Vulcan Love Slave (Patreon)

Seven of Nine stood in Voyager’s Holodeck, taking a moment to reflect on what she was doing there. It was not the first time she’d been inside the Holodeck. She’d been taken along infrequently by other crewmembers using a program, but most of them had concluded that she wasn’t engaged by holographic diversions—games of pretend.

Then the Pathfinder Project had succeeded in establishing communications from the Alpha Quadrant to Voyager. Among the data relayed to Voyager was scores of new programming—including a personalized program referred to as Vulcan Love Slave. This had been meant for Tom Paris.

As Seven understood it, he had asked if his wife B’Elanna wanted to run the program with him; she’d expressly forbidden him from using it. Tom had tried pawning it off on other members of the crew on Voyager’s gray market and gotten a fair amount of replicator credits coming his way. The scuttlebutt was that it had to be experienced.

Seven had amassed a large amount of replicator credits as a member of Voyager’s crew, as her needs were few and she sparsely indulged. She also had a great number of Holodeck hours that had gone unused. She could’ve traded them, but there was little she wanted from the rest of the crew.

The program sparked her interest though. She wanted to see what it was that everyone on the ship was so intrigued by. So, to Tom’s amazement, she bought a copy of the program off him and made use of Holodeck hours to book a session the next time it was going unused.

“Computer, activate program, privacy lock engaged,” Seven said. She had looked up database information on non-Starfleet-sanctioned Holodeck programs such as Vulcan Love Slave in an effort to sate her curiosity beforehand. Though Holodeck programs were never forbidden, there were taboos. Most relating to obscene fetishes and openly offensive subject matter—Seven of Nine had a hard time believing any significant amount of Voyager’s complement would be interested in that.

There were also Holodeck programs that featured real, not fictional, personalities as the holographic characters. Federation policy was to allow historical figures to be reproduced, but only with a fidelitous regard for accuracy and usually within the context of actual events. Recreations of the Battle of Britain in Earth’s 20th century were fine. Having a sexual encounter with Winston Churchill, or making a violent attack on him, was seen as taboo by Starfleet officers. At least, it was supposed to be.

The drab walls and flooring of the Holodeck disappeared, replaced with a pastoral landscape. It reminded Seven of her studies of human philosophy and the Greek villas that had seen so many great thinkers. The climate was almost tropical, the sky blue and rippling with puffy clouds, a pleasant breeze relieving the golden glow of the sun.

Seven was in an open-air compound of light, airy design—privacy through isolation, not through walls or fences. She walked around, finding the compound had few features. It was furnished with bathroom facilities, a bathing chamber, and various couches and chairs, but there was no library, no study, nowhere that something could be pursued. This seemed like an oasis of comfort, a paean to relaxation, in an already soothing world.

The house was built on a sort of plateau—a jutting edifice of rock that carries it out over a sharp drop down a slope to the sea. A pool was built at the tip of this protrusion, its boundaries at the very edge of the rock, as in an infinity pool. She could swim to the far end of the pool and look out over the ocean.

As her time was limited and Seven knew she was meant to pamper herself somehow with this program, she decided to follow this idle inclination. She undressed, her catsuit falling away easily from her sleek body, more like fabric being sheared off than a garment being removed. The Borg implants visible on her face and hands continued down her exposed flesh. Though Seven wasn’t self-conscious about her augmentation, she had to admit that having no one around when she was nude… simplified things.

She dove into the large pool, enjoying the caress of the cool water on her sun-kissed body. It was not her first time swimming, but she tried to heed the EMH’s advice to her to pay attention to the physical sensations of the act, and not just the efficiency of accomplishing her goal.

Still, Seven couldn’t think of anything to do but swim several laps: stretching out her body, finding an efficiency to how her limbs knifed through the water, and noting a pleasant biological reaction to the feel of the water swirling around her body in motion.

There were better programs if she wanted to go swimming, though. Seven of Nine could’ve swam in a Hawaiian beach, or in the low-gravity fountains of Regus II. She pulled herself from the pool, picking up a big towel from a hamper, and lightly rubbed herself off before relaxing on a lounger evidently provided for that purpose.

She tried to do more than simply assess her risk of sunstroke; the Holodeck’s safety protocols wouldn’t allow harmful UV rays in the simulation. Instead, she felt the warmth of the sunlight on her bare skin—closing her eyes to focus on the feeling—letting that sensation penetrate deep into her body, beyond a surface-level appreciation, and into a savoring appraisal of all she was feeling.

Seven thought she understood. There was no illumination in only having a partial knowledge of a thing. By deepening her conception of an experience, beyond just a simple descriptor like ‘the sun on bare skin,’ her enjoyment was more thorough. It was, in the end, logical.

Then Seven of Nine came to an alarming realization. Though the sun was warming all of her skin, it seemed particularly hot on her breasts and at her groin. There, the sun was not contributing all the heat, but merely adding to what she already felt.

Seven opened her eyes—they darted about as she went over the variables. She had known there was a sexual aspect to this program. She also knew that the human sex drive was so far removed from the intellect that it was frequently inexplicable from a subjective point of view. It could be that her foreknowledge of this program’s sexuality had not just prepared her for arousal, made her sensitive to it, it had actually caused some amount of desire to manifest itself.

Seven decided that, as the program was meant for self-indulgence and the relief of sexual urges, she might as well get on with it and masturbate. Her sex twitched at the thought. Automatically, without reservation and without any awkward modesty, Seven reached down to touch her moist pussy. She pushed her middle finger in and gave herself the rapid pumping back and forth that her research indicated would be akin to the pleasurable experience of taking a penis hard and deep.

Usually, masturbation was unsatisfactory to her. It always struck Seven as inefficient. But she had been part of a collective, exposed to the memories of countless billions—it was inevitable that some came to the surface now and then.

Fuck me, baby. Deeper! Now! Fuck my cunt! I’m coming!

Seven of Nine pinched a nipple, shocked at the strong blast of pleasure she felt. For the first time, her breasts felt like an erogenous zone rather than an inefficient configuration of adipose tissue. Glistening sweat ran over her perfect body, as if marking how different it was—it felt entirely changed, an instrument of pleasure, a toy she was playing with, not the tool it usually was.

Seven gritted her teeth, registering annoyance that her biological urges could be so strong and run so counter to logic, but then she forced a more neutral expression. This was an experiment. Experimentation was not illogical. It frequently led to greater efficiency.

She seemed both to have been masturbating for a very long time and for it to have taken a very short time to bring her pussy to the edge of… to cause jolts to strike her clitoris… to have her feeling so delicious, so unlike a Borg drone…

Seven had sampled erotic media before and told herself that the participants were pretending the sounds and expressions of rapture that they evinced, but now… now… she felt more like that than she did anyone she had ever before been in her life…

“I need you.”

Seven jerked her head around, not feeling embarrassed by what she’d been doing, but put on guard by someone sneaking up on her—even if it was only, could only, be a collection of photons put together by the ship’s computer.

It was a Vulcan woman accosting her, tall and wiry and beautiful in flowing robes that clung to the swell of her lavishly sized breasts—gorgeously round on her lean torso. Her features were starkly ascetic, hardened but lovely, with a severe haircut holding her follicles close to her scalp—her pointed ears easily protruded from her short mane. Her eyes were hooded, almond-shaped under chiseled eyebrows—lips and nose bold, dominating her face, making her beauty blunt and uncompromising.

Seven of Nine usually only had an aesthetic appreciation for loveliness. In her present state, though, she felt an attraction to the gorgeous Vulcan. More than that, a connection, a return of her lust. The other woman’s dark eyes were blazing with arousal, staring at Seven and her fingers and the wet lips of her womanhood with a single-minded intensity of desire that could perhaps only come from a Vulcan, as if she’d decided that the most logical course of action was for them to mate.

“I need to have intercourse,” T’Pol said, her even voice rushing and thrilling, crackling with lasciviousness seething just under the surface. “I can do that for you… or you can do it to me, if you’d rather.”

Seven recognized that this level of emotion could only come from a Vulcan in the grip of pon farr. And also that the woman was T’Pol, a famed figure from the early days of Starfleet. Every member of the crew must know of her—and Seven could see how the vast majority would find her as attractive as she did. As tasteless as it was to center a program called Vulcan Love Slave around this very real woman… there was no denying the logic of it. Perhaps the real T’Pol, if she were still alive, would appreciate that.

Swiftly, T’Pol went to her knees beside Seven of Nine’s lounger, throwing a soft arm around Seven’s shoulders. “You can do anything you want to me, just please don’t deny me. I need you so badly. You don’t know how I’ve hungered for you—you’re my every fantasy come true—I love you!”

“This is a juvenile scenario,” Seven said, trying to take her hand away from her sex—but she couldn’t get it far. The mere prospect of touching it, while T’Pol was so close, sent shudders deep inside her body. “I find it hard to believe so many would find this enthralling.”

“The more complex the mind, the greater the need for the simplicity of play,” T’Pol purred, her hand sliding down from Seven’s shoulder to brush against a luscious breast, full and round. “You’re a beautiful woman. Your thoughts are reserved, but I saw how you rode your hand… how bad you needed it then… you’re capable of great pleasure. Share it with me. Let me make all your fantasies come true…”

Seven wished to stress that she did not have fantasies, but several were beguiling her at the moment. Chief among them the prospect of letting T’Pol do what she was clearly meant to.

Yet she flinched when T’Pol’s slender fingers toyed with her nipple—shivered when the Vulcan’s warm breath tingled across her ear. It was as captivating as the feel of the water on her body and the sun on her skin, but overpoweringly so… this demanded that it be savored… Seven of Nine was helpless not to relish what was happening to her.

“Gorgeous,” T’Pol breathed, fetishistically toying with the cybernetic implants that cropped up on the landscape of Seven’s body. “But inexperienced. Unsure of what you’re capable of. You’ve never been with a man—or a woman, for that matter.”

Seven didn’t know if this was simply the role she was meant to play in the program, a coincidence—or if the programming had been so skillful that this Vulcan hologram actually seemed to possess the touch telepathy of the real thing. Could it perhaps be cold reading? A simple trick of deductive reasoning, played effectively enough to convince her with the strength of the simulation’s computing behind it.

“All that long, sensual body going to waste…” T’Pol continued, purring with delight at her continued feeling of Seven’s creamy skin. “And those beautiful tits… so big… shaped so well…”

Seven of Nine still felt an urge to protest, even if it was only to counter how weak her body felt and how confused her thoughts were becoming. “This is a waste of time… an illogical use of resources… it is… solipsistic…”

“I’m in heat already,” T’Pol said, cupping both of Seven’s tits and kissing her throat, “but you still turn me on. I have to show you how hot you’re making me…”

“You are only… programmed for that… this isn’t real…” Seven whispered, but T’Pol was suddenly between her legs, the sensual thrust of her lips pushing against Seven’s own mouth. A quick wet tongue thrust into hers. T’Pol’s hand caressed at Seven of Nine’s groin, its touch strange—soft but strong.

Vulcan dirty talk: “Reality has no bearing on subjective experience—sensation—delight. You are human. It’s human to fantasize; pleasurable. And all organic life strives for pleasure.”

T’Pol’s firm breasts pressed into Seven’s, her silken cunt burning together with Seven’s. The world spun dizzily as their tongues met and their panting breaths mixed. Seven of Nine knew that the fantasy had become her reality now. She had surrendered to it as she had not believed she could surrender to anything since the Collective itself.