Wa'DIch Ghom

by Christine Morgan

---

Wa'DIch Ghom
Christine Morgan (vecna@eskimo.com)
comments welcome
Author's Note: this story is completely unauthorized by the producers of Star
Trek or indeed anyone remotely associated with the show. The characters
are their property. This story contains sex, so mature readers only please!
The title roughly translates from Klingon as "First Time," with thanks to
the writers of the Klingon Dictionary.

	*You're half Betazoid,* her mother had chided. *It's shameful how
you neglect your powers. Anyone with an ounce of sense could tell that he's
attracted to you. Really, child. Don't look so shocked.*
	She shook her head, as if the memory of her mother's smooth
telepathic rebuke could be shaken loose, but of course it was useless.
	Two ensigns passed her in the curved hallway. They were clean-
cut, good-looking in their tight uniforms, fresh-faced young men just out of
the Academy. They inclined their heads to her as she passed, showing
respect for a superior officer, but she didn't even need her powers to sense
them turning to watch her ass. Smiling to herself, she put a little extra swing
in her hips as she rounded the corner.
	 She paused outside Worf's quarters and punched in the key code
Alexander had given her. The doors slid open.
	Alexander was in sick bay. He had come down with QupDIr'rop, an
ailment similar to chicken pox. It was just as well that his father was away
on leave. QupDIr'rop was commonplace among Klingon children but much
more dangerous to adults who had never experienced the disease. Worf,
raised partly on Earth, had never been exposed to it.
	The boy was doing fine, but some peculiarities in his human blood
made it necessary for him to stay a while for observation. He had asked her
to get some of his schoolbooks so that he could catch up on his studies, and
look in on his hissing beetle while she was at it.
	Deana stepped into the darkened chamber. The doors closed
behind her.
	"Batlh Daqawlu'taH, pong'ra jub --"
	She paused, startled. The deep voice, as rich as Romulan chocolate,
was raised in song. It was partially drowned out by the steady rush of water,
and was coming from the half-open door into the bathroom.
	Deana nearly laughed aloud. Worf was singing! She had never
known he could sing. What a talent he'd kept hidden from them all these
years! He was singing in the shower!
	Worf was singing in the shower.
	Worf ... was in the shower.
	She swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly dry. Her mother's
words came back to her, clanging in her head like an alarm bell.
	*He's attracted to you.*
	Of course she had known. She was neither blind nor stupid. The
interest was mutual. She could not deny that Worf was an intriguing man.
Intense, tempermental, proud, stubborn, yes, he was all of those, but
unfailingly gentle when he spoke to her. He kept the emotions he saw as
"weaker" under tight control. He often felt alone, distant. Only once had he
allowed himself to care for a female, and she had been violently taken from
him. The loss of Alexander's mother had left a sadness and vulnerability in
him that he kept hidden.
	Not only was he emotionally a complex puzzle, but she had to
admit that he was physically appealing. She gazed fixedly at the half-open
door. She could see the edge of the sink, the steam-clouded mirror, and a
crumple of gold and black cloth.
	Without realizing fully how she got there, she found herself
standing by the door. She bit her lip. She told herself to turn around and
leave quietly, before he discovered her.
	Caught in a tractor beam of complusion, she did not listen to her
own good advice but instead reached out and carefully pushed the door open
a few more inches. Now she could see the shower stall. The glass was only
slightly filmed with soap and water.
	She could not attribute all of the moisture on her skin to the steam
that filled the small room. Nor could the steam account for her rapid
breathing and a tingling in her breasts as her nipples tightened.
	He was facing away from her, head thrown back as he sang. His
hair was a sodden stream over his broad shoulders. A series of ridges ran
down his back, tiny waterfalls cascading from each one. The final ridge was
a narrow spur just above his ass, which was as firm and solid as it looked
through his clothes. His legs were muscular and well-defined.
	Worf turned. Deana cringed back against the door. His eyes were
closed, and humming now he stuck his head under the shower and began
washing his hair. She dared another look, her eyes taking in the powerful
chest, rock-hard stomach, and ...
	She suddenly remembered Keiko O'Brian's bachelorette party.
Beverley Crusher had gotten tipsy and delivered a long and hilarious
dissertation on sexual physiology of the major galactic races. It was one
thing to know academically that Klingons were built differently, and another
thing to see with her own wide and amazed eyes.
	He was ridged there, too. They began just below his navel, each
one smaller than the one above it, pointing like an arrowhead to the thick
column that dangled between his legs. Even that was ridged, and he was
enormous.
	She caught her breath. Even unaroused -- 'dormant' was the word
her mind insisted on using, as if it wasn't a part of him at all but a beast in its
own right that might waken at any moment -- he was far larger than any
other man she'd been with.
	Deana fled the bathroom. She stopped near a table cluttered with
Worf's various trophies and took several deep breaths. Her palms were slick.
Her legs were trembling. With her blood roaring in her ears, her mind did
not even register the sound of the water being turned off. She kept
wondering what it would be like to be pinned under him.
	Most women, she knew from her psychology training harbored
secret fantasies of being helplessly ravaged, even in the 24th century. She
was surprised to suddenly find herself numbered among them. Civilization,
equality, all that meant nothing. He was male, she was female. She could not
help but respond with every fiber of her being.
	"Counselor!"
	She gasped and spun. Her hip slammed into the table. Trophies
wobbled. One fell off the edge and she grabbed for it. A curved blade cut
into her palm just below her thumb. She cried out and dropped it, staring at
the thin line of blood.
	Worf was wearing only a towel wrapped snug low on his hips.
Beads of water gleamed on his chest. When he saw the blood, his expression
of surprise changed to one of concern and he came toward her. "Are you
hurt?"
	"Worf -- no, I -- that is," she stammered.
	He seized her wrist and raised it, applying pressure. The bleeding
had already stopped. She looked up, met his eyes, blushed. His nostrils
flared slightly, and she remembered hearing that a Klingon warrior could
smell fear on his enemy. She wondered if he could smell her arousal.
	A trickle of water ran from his hair down over his chest. She
followed it with her eyes, down, down, over the flatness of his stomach, over
the first of his groin ridges, to be absorbed by the towel. Lower still, below
the white thick cloth, something stirred, something large.
	She forced herself to look at his face again. Now, unbidden, her
empathic powers burst forth. She sensed his passion, feeling the texture of
his emotions much as she wished to feel the texture of his skin. He growled
low in his throat. She reacted to it on some primitive level, her pulse
quickening until it was a thunder in her veins. She was moist, aching,
needing to be filled.
	Worf lifted her captive hand to his mouth and slowly licked the
blood from her skin, his eyes never leaving hers. His tongue was warm and
slightly rough, like a cat's. She shivered.
	"Deana," he said. His voice was a low rumble, sending more
tremors through her.
	She rose on tiptoe and lightly brushed his lips with her own. He
responded with another growl and she sensed that he wished to crush her
against him, but held back out of fear of hurting or frightening her. She had
heard him mention before how fragile the women of other races were. So, to
assuage his fears, she sank her teeth into his shoulder with a cute little growl
of her own.
	Worf hissed in mingled pain and pleasure. He kissed her savagely,
bruising her full lips. She pressed her breasts to his chest, pressed her hips
against his thighs. He was hardening, pushing against her belly, immense. A
wanton abandon swept over her. Before she fully knew what she was doing
she was gripping his ass through the towel, thrusting her tongue past his
sharp teeth.
	His large hands found her breasts and plundered them, squeezing
them, making them bulge into the deep neckline of her dress. It was the blue
one, Will's favorite. The thought of Will Riker made her suddenly angry.
Will, who had wanted her all to himself though he romped around Risa with
dozens of women. Will, who had been jealous of Worf since before there
had been any reason to be. Will, who had doubtless lied when he bragged
about his conquests during the time he'd been assigned to the Klingon vessel
because surely if Worf was any indication, the Klingon females expected far
more than the First Officer had to offer.
	She seized the bodice of the dress herself and tore it. Worf helped,
shredding the cloth. The skirt puddled around her feet. He lifted her out of
it. He handled her as easily as he might have picked up a child. She kicked
off her shoes as he carried her toward his bed.
	He laid her down and stood over her, looming like the ravaging
brute of her fantasies. He cast off the towel. She drew in a sharp breath.
Fully erect, his organ was almost the length and circumference of her
forearm.
	Apprehension clouded her desire but did not eclipse it completely.
	Worf knelt on the edge of the bed. "I do not wish to hurt you,
Deana," he said.
	"You won't," she said, barely recognizing that breathless whisper as
her own voice. She touched him, finding that she could not encircle him
with one hand.
	She had expected his skin to be tough there as well but it was
velvety. She rubbed him between both hands, enjoying the thickness of it,
the feel of it. Worf closed his eyes. He was growling continuously, almost a
purr. Not the purr of a housecat but of a lion, a great hunting cat.
	Instead of a loose sac encasing his testicles, she saw what looked to
be a pouch covered with ridged plates. She remembered hearing that in
battle, Klingons withdrew their sexual organs into an armored pouch,
rendering them invulnerable to a blow that crippled males of most other
species.
	The head was a dark plum color, and shaped, she saw with
surprise, much like one of the styles of Klingon battle-cruiser. Surely
Klingon engineers did not deliberately design ships to resemble ...
	She ran her tongue around the head. Even stretching her jaws to
their widest, she did not think she could get it into her mouth, and if she
somehow managed, she was sure it would not easily come out. She could
not imagine trying to explain to Dr. Crusher if they got stuck, so she did not
even try. She settled for licking and stroking and a few gentle nibbles, until
Worf's breathing was ragged and he pulled away.
	"Slowly," he said. "This must be for both of us." So saying, he
pushed her back against the pillows and lowered his head to her breasts. His
mouth was hot and demanding, sucking and nuzzling with passionate
urgency.
	She clutched his shoulders, rubbed the ridges along his spine. He
worked one hand between her thighs and found her damp and ready. He
peeled off her silk panties. She spread her legs. He blew gently onto her
mound, stirring the silky dark hair with his cool breath. He used his thumbs
to part her labia and began probing her with his tongue.
	He brought her to the very edge of climax, slowly, teasingly, until
she was writhing and clawing at him. "Worf! Worf, I need you now!" she
panted.
	"Not yet," he said. He slid a finger deep into her, pressing her
clitoris with his thumb and biting softly on her inner thigh.
	Her orgasm exploded through her like a supernova. Her back
arched, her heels drummed on the mattress, her fists clenched in his hair,
and a hoarse cry escaped her throat. The initial shockwave passed, but Worf
fastened his mouth to her again and relentlessly wrung a second orgasm
from her. This time she shrieked, flinging an arm over her face to muffle her
cries.
	He moved to lay beside her. She could do little more than gasp and
whimper for several minutes, but he did not seem rushed. As he tenderly
touched her face, she sensed something that she had never sensed from a
previous partner. He was more concerned about her pleasure than his own,
and would be satisfied even if they stopped now. All the rest had been
selfishly concerned with their own release, or determined to prove
something. There was a depth of caring in Worf that she had never
experienced before. She realized that her mother had been wrong. He was
not merely attracted to her. Worf loved her.
	This realization brought tears to her eyes. Alarmed, he started to
speak, but she silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips. He kissed the
saltiness from her cheeks.
	"You are magnificent," she whispered.
	"You are beautiful," he replied.
	She kissed him, a long sweet kiss, caressing his face. "Why didn't
you tell me?"
	"I thought you knew. Why didn't you tell me?"
	"I didn't realize until today, but now I know I've wanted this for a
long time." She rose up on one elbow and looked at him, so nobly featured
and handsome with his hair spread out over the pillows. "I love you." In
halting Klingon, she repeated it. "JIbang SoH."
	Though it normally made Klingons uncomfortable to talk about
their feelings, he said with no awkwardness at all, "I love you, Deana."
	She kissed him again, with more passion this time. The aftershocks
of her two devastating climaxes had passed, and though she normally would
have been exhausted, she was eager for more. When he tried to sit up, she
pressed him down and began playfully trailing her long dark hair across his
body. She showered kisses on his chest, his thighs. He clenched his fists in
the blankets when she reached his stiffness.
	Deana swung her leg over him, straddling him. He gripped her by
the waist for balance. She rubbed the head of his organ along the moist
furrow between her legs. It was still enormous, this weapon of love, but she
was now more than ready for it. She lowered herself slowly onto him.
	Worf lay montionless beneath her, his rough hands caressing her
hips and ass, giving her time to adjust to his size. She could not take in the
entire length but managed enough to delight them both when she at last
could remain still no longer. She began with a gentle rocking, which caused
her clitoris to rub against his ridges. It sent her swiftly to the brink of
another dizzying orgasm.
	To stifle her cries, she bit him again and dug her fingernails into his
arms. He raked his sharp teeth over her shoulder, careful not to break the
skin. He moved to meet her downward thrusts, nearly lifting her from the
mattress as the pace of their coupling increased.
	Soon Deana was riding him wildly, her hair a flying whirlwind in
her face, no longer caring who heard them. Worf's snarls and growls
culminated in a full-throated roar, every muscle taut, and she felt his hot
seed spill into her.
	He held her against him, his strong arms like bands of iron, and
rolled so that she was pinned under his weight. She raised her legs and
locked her ankles just over the last ridge of his spine. He gently pressed into
her, and now that he was beginning to soften he slid in to the ridged base.
Her breath escaped her in a long shuddering sigh.
	They lay like that for some time. He cupped her face in his hands
and kissed her. She murmured his name, pleasantly exhausted, happier than
she had been in years. The warmth of his love as well as that of his body
comforted her.
	Finally, he looked down at her and his brow furrowed. "Tell me,
Counselor, what were you doing in my quarters?"
	
The End

Click here to return to the previous page.