aid pack, right hand thigh pocket. Scanner, left upper chest pocket.

"Two hours? Oh SHIT!"

He stumbled for the entry iris, limbs uncoordinated, as if they were still
getting used to this strange business of moving by themselves, no longer in
ecstatic synchronisation with another body.

Turning at the entrance, Reed saw that Cynese were still locked together,
eyes shut tight and bodies rigid, the muscles relaxing in infinitesimal
stages. He wanted to say something, to try and gain some understanding of
what had happened here. To cross the light-years between human and alien,
male and female, soldier and concubine. But Reed knew that mere words
couldn't bridge that.

Ensign Mayweather was sitting with his back against the wall, bored, gazing
at the ceiling. He rose to his feet as Reed stepped out of the iris, mouth
twitching as he took in his superior's disheveled appearance. There was no
sign of the Ciimet.

"Report, Ensign."

"No-one upstairs seems to remember Klaang," said Mayweather, trying to look
into the room Reed had just exited. Reed moved to block his view until he
felt the iris close behind him. "Apparently they get over five thousand
customers a day through there. Did those women tell you anything?"

"No. Any word from the captain or Commander Tucker?"

"Nothing. I tried calling them fifteen minutes ago but I couldn't get
through. Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine!" said Reed. "Try them again."

Making a half-hearted attempt to repress his grin, Mayweather flipped open
his communicator. "Mayweather to Captain Archer."

Crackling static, a burst of interference from a nearby power conduit, no

'Communicator, left jacket pocket.' A chirrup as Reed flipped it open.
"Reed to Enterprise, comms check."

"Captain, this is Mayweather. Come in."

"This is Enterprise. Your signal is distorted but readable."

"Enterprise, have you heard anything from the captain or Commander Tucker
in the past...two hours?"

"Mayweather to Tucker, come in."

"Commander Tucker requested a comms check at 1543 hours Shiptime. My last
contact with the captain's group was 57 minutes ago. Ensign Sato said they
were on level nineteen. Do you want me to hail them, sir?"

"Yes, immediately. Notify me as soon as you contact them." He snapped the
communicator shut. Damn! How could he have been so bloody stupid?

"It's probably just the comms on the blink again, sir," said Mayweather.
"We're transmitting through God knows how many layers of concrete, steel,
whatever. Should we head down to level nineteen?"

"No, they've probably moved on from there. We'll go back to the shuttlepod
and try the bioscanners."

They took the elevator pad up to docking port three, the level indicators
flashing incomprehensible symbols in red-blue-indigo. There was the usual
awkwardness of an enclosed space, of two bodies in unwilling proximity.

"Well, what were they like?" asked Mayweather, breaking the silence.

"None of your damned business."

The doors above them slid apart and they were lifted into the midst of
driving snow, the sweat on Reed's body chilling in an instant.



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