Gay Paris

By Dolores Labouchere

Voyager was rocked by another explosion off the port bow. The bridge crew, clinging to their consoles, managed to stay on their seats, but only just.

"Mr. Paris, try and avoid the thunderbolts in future," said Janeway, in clipped tones, unconsciously trying to put her bun back together, even though she had cut it off several years before.

Paris bristled to the comment, but remained silent. It did not stop him feeling wronged – he was a good pilot but he wasn’t that good; the energy waves were everywhere. And besides, the thought of B’Elanna’s heaving bosum as he brought her to her third multiple orgasm that morning was distracting him.

The nebula had been a vast expanse of gas blocking their path. Janeway had made the decision to take them in as it would cut at least two months from the journey, and Tuvok had said that it exhibited no unusual readings. So in they’d went. About three days into the journey they’d encountered an energy field sending pulses of ribbon-like energy – soon named thunderbolts - lashing out in all directions. What caused it Tuvok or Kim couldn’t say. Paris didn’t care where they came from: what he did mind was that it was making his work all the harder trying to steer the ship through it all without getting it blown to pieces. After two days, they seemed to be coming to the other side, so maybe he’d be able to relax soon…

Another bolt suddenly lanced out at the ship. Paris simply couldn’t avoid it and the huge wave battered into the ship. The bridge crew, unprepared, were thrown out of their seats and sent spinning across the room. The skylight shattered, glass raining down from the ceiling. A lightning like bolt shot through the opening and hit Paris, sending him flying backwards, over his console and into the viewscreen, the impact shattering that too. His body, limp, sank to the floor, surrounded by shards of glass, and the little pools his blood began to form.

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Paris, you’re back with us," the Doctor’s voice said, from the other end of a long tunnel. Paris tried to open his eyes but immediately shut them as the bright light caused pain to consume his mind. "Don’t try to do anything just yet," the faraway Doctor said. Paris felt a hypospray against his neck. "That better?" inquired the Doctor, sounding much nearer now.

"Yeah," croaked Paris, and tried to open his eyes again. He blinked furiously – the light was still too bright, but not so painful now. As he focused he blurrily became aware he was looking at the ceiling of the Sickbay.

"Oh, Tom, thank goodness you’re OK!" A somewhat emotional B’Elanna swam into view, and promptly pushed her lips against his. Paris, unprepared, spluttered unromantically.

"Lieutenant Torres, please restrain yourself," the Doctor said, sharply.

"Sorry."

"Wha… what happened?" asked Paris of the world in general.

"You were hit by a bolt of lightning, thrown into the viewscreen and then had to wait half an hour for medical attention because the damage had affected the Doctor’s program, and he wasn’t operable," answered B’Elanna, "but you’re alright now… isn’t he, Doctor?"

"Well, physically he should be fine, although there are some strange readings from his neuro-scan. But nothing life-threatening."

"It’s good to have you back Mr. Paris," chimed in the Captain as she walked over from the entrance to Sickbay.

"Are we out of the nebula?" asked Paris.

"No, but we are clear of the thunderstorm," said Janeway, "so I want you to rest a little. There’s no use in you returning to duty yet if you’re only going to over-exert yourself."

"Quite right. What Mr. Paris needs now is to rest. So if Lieutenant Torres and the Captain would care to leave my Sickbay," said the Doctor.

"Of course."

"I’ll see you soon, Tom." B’Elanna kissed him on the cheek and then both she and Janeway left the room.

***

Paris stretched himself out on the beach. The sun warmed his naked body, and the sound of the waves brushing the beach was very soothing. He was about to drift off to sleep when he heard a voice.

"Tom," cried the voice, "you haven’t any sunblock on. Here, let me put some on."

Closing his eyes, Tom let the hands rub across his chest, twisting the light covering of golden hairs around, rubbing his nipples until they stood like tiny pink mountains on the plains of his pecs. The hands moved down to his stomach, down to where the hairs on his torso thickened and darkened, then pushed back up to his nipples. Paris felt his cock surge as the massage went on, it length increasing as the hands wove their magic.

"Here’s one place you don’t want to get burnt," said the voice, and suddenly Tom felt a hand on his tumescent rod, and another on his furry ballsack, coating both in a layer of cream.

Paris suddenly felt a head near his own and his lips reached out to touch the others. The met, and kissed passionately. It was warm and wet and wonderful… and itchy? Tom opened his eyes to find himself staring back at Chakotay, still kissing away, still giving his partner stubble rash.

"Ah!" Tom cried, and sat up in Sickbay. It was a dream, that was all. But Paris was worried, and it wasn’t just the fact that his suitor was Chakotay; he’d enjoyed it, too.

***

It was five days later.

"Ah!" Tom sat up in his bed again.

He had continually dreamed about Chakotay. However, every time he and Chak got intimate he would wake up. It was as if the body was willing, but…

He got up and ordered himself a pina colada from the replicator – made with synthhol, of course – and sucked the marichello cherry on its cocktail stick.

"Computer, put on ParisMusic, selection 56," he intoned. The soft tones of Diana Ross washed across the room.

"Little girl, don’t wait for me," she sang.

He sat down next to his window and looked out onto the starfield. He sighed. Life was so unfair. There he was, in a passionate relationship with a half-Klingon, when suddenly this has to come along and ruin it all. He thought about ending it all, but stuffing yourself full of pills wasn’t quite so dramatic when your Comm badge would immediately signal to the dashing Doctor that Paris had taken too many vitamin pills.

Why couldn’t his life be like, er, er, O’Brien. Yes, Miles O’Brien. Famed as the only Starfleet officer in history that could hold down a long-term relationship, Miles was the envy of all of the Federation. He thought that he could be the second, him and Torres. But that was his life, wasn’t it. Tragedy after tragedy. Goodness, he actually had to breed with Janeway at one point, and then Kes had said they’d be married in the future. As well she had gone away. A lifetime of sitting listening to her whining voice would have driven him insane. Such is the existance of Paris.

"Love don’t come easy…" warbled Ms. Ross.

"You’re right there," said Paris aloud, and flounced back to bed.

***

Next day.

"It’s OK, Tom, it happens to us all," soothed B’Elanna, lying through her teeth.

Paris lay back on the bed, one hand behind his head.

"I don’t know what happened, it’s never happened to me before,"

"Is it me, Tom? Don’t I attract you anymore?" said B’Elanna, the slight growl in the back of her throat an indication of the correct answer at this juncture.

"No, no," Tom lied, or at least partially. True, B’Elanna`s bumps and curves didn’t mean as much to him anymore. It was more the fact that she wasn’t Chak that was bothering him. "I’ve been under a lot of stress lately" he mumbled unconvincingly.

"Well, at least your jaws still work," she grinned, and pulled back the duvet to allow Tom access to her shuttlebay.

Tom’s stomach turned. "Er, OK," he quavered, shut his eyes, and thought of Chakotay.

***

Two weeks later

Slumped over a table in the dingy pub in Marseilles he had created on the holodeck, Tom shouted at the barman for another malibu and pineapple, which he duly brought over. The doors parted to allow access to the First Officer. He made his way to Paris’ table.

"Tom, are you OK?" Chakotay asked, putting an arm around Paris’ shoulder. It was all the Lieutenant could do not to cream himself there and then.

"’m fine," he slurred. The good thing about synthhol was that your head felt drunk but the rest of your body remained sober.

"It’s just that, well, Torres mentioned something today, that made me wonder."

Chakotay thought back to the Jeffries tube he and Torres had occupied earlier. They’d been doing some repairs by holding little mettalic things and pressing buttons, as you do, and Torres seemed irritable.

She’d fished out a little tool from her top pocket and pressed a button. The head of the device had risen up on a thin tube to allow access to more intricate areas of the Tube, and B’Elanna had promptly burst into tears.

"Is everything OK?" Chakotay had asked, "are there problems with you and Paris?"

"Sort of, it’s just being on the ship. The stress, you know," she said, trying not to sob.

"You’re finding it hard?" Chakotay asked, to be greeted with even greater sobs from the engineer.

After much persuasion, and assurances of confidentiality, Torres explained Tom’s ‘little problem’. Chakotay thought there might be something he could do and promised to speak to Paris as soon as he got off shift.

So here he was.

"Look, B’Elanna explained, I know." Said Chakotay.

"What?" said Paris, sobering up a little with shock.

"But there’s an old native American cure I know of, although it’s alittle embarrassing."

"What do I have to do?" said Paris, warily.

"Come with me to my quarters," said Chakotay.

***

The doors to the First Officer’s palatial quarters hissed open to admit the Commander and the still half-drunk Paris.

"Computer, play stereotypical Native American Music selection, uh, 4." Said Chakotay to the ceiling. The computer chirruped in acknowledgment and then began to play bongo drums and chanting style tunes.

"Come over here, Tom," Chakotay said, indicating a space on the floor next to the windows that lined one side of his cabin. He then settled, cross-legged, at one end of a patterned rug that lay on the carpet there. Still feeling a little uneasy, Paris sat down in at the other end and looked at Chakotay expectantly.

For a while there was silence, apart from the odd wail and some thumps of a bongo drum, and then Chakotay began to drone, "Bibbety Bobbety Boo, we are far from the beds of our ancestors. Bibbety Bobbity Boo."

Paris raised an eyebrow.

"Bibbety Bobb- " Chakotay caught the expression on Tom’s face.

"Chakotay, please tell me that we’re not going on a fucking dream quest. That’s so season one."

Chakotay pouted, then composed himself. "No, we’re not. I was just setting the mood. But obviously someone isn’t taking this seriously. I don’t have to help you, you realise."

"OK, bitch, put away the claws!" retorted Tom.

"Tom, you can just leave…"

"OK, OK, I’m sorry. What does this involve?"

"Some special meditations. Take off your clothes." Without waiting for Tom to respond, Chakotay stood up and pulled the zip on his uniform down, hauled off his jacket, and then pulled off his turtleneck underneath to reveal his muscular chest. He then stooped to pull off his boots. Paris sat, open-mouthed, his brain absently thinking that Chakotay’s cure had already been quite successful. Chakotay frowned, "Well, are you doing this or not?"

Tom opened and closed his mouth a few times but no sound issued from his lips. Chakotay, meanwhile had removed his Marks and Spencers underpants and was standing totally naked in front of Paris. Tom got to his feet and was about to make his excuses when Chakotay jumped in. "Look, I know that this strange, but it is necessary." He grinned. "I’ll help if you want…" Before Tom could object the zip had already been pulled down on his uniform.

Something in Paris’ mind went onto autopilot. He grabbed Chakotay and pulled him close. The Commander opened his mouth to object but found it filled with Tom’s tongue. He pushed Tom away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Tom with an air of shock. Tom gulped and waited for the worst.

Then Chakotay pouted.

"Who told you about the cure? I haven’t used it on anyone on the ship. And I wanted to be the one that stuck my tongue in first. Not fair." Chakotay pouted again.

Tom just grinned and began to pull off the rest of his clothes. Chakotay played with himself as he watched, his ‘little chief’ throbbing at the site of Tom’s golden flesh. When the helm officer had finished, he sank to his knees and looked back up into Chakotay’s eyes and said, "Wow, a matching tattoo down here? That had to hurt."

***

Tom inhaled deeply on the cigarette, and ruffled Chakotay’s hair with his other hand.

Chakotay sat up in the bed and rubbed the scratch marks on his chest, and silently wondered if he should seek the Doctor’s attention for the bite marks.

"God, I won’t be able to sit at the helm for about a week," groaned Tom, "that’s like a baby’s arm."

"So do you think you’re cured for B’Elanna?" asked Chakotay, ignoring the compliment.

"Yeah, cured of B’Elanna. After this… Chak, I’m not saying she’s loose but it’s liking thrusting a sausage up a turbolift shaft."

Chakotay raised an eyebrow this time.

"But it’s not just that. I was in denial before but I don’t want B’Elanna anymore. I want you. I want men, in general. I want soft furnishings, body piercings, chiffon, a beehive like the Captain’s."

"That’s fine by me, really. Well, apart from the beehive. And the Delaney sisters will be devastated. But what are you going to tell B’Elanna? And why now? What’s changed?"

"I don’t know. But I do know that this feels good." He paused and rummaged under the covers until he found what he wanted. "And, this," – he gave it a squeeze – "this feels even better."

Chakotay bared his teeth and growled before sinking his teeth into Tom’s right nipple. The cigarette dropped to the floor and began to burn a hole in the carpet.

***

The Doctor ran a Flashing Doodah™ over Tom’s forehead, the usual pissed off look on his face. Tom just sat on the edge of the biobed and tried to avoid B’Elanna’s glare.

"Well, the bruising will die down in a few hours, and that arm will be sore for a few days, but the breaks are healed. As for the head injuries – they’re fixed, but I’m afraid Lieutenant Paris remains homosexual despite Lieutenant Torres’ attempts to ‘bash it out of him.’"

"Do we know what caused it, Doctor?" said Janeway. She looked at Torres. "The homosexuality, I mean. We know the cause of his physical injuries." Torres looked at the floor.

"Undoubtedly the accident he experienced a few weeks ago. It did play havoc neurally."

"And can it be cured?" Torres asked, her voice cracking.

"I wouldn’t know where to start. In any case, I could only proceed if the subject wanted to be ‘cured’" the Doctor’s inflections betrayed more than he meant, but no-one seemed to notice.

"Which I don’t. B’Elanna, I’m sorry, I…" Tom ducked as the engineer tried to hit him again.

"Fine then, fuck off!" B’Elanna stormed out of the Sickbay. Janeway went after her, and the doors hissed close.

"Bitch," said Tom. "Oh, Doc… there’s a couple of injuries I forgot to mention earlier. Is there a private room?"

***

Janeway caught up with B’Elanna at the turbolift.

"There’s plenty more fish in the sea, B’Elanna. What about Harry?"

Torres just gave her a look.

"Er, or Tuvok."

Silence.

"Neelix?"

Stunned silence. A look of disgust. Then confusion as the mechanics were assessed. Then composure.

"Actually, Captain, I was thinking of giving up on men altogether. Going for the more robust female."

Janeway fixed her with a gaze colder than Seska’s heart. "Seven’s mine. MINE."

B’Elanna just smiled and said, "We’ll see…"

The End