OK, I don't think this actually contains any lies, but I couldn't 
resist.
The characters all belong to Paramount, which belongs to 
the Viacom Dominion.
Do not attempt this with your Congressperson.
This does not happen in the same timeline as "Accident" or any 
other story of mine.  It doesn't have anything in particular to do 
with "Blood Fever," either--I started it well before that aired, 
and I still think B'Elanna can manage just fine on her own hormones.  
I'm afraid they're having trouble with the plausibility generator 
again--very hard to get spare parts for it in the Delta Quadrant.

Sex, Lies, and Duct Tape

by Mockingbird

	"Paris, seal it off, I'm not interested," barked Torres,  
turning away from the somewhat inebriated young pilot.  That brought  
her face to face with his equally tiresome creation, Sandrine.  She 
decided she'd had enough of the entire scenario.  "Computer, 
exit," she commanded, briskly crossing the stained wooden floor to 
the door of the holodeck.  Behind her, she heard Sandrine's voice.
	"Il y a toujours Ricky."
	"Tu ne comprends pas," sighed Paris.
	It was a relief to have the real ship around her again 
instead of Paris's fantasy world.  Usually she liked Sandrine's 
because it reminded her of Tenaha's back in the days before the 
side of the building had been burned off in a Cardassian attack 
and replaced with that plastic bubble thing.  Maybe she'd have to 
do her own holoprogram of Tenaha's someday--though the aroma 
didn't have to be completely realistic.  If Tom was going to be 
acting like this, she didn't want to be around him or anywhere that 
reminded her of him.  He'd had a rough life, sure, but so had she, 
and she didn't compensate by acting like all the holosex 
programmers in the galaxy were after her specs.
	She didn't feel like sleeping, so she headed down to 
Engineering.  She wanted to check on how the phase coils were 
doing, specifically the number 3 starboard, which had been giving 
a little trouble lately.  It never hurt to keep the night shift on  
their toes, either.

	In the turbolift, she tried to put herself back into an 
engineering frame of mind, bracing herself for the disconcerting 
jolt back to reality as the synthehol left her system.  It didn't 
happen.  She walked into Engineering still decidedly high.  
Running a quick self-diagnostic, she decided she could still check 
the logs but shouldn't mess with anything too sensitive.  Except, of 
course, for gamma-welding Tom's butt to....
	The door hissed open.
	He looked like she felt, in sloppy civvies, his hair falling  
into his forehead.  If the night shift saw him like this they'd never  
be able to concentrate on the phase coils.  She grabbed his arm and 
steered him into an alcove where they were out of view of the crew 
at their current stations, at least as long as nobody turned around.
	"Get out of here.  You're drunk."
	"So are you, aren't you?"
	"If I am, it's your fault.  You're serving real alcohol in  
that fake bar of yours."
	"Only to preferred customers."  She hated that sickening 
leer of his.
	"Chakotay will flay you alive.   And I'll make him let me 
watch."
	He looked so worried she could hardly stop herself from 
smiling.  Clearly, he'd forgotten to factor in Chakotay's probable 
reaction.  He hadn't been on the ship at the time of the Spring 
Wine Incident, but she was sure he'd heard about it, and he had 
been there that time she'd really thought Chakotay was going to 
break a bottle of Romulan ale over Geron's head.
	"B'Elanna, I'm sorry.  I just wanted to help you relax.  
You've been working so hard lately."
	"Just get out of here and leave me alone."
	"B'Elanna, listen to me," Paris begged.
	"I am not interested in listening to you, as I have spent the 
entire evening trying to make clear," she responded through 
clenched teeth.  She grabbed a roll of duct tape from a nearby 
console, tore off a piece slightly shorter than her hand, and 
slapped it across Paris's mouth as he flinched.
	Seeing his startled blue eyes above the grey tape, and 
hearing the blessed silence, she wondered why she hadn't 
thought to try an engineering solution before.
	It took him a few moments to recover and reach up with his 
hand to peel the tape off.  There was an engineering solution for 
that, too.  Torres seized his wrist, pinned it to his side, stuck the 
end of the tape to his pants, and did a couple of quick wraps 
around his body, catching the other wrist as well.   The tape got 
kind of twisted and stuck to itself in the back, but it held well 
enough, especially since Paris quickly gave up struggling when 
he discovered how painfully the tape pulled the hair on his 
forearms.   He just stood there staring at her, wondering what she 
would do next.
	Torres was wondering the same thing.  If any of the 
engineering staff saw them like this, it would be *days* before they 
would be concentrating on their work again.  She'd gotten Paris to 
shut up, but she was farther than ever from her goal of getting him 
out of Engineering.
	Or was she?  She couldn't possibly get him out the door 
this way, but there was a maintenance crawlway with an access 
hatch under the console.  It wasn't very big, but he'd fit.  She 
opened the hatch with one hand and pushed him down and 
through.  Wondering what she would have done if he'd been less 
cooperative, she secured the hatch, walked out of the alcove, 
nodded to her crew, and left Engineering.
	Nicoletti, rushing to catch her and ask her a quick question 
about the EPS conduit on Deck 7, was surprised to find the 
corridor empty.
	Meanwhile in the number 23 Jefferies tube, Torres was 
arranging Paris over her shoulder and wishing she'd thought to 
throw in some antigravs.  She was aware that what her Academy 
roommate had called her "common-sense bypass" was in 
operation and she was in the process of doing something she was 
likely to feel very stupid about in the morning.  She told herself  
she was in too deep to quit now.
	
	Even though she was able to use a turbolift for a good part 
of the trip, after keying in a call override, it took her almost 45 
minutes to get Tom to her quarters.  Sweat dripped from the ridges 
on her forehead and trickled down between her breasts.  The door 
slipped closed behind them.  She engaged the privacy lock.
	Torres got herself a glass of water and contemplated Paris.  
Now that she had him here, she realized she wasn't quite sure 
what to do with him.   Her first goal had been to shut him up.  
Accomplished.  Her second goal had been to get him out of 
Engineering without being seen.  Accomplished.  She could really 
let him go now, but he wouldn't be sober yet and she didn't really 
want to hear what he'd have to say.  Perhaps it would be best to 
keep him for a little while.  She found she was rather enjoying 
having him in her power.  With his mouth shut and his hair mussed 
up, he was really quite attractive.  He was covered with a light 
sheen of sweat (she'd made a mental note to check the shielding 
of the main starboard EPS conduit; the Jefferies tube adjacent to it 
had seemed warmer than it should have been).  Fortunately, his 
scent was pleasant to her, and the worst of the cologne had 
evaporated, leaving just a hint of wood and leather.  
	The shirt was tacky, though.  Taking the sides of the deeply 
cut V neckline in her hands, she ripped it apart and pushed it from 
his shoulders.  It made a most satisfying sound.  She left it hanging 
in silky, dark-blue tatters.  His chest was actually reasonably well-
muscled--she didn't know why she always thought of him as 
scrawny.  She ran her fingers through the golden hair.  He looked 
puzzled, as far as she could tell--it was a little hard to read his 
expressions with his mouth covered with tape.  She decided to test 
his reactions a little.  When she pulled his head towards her and 
stuck her tongue in his ear, his eyes grew wide.  When she bit the 
side of his neck, he attempted to pull away.  When she ran her 
fingers lightly down his sides, he made a peculiar humming sound 
and struggled to free his arms.  She stroked their hard muscles 
appreciatively and bit his shoulder.
	Her hands slid down his arms, over the duct tape and the 
remnants of the shirt.  He was wearing loose-fitting black trousers.  
The fabric was somewhat twisted and pulled from the tape and 
from a bulge which strained against it.  It was a soft material, 
inviting to the touch.  She wound her fingers into it.  Dropping to 
her knees, she opened a rip with her teeth a couple centimeters 
under the tape.   Paris gave an inarticulate grunt which could have 
meant anything.  He tried to push her away with his leg.  She 
threw her arm around his legs and held him tight, immobilizing 
him, feeling the muscles of his thighs against her breasts.  With her 
free hand, she tore the fabric, revealing white boxer shorts with big 
red hearts all over them.
	"You would," she said, looking up at his face briefly.  Then 
she resumed shredding his clothing.  She'd seen his legs before 
on the holodeck, but never touched them, although he'd tried to 
get her to smear some sweet-smelling vegetable lubricant on them 
once when Neelix's resort program was running.  It  had 
something to do with a bizarre twentieth-century Earth practice 
called browning--she'd heard later that he'd actually tried to 
override the holodeck safeties to permit him to program in harmful 
levels of UV radiation.  He'd been caught, so the legs emerging 
from the dark fabric were fair.  She explored them with her fingers, 
enjoying the long smooth sweep of the quadriceps, the hardness 
of the hamstring tensing under her touch, the knot of the calf, the 
sharpness of the shinbone.  He was ticklish behind the knees.  
She moved to exploit this weakness, licking ths smooth curve 
between the tendons and then blowing on it.  He struggled, 
hampered by her body and the remains of the trousers around his 
ankles.  Unable to use his arms for balance, he started to topple.  
She caught him and lowered him to the carpet.  
	Torres stood up and looked down at her captive, rubbing 
the small of her back.  She was getting a bit warm from all this 
exercise.  Slowly unzipping her jumpsuit, she let it fall in a heap on 
the floor, then bent to extract her feet from the black pool of fabric.  
She didn't feel like taking her boots off just yet.  She pulled off the 
turtleneck.  Paris's big blue eyes became bigger, and he seemed 
to be having trouble getting enough air.  Torres straightened her 
plain black undershirt and smiled.   The common-sense bypass 
was operating so perfectly she'd completely ceased to be aware of 
it.  
	Paris was making whimpering noises which she 
interpreted as an indication that he wanted her to take the duct 
tape off his mouth.  She shook her head slowly.
	"I don't think so, Paris.  I like you like this."
	She ran the toe of her boot along his thigh.  He spread his 
fingers to grasp it.  They formed white stripes against the smooth 
black leather.  She pulled her foot away from him and traced the 
line of the tape, then dipped down to play gently with his balls.  His 
thighs clenched together.  His cock was pressing hard against the 
tape.  She wanted to see it, not to mention feel it, but she thought 
she really ought to torment him a little more.  
	She knelt beside him and traced a line with her finger from 
his collarbone down over his breastbone, down onto his belly, 
which hardened at her touch.  As she moved lower, he let out what 
might have been a gasp without the duct tape but which emerged 
as more of a hum.  With her other hand, she pinched his nipples, 
watching his expression change as she applied more pressure.  
Then she tickled his ribs with both hands.  He squirmed wildly, 
kicking at her.  That wouldn't do.  She seized an ankle in one hand 
and the duct tape in the other.  Soon she had his legs securely 
taped to the legs of her lounge chair--she tested by slipping off his 
shoes and tickling his feet.  Then she ran her fingernails up the 
inside of his thigh.  He struggled most entertainingly.  She bent 
down to bite his straining muscles.  He made high-pitched 
humming sounds as she pressed her sharp white teeth into his 
firm flesh.  She turned her head and let her hair trail over his thigh.  
The legs of the lounge chair drummed against the floor.
	"You like that, don't you?"  She laughed and swept her 
coarse black hair up his other leg, watching his own hairs spring 
erect in response.  She moved up to lick and bite his shoulders 
and chest, catching his nipples gently in her teeth and flicking 
them with her tongue.  She began to growl deep in her throat.  The 
bites became harder.  She lowered her body to rub her breasts 
against him, first with the undershirt, then without.  Her anger at 
Paris was all but forgotten, her mind dominated by the desire for 
physical pleasure.  There was no more time for the finer touches.  
She had to have him now.
	Torres stood and kicked off the short Starfleet boots and 
stripped off her underpants.  Rummaging in the drawer by the bed, 
she extracted a long Terran knife in a leather sheath.  She 
returned to her prisoner, bared the shining steel blade, and 
proceeded to cut away the tape and what remained of his clothing.  
He turned his head away and closed his eyes.  Soon his cock lay 
revealed, long and hard and patterned with fine veins and a round 
brown mole on the underside.
	Paris pulled his arms free from the remaining tape, 
wincing.  Torres tossed the knife out of reach on the bed and knelt 
astride him.  She grabbed his cock and slid herself down onto it, 
throwing back her head and letting out a sort of growling moan.  
Seizing his wrists and pinning them to the ground next to his 
shoulders, she pumped and ground herself against him until she 
howled loud enough to be audible two decks below and bent 
down to bite his shoulders.  The clenching of her muscles around 
him pushed him over the edge, but all he could do was hum.
	Torres carefully stretched her legs out alongside his and 
lay down on his chest, closing her eyes.  She might have fallen 
asleep if it weren't for the humming in her ear.  After a while, her 
head began to clear.
	The common-sense bypass went down with a crash.  
She'd physically overpowered and kidnaped a fellow officer, 
destroyed his clothing, and had sex with him without his consent.  
That was a bit worse than slipping someone real alcohol.  She 
was the one Chakotay was going to flay alive.  The best she could 
do at this point was to let Paris go and hope that they could come 
to some kind of an understanding.
	Torres rolled off her victim, feeling his soft cock slurp out of 
her and their mingled bodily fluids start to run down her leg.  She 
freed his ankles, hearing his muffled whimpering noises as she 
pulled off the tape.  He sat up and stretched, then reached up to 
pull the tape off his mouth, wincing.
	She braced herself, preparing her defense.  She hadn't 
really hurt him, after all--not badly, anyway.  She'd only given him 
what he'd shown every indication of wanting, though perhaps not 
the way he wanted it.  She'd give him replicator rations enough to 
replace the clothing.
	Paris looked down for a moment, then up at her face.
	"Um, B'Elanna," he said finally, "do you still have those 
boots you wore in the Maquis?"