Disclaimers, ratings and warnings are in Part 1.
THE BADLANDERS
PART SEVEN
He was blind. Of that he was sure. Torres was into Janeway's face and hair, kissing and fondling and caressing while Janeway's body rocked, lifting off the surface as his belt cracked against her unresisting skin.
It had been her eyes that killed any resolve to be at least a little more lenient with her than he had been with the others. Her defiance was infuriating, radiating so subtly from her body and face that Torres would never have noticed even as she climaxed into Torres's probing fingers. Her head had been thrown back allowing Torres to plant kisses in the hollow of her neck. Janeway's her eyes closed at the caress but when she opened them, glaring at him, the defiance, the indisputable aristocratic bearing that sent out a thousand messages that he was nothing and she was something got to him. That was when he lost it He wasn't going to use his belt, he swore to the spirits on that.
Gods, her skin… It was translucent, a delicate alabaster he was certain he had never before touched here on the Liberty. He hadn't touched Janeway yet to refute or corroborate his appraisal of her smooth skin, but his eyes picked up every pore, every vein, fine hairs the same colour of her skin, like a light dusting of a soft powder, making them almost invisible, but visible to him. The hairs danced on her skin as she moved. This was something different, something exciting, something challenging, something wildly shocking.
Janeway protested, feigned, bit, gasped audibly, cried her outrage, tried to fight back, but her eyes were pools of defiance - from somewhere inside her, inside her head, inside her heart, her mind, everywhere in her damned body, her spirit remained untouched.
Her soul resisted his onslaught. No matter what he was going to do with her, the worst of the worst, he was never going to get into her head.
And that was why he couldn't stop beating her, her tender skin breaking, tearing, weals criss-crossing her back - angry weals that grew red and tender and told him enough was enough. The swish of the belt as it went through the air, the crack as it made contact, the woman as she lay taking his punishment - infuriated him to hitting harder.
"Move, Torres!"
The Klingon stood up reluctantly and glared mutinously at him. The next moment his belt made contact with her face.
"Get out."
"Okay, okay, Boss…"
When Torres left, he pulled Janeway by her hair on to her back. She gave a cry as her skin burned through the grazing against the bed cover. Wild eyes, tearful eyes, defiant eyes. He gave another cry as he raised his arm high above his head.
When he started hitting her again, all she did was turn her face away from him.
When he stopped, she didn't look at him.
Chakotay bent over her, turning her face so she could look at him. Her nose was bleeding, and blood seeped from her mouth. Transfixed, he kept staring at her wounds, his eyes trailing over her body, her tits, her navel, the gentle swelling over her hips, the area between her legs.
Her wounds were extensive, far more than he had inflicted on any woman in his life and this woman had taken everything he gave her, taken it and threw it back at him.
Chakotay closed his eyes, and inexplicably he felt a prick behind his eyelids. Why did he feel like the
universe was upending itself on him? Did thousands of cloud billows move towards him with the sole objective of swallowing him whole?
He opened his eyes and looked at Janeway's pussy, then bent down like Torres did to inhale her, wake him up again and it worked. When he was fully aroused, his cock so hard and distended, the tip angry and purplish and throbbing, all he wanted to do was bury himself in the semi-conscious woman's depths. He resisted the urge with great effort to just fuck her and get on with it, reaching his climax when he decided it.
His fingers started probing, her body so limp and unprotesting, so completely without any mind-inducing injunction to withstand his probing, that he found her soft, pliant, her folds moist, her depths wet, her nub pink and swollen.
He wanted to wake her, but he had chased Torres out, something he had never done before. His cock itched again, the itching starting from his navel working its way down to his distended and pulsing knob, settling just at the seam between his cock and his balls.
Groaning, he spread her legs, pushed the cushion under her hips and in a smooth movement entered her. He groaned again as her pussy walls took him in, hot and moist and inviting, to his mind. His head exploded when he filled her, a warmth suffusing his entire body. What the fuck was happening to him? He wanted to pull out, but at that moment Janeway moaned into wakefulness. Giving a final groan he cupped her face, unable to avoid her eyes on him, eyes that challenged him, eyes that, how ever much he tried to blot it out, seemed to invite him. Her pussy swamped him, swelled and adjusted to his pulsing thickness and all he could do was give in to her.
When he started moving, it was with the wild, unbridled, yet controlled, pounding of a resisting virgin lying beneath him, but he couldn't conjure the faces of B'Elanna, or Megan or Jenny or any other woman he had wantonly violated on the Liberty and whom he simply fucked in a no holds barred contract entered by him and signed by him only.
Janeway's body shuddered with each hard push, each shove of his cock deep into her and with each thrust he felt he was violating the conditions of his contract.
All he felt was the unaccustomed fire in his cock that raged from tip to base, a fire so wild and out of control that he couldn't stem the tide of his pounding. And then, Janeway's face intruded into brain. O, lucky brain that had helped Chakotay ten times out of ten to be in exclusive control. Janeway didn't resist, but he felt her fire fanning his own; he felt how his movements changed from pounding indiscriminately into her to a motion so alien to him that he paused for a single moment only, to look at her face. Her eyes were closed this time, yet her body, connected to his, held him fast, assimilated him into hers and he wondered idly how awake and aware she was.
And so he began to caress her, tenderly moving without the hard, frenetic fucking of earlier, but enjoying every thrust with unbelievable pleasure. He felt the pressure build in him, rising again from his very depths, sinking deeply into her and collecting more warmth, more invitation. But he couldn't remain untouched, couldn't prolong his thrusting for the long periods he had been used to. His mind told him he could continue fucking this woman into the early hours of the morning without once breaking contact with her body and glorious cunt.
His body turned tail on him. It yielded to her, spell-binding wonder that it could happen to him.
Even in her semi-conscious state it seemed as if she were the one wielding power, with no added assistance of arching back and bucking hips, fingers that scored long furrows down his back. Almost doing nothing at all, with only her body, her pussy that seemed to swallow him up, Kathryn Janeway made him lose control. He was coming, and he had no control over it. The final thrusts, hard, yet not punishing, hurried him towards the edge. He cried out desperately as his body became rigid, then burning all the way as he spilled his seed painfully into her.
He cried out gutturally, gasping, his damp body collapsing over her in total abandon.
"Kathryn...Kathryn..." her name slipped from his mind, a name that, somewhere from the depths on his consciousness, rose from him and filled the room.
He lay shuddering and when the twitching finally stopped and he could breathe evenly, he lifted his head.
Janeway's eyes were open this time.
He couldn't make out whether it was her tears on her cheeks, or ones spilled by him. What baffled him was the extent of her injuries. As if he woke from a deep, drug-induced slumber, it startled him that he had punished her so severely. He gave a cry of distress, frowned heavily as he began gently licking her skin, from her face, her wounded breasts, her thighs. Turning her on her stomach, he cried out again. He moved away, startled, and began to dress himself.
When he was dressed, the d'k tagh ever present by his side, the belt around his waist, Chakotay bent to remove her boots. He collected the ends of the light bed cover and rolled her carefully into the blanket.
He lifted her in his arms, her head falling back. On an impulse he dropped a kiss on her cheek before he carried her out of his cabin and made his way to sickbay.
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END PART SEVEN