Auntie Jamelia has been a bad girl. Or a good girl. Take your pick. I guess it's a matter of your own personal POV, isn't it?

She's been writing Extemporaneous Treksmut-style PWPs in Sandrine's again. NC-17, P/T, no particularly redeeming qualities, just a tour of Tom's body--and what it can do. At least, it started out that way. She's done a bit of fleshing out of the story since, but still, it's roots are clear. PWP, all the way.

Sigh. And she's even added a gratuitous trout reference, for those who are interested...
 
 
 

Touring Tom
 by jamelia
 March, 1999
 
 

The man has such long toes, you know? To match his long fingers.

Matching other long things.

Oh, my. Maybe I should start over again.

I come in from my shift, and he's there, leaning against my table. He does that a lot. Just comes in to hang out, waiting for me to come home. He knows what a workaholic I am.

He also knows that when I get back to my quarters, I'm usually ready to break loose. Tom, of course, is always ready to break loose.

Anyway, tonight he doesn't turn around when I come in. He's concentrating on the PADD in his hands, studying something. Probably a new holodeck program to replace Captain Proton. At least he mutters a "Hi" to me. He isn't concentrating THAT hard.

I find myself concentrating on something, too, and it isn't a holodeck program--or even a PADD.

I much prefer concentrating on Tom Paris--from head to toe, toes to head, and back down again. Over and over again.

Oh, my.

The long lean lines of the man's legs, leading up to that firm butt and his deliciously long, long back. Powerful, broad shoulders. Very nice.

With effort, I convince my eyes to travel up past his neck to the hair on his head. It's not too profuse. Tom doesn't have a head of hair like Harry, Chakotay, or even Freddie Bristow. But then again, the man doesn't waste testosterone growing a mane of hair on his head. He's got a much better use for that testosterone. The Doctor explained it all to me while I was performing his last maintenance check-up.

I asked the Doctor why he didn't bother to change his program to add a nice head of hair for himself. He smirked and told me he had considered it, but he decided not to once he'd made that "addition" to his program (the one I was none too pleased to find out about, since he didn't so much as ask for a "by your leave" from me first to make sure it wouldn't screw up his program). He said he left it because he wanted his lack of hair to be a "marker."

"A marker? Of what?" I asked him.

The EMH oozed back, "Virility."

It seems that a man who has more hair on his chest than his head usually is a man who has lots of testosterone running around his veins. Lots of testosterone means lots of, "you know," he added, with a wink. Then he made some smarmy remark about Tom's hairline. I just smiled sweetly and told him that from personal experience, I'd have to say that the Doctor's theory was 100% accurate--and I liked Tom's hair fine just the way it is--since it's a marker, and all that.

The Doctor snorted back and flashed me a much-too-knowing grin. I think I'm going to have to examine ALL of that EMH's subroutines next time I check him over, not to mention the medical logs. He'd better not be using the communication screen in an unauthorized manner! We'll see about his "program additions" then!

Oh. Well. Where was I? Oh, yes. Hair. The stuff that's visible with clothes on. I gaze at Tom's hair and start to say something

And then he turns around to look at me. The words die in my mouth.

From the sides, those shoulders of his are much broader and deeper than they appear at first glance. And when he turns towards me, his shoulders look like they're ready to twitch a warm, enclosing pair of arms around me the first chance they get.

He smiles but makes no move towards me. I stand there facing him, a couple of metres away, spending a few moments just feasting my eyes. Tom really is beautiful. My eyes could travel over his body all night. My hands want to follow my eyes, taking the Tour de Tom. The Paris Delights Tour.

Oh, my. Just thinking of what's to come makes me feel weak in the knees. Some Klingon I am, huh?

Beneath his rather tall forehead and fair eyebrows are The Eyes. Piercing, the way they look through you, as if boring into your most secret soul. I know he's shown me, over and over again, that he knows me better than I know myself. Crystal clear. Powder blue. Such astonishing eyes beneath perfect blond eyebrows. And the slightly freckled skin of his face is almost endearing, with its little-boy charm. His nose is almost too perfect. The lips are perfect, too. I can almost taste them on mine.

My name issues from those lips. Like always, a rush of warmth floods throughout my body. He steps close to me, then throws those long arms around me to hold me close. I can attest to the warmth of his arms and the rich scent of him as we embrace.

Those lips are thin but sensitive and always ready to kiss. Over and over, his mouth is so warm and inviting, so soft as it loves my face. His lips parts to reveal a pink, talented tongue--that tongue, which plunges into my mouth, driving away rational thought as I become lost in his kisses.

I hold him away from me just long enough so I can touch his face, his cheekbones, his chin before gently caressing his neck. His neck is covered. I want it uncovered.

My fingers reach out to slip beneath the turtleneck. From the back, the cloth isn't in the way, not really. On the front of him, yes; it's in the way.

Always helpful, Tom slips off his tunic so that my eager hands can pull off his turtleneck first, then his undershirt. His glorious chest is exposed to my view, my touch, my lips. I kiss down until golden fuzz tickles my nose. He giggles when I reach his perfect nipples and kiss him there, too.

I keep kissing him as long as there is fuzz to kiss--and the trail leads all the way down his abdomen. Tom's in good shape, his stomach taut. My hands stroke him there, above his navel. Over his navel. And below.

By the time my eyes (and hands) reach the top of his pants, the warmth gushing through my body is pounding intensely, raising a feverish heat.

I follow the thin trail of hair that reaches his navel and broadens again below it. My tour of Tom's body has been playful up to now. The tour is about to get serious. Very serious. My hands slip inside his pants and pull out what they find there. He is revealed to my view; I am entranced. Now I can see him. All of him. Very long, to match his fingers and toes.

All of his prodigious length, revealed to sight and smell and touch and taste. I hear my blood hammering in my ears as my heart quickens. The sound of his breathing is in my ears as his breath streams through my hair.

Oh, my. Is it getting really warm in here, or is it just me?

By now I know that getting out of this without the sense of touch being exploited to the utmost is going to be impossible. All my senses, really. The scent of Tom's body is just as intoxicating as the sight of it is. And the taste of it . . .

His long, clever fingers help me peel the cloth slowly away from his body--and then those self-same clever fingers fumble me out of my own clothing.

It doesn't take long. He's very efficient at undressing a woman. He's had lots of practice, some of it even before we met, but nowhere near as much as he's had since we've been together. I love the feel of his hands removing my clothes. It's even more exciting than walking in on him when I'm naked (although I don't exactly mind that, either). So he undresses me a lot. And now the two of us are dressed exactly the same.

Our hands fill with each other. PADDs and duty shifts and spatial anomalies are all very much forgotten. We live in the moment between each intake of breath, shaped by the feel of our skin making contact with the other's in so many wonderful ways.

I feel his kisses on the top of my head as my hands stroke that which marks him as a man. So softly, so gentle is my touch that he groans almost inaudibly. I know I am pleasing him. I look down at the rigid shaft that I hold in my hands. Below, I can see the golden down on his long legs and thighs that matches what can be found on his forearms. Hair that is so visible to anyone's gaze echoes what is invisible to all but the one with whom he is sharing intimacies. Intimacies like we are sharing right now.

It's amazing, really. His skin is so red here. The pale, creamy freckled skin gives way to the throbbing red of tender flesh, of wrinkled scrotum begging to be touched, and even more, the pulsing hardness that is ready for the flaming well of heat I can offer.

My breath comes rapidly, as does his. His lips have already worshipped my face and lips. Now they descend to my shoulders, my breastbone, my nipples, hard and taut with excitement.

All the time, my hand is stroking him rhythmically, eliciting little sounds of contentment from him as his own excitement builds. We are still standing together, before each other. As my hands bring him to a frenzy, his hands are caressing my skin until I feel as if the flames burning within me are almost to the point of consuming me. Almost. For now his kissing lips pull back so that his tongue can descend my body, licking swirling patterns that make me shiver with their coolness even as my burning threatens to overwhelm me.

The action of my hands on him have made him so ready. His shaft shivers with the slightest motion of my hand, almost as if it has a mind of its own and wants to plunge into me. I almost want to giggle. Almost.

What I really want is to feel him inside me.

Oh, my!

We collapse in a heap on the floor. Both of us want to gain access to each other without falling flat on our faces. It's go down or lean against a wall. I prefer the floor. Tonight.

Now that we no longer have to worry about things like balancing on our feet, thought flies away. We are free to share these moment with each other, moments outside of time. It's as if all the clocks and chronometers everywhere in the galaxy refuse to acknowledge that time still passes while our fingers and mouths encounter each other's flushed skin.

We breathe together--touch each other--nuzzle each other with faces buried in secret places until both of us are ready to burst. I achieve a moment of such complete joy, tears of exultation come to my eyes as I shout out his name.

And then I feel his hands on my face. Those glorious fingers that have been pulsing inside me now coax my face up level with his. He pulls me on top of him. I ease him inside of me. The burning of the flesh wherever we are together is all that we are conscious of when we begin to rock steadily, as if an internal pendulum is ordering our movements.

My hands rub against the firm, golden-down-covered muscles of his chest. My knees dig into the floor as I drive down onto him. He raises his narrow hips up to meet me. Time flows around the place where the two of us are lying. As time flows, so do we, floating on waves of sensation. Our lives, at this moment, are one.

We are one flesh. As one person we cry out. Deep within, at the place our bodies are joined, each to the other, I suddenly feel his seed flooding inside me, even as my own waters erupt out with a gush.

As one we have come together. As one we moan. I collapse over him, gasping and shaking like a fish out of water.

Time resumes its steady, stately metronome pace. No longer are we outside of it. We flow with it again. I do not mind. The body that lies beneath me, cradling me, has brought me what I never thought I would find. All that passion our bodies unleash is incredible, yet I am struck with even more wonder that his dancing eyes smile at me the way they do. Even more than passion, I feel joy. For me, always so serious about matters of the heart, this is a wondrous gift, a revelation.

As we lie together, we share that gift again. We laugh, simply because we are happy.

Slowly we separate, but he will not let me leave his arms. Inside of me I feel all warm and fuzzy, contented, all the tensions of the day washed away from my tour of Tom's body--not that the tour is truly over. Our legs interlace. Our arms wrap around each other. His fingers are intertwined in my hair. I find myself hoping that my tour of Tom's body will never be over.

And in my heart, I know that he feels the same way about his own Grand Tour of my body.

We say no words of love.

We don't have to.

We both just know.
 
 

 Finis.
 
 
 

Oh, by the way,  I forgot to add  a disclaimer, but beyond the use of the names, there isn't much that Paramount can really claim, is there? And what there is, I doubt they'd admit to wanting to claim!
 
 

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