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Oh, she was pissed.
No one else could tell, of course. Everyone else just saw her for her bluntness, for her cool and serious demeanor, and they hadn’t bothered attuning themselves to her peculiarities. They hadn’t picked up on the subtleties of her body posture, her expressions, her breathing, all of them betraying more information than even she was aware of.
But you had. Long before your relationship with her had changed, long before you had begun to use this information for more…prurient purposes, you’d learned to read her like a book. And you could see it now – the way her chin was tilted, slightly higher than usual; the way her eyes slid past you, never catching; the way her voice was just the tiniest bit more clipped than usual.
It’s not hard to figure out why she’s pissed, of course. It’s the same basic reason the doctor is pissed, just with very different consequences for you.
“…careful with your own life,” he’s saying now as you tune back in. You’re used to ignoring these speeches he gives while he patches you up; he knows you’re going to keep doing this anyways, so you’re pretty certain he does them just because he likes hearing the sound of his own voice. “You know, I can only patch you up so many times.”
You wince at the final pass of the dermal regenerator over the cut on your brow. “Yes, I’m well aware. As aware as you are that it is my duty as Captain of this ship to place the crew’s safety over my own.” You studiously look away from her as you say this, but you know she knows that you’re addressing her right now, as well. “A small price to pay, in this case.”
The doctor harrumphs, pulling away. “Well, I’ve done the best I can. Your remaining injuries are minor and will have to heal the old-fashioned way. You’re off-duty for the next 72 hours – Doctor’s orders.” You open your mouth to protest, but as you see her slide into your field of vision, you close your mouth. Best not to push this issue, especially not now that your suffering has ensured that you’ll likely have at least a couple of days of peaceful travel.
You thank the doctor, sliding off the bed and brushing off your uniform. She’s already heading towards the door, hands folded behind her back, not looking for you – but you know this game, and you know your role. You follow her quietly, beside her but just a half-step behind, not enough for anyone else to notice but enough for her to feel your deference. You ride the lift in silence, follow her to your quarters, trailing in behind her. At no point does she stop, or look at you in any way – she moves lithely into the bedroom, and you pause for a moment, suddenly unsure, before following her in.
She’s standing beside the bed, her hands still folded behind her, staring down at it.
You pause again, shuffling through your head for what your next move should be, before you step forward, slowly. You take off your pips and your communicator, placing them in the shallow glass dish on your dresser. You remove your shoes and place them on the mat beside the door. You remove your jacket, and then, with a quick glance in her direction to check if she’s watching you (she isn’t), the remainder of your uniform as well, placing them in the recycler before turning back around. You lower yourself slowly to your knees and shuffle forward, in just your bra and panties, until you’re kneeling by her side.
She still doesn’t move, and the longer she doesn’t, the harder it is not to touch her. Your heart aches, howling at the cold shoulder she’s giving you, and you want nothing more than to wrap your arms around her leg and bury your face in her thigh, to whisper apologies into her skin until you’ve paid your penance, to do anything so that she’ll just look at you.
“Do you question whether I need you, Kathryn?”
Your eyes dart up at this, but she still isn’t looking at you, staring instead at the bed before her. Her question swims in your brain, confused and unmoored – it’s not at all what you were expecting from her. “Seven?”
Her hand moves quickly, gripping your hair and pulling your head back with a snap. You gasp, feeling the way her fingers tighten, pulling at your scalp. “I’m sorry, mistress.”
You watch as the muscles in her jaw jump, and she relaxes her grip. “Do you?”
You swallow, still unsure what she wants from you. “I’m…I’m not sure what you mean, mistress.”
She sighs, and you feel hollow when her hand leaves your hair. “Perhaps we should start with an easier question. Hands on the bed, Kathryn.”
You feel a chill run down your back as you stand, maneuvering yourself to stand with your legs apart, leaning forward onto your hands. She moves away from you, and you stare down at the bedding, listening intently to her movements.
A piece of silk appears in your vision, and you look up to the scrap of fabric she’s dangling in front of you, feeling your breath quicken. She waits, giving you a chance to call it here, before she ties it snugly around your head, covering your vision. Being deprived of your sight is almost a relief, now – you won’t have to think about how she refuses to meet your eyes.
And then she grabs you.
You feel her hands wrap around both of your upper arms, fingers falling unerringly onto the bruises already there. You breathe in sharply as she presses her fingers in, digging your own fingers into the bedding. You feel her body press up against your back as she leans forward, her breath on your cheek as she leans into your ear.
“I am the only one who can hurt you, Kathryn.”
You let out a whimper as she pulls away abruptly, the rings of bruises around your upper arms smarting.
So this is the game she’s playing.
The thought had crossed your mind, at one point in your ordeal, when you hadn’t turned fast enough and a fellow inmate in the alien prison had caught his fist across your ribs. In the haze of pain you were fighting your way through, knowing that it was worth it to be here because it had meant your crew wasn’t, you’d had a vision of the righteous anger that Seven would have felt at seeing this scene. It wasn’t just that you’d been hurt – it was that someone else had inflicted that pain, someone who had no right to.
She would’ve burned everyone who had laid a finger on you to ashes, and it wouldn’t have been enough.
Her fingers trail down your spine now, fanning out over your ribs, and you know she’s thinking about how many of them were broken when they finally got you back. You tremble as you feel her touch map every inch of your skin, every bone the doctor knit back together, every bruise still stark against your complexion. Again, you feel the overwhelming urge to kneel at her feet, to wrap your arms around her and apologize, again and again and again, until she knows the depths of your remorse.
The slight hiss of leather traveling through air is the only warning you get before the flogger strikes you. You let out a startled yelp as it catches you across the tops of your thighs, skin burning.
“Count, Kathryn.”
You take a shaky breath. “One.”
She hums approvingly, and the flogger hits you again, this time higher, against your right cheek.
And you count. You count, and you keep yourself up on your hands even when your elbows start shaking, and you will your hips to stay still instead of jerking away from her, and you count.
“…thirty-one.”
She hums again, and you hear the thud of the flogger falling to the floor. She leans over you again, hand winding in your hair, and you hiss as her clothing drags against your flesh, raw and red. “Who is allowed to hurt you, Kathryn?”
“Only you, mistress.”
“It would do you good to remember that.” She lets go of your hair, and you feel the silk drop away from your eyes. “Stand up.”
You push yourself up onto your feet again, trembling slightly. Her hands smooth down your arms, tugging your hands back, and the silk wraps around your wrists now. She presses her lips to the side of your neck, then guides you up to kneel at the foot of the bed. You whimper as you do, thighs and ass smarting from the pressure, but she doesn’t react, so you settle in as best you can.
You watch as she removes her biosuit, placing it in the recycler, before climbing into bed to sit in front of you. She leans back against the headboard, sighing, her eyes still resolutely refusing to catch yours. “Since you seem to think I do not require you, Kathryn, you can observe tonight instead of participating.”
Oh.
She spreads her legs, and you whimper as you see how wet she is, her cunt red and swollen. One of her hands trails down her body, fingers gently spreading apart her labia to reveal herself to you further, and you lick your lips as you inhale her scent.
“Kathryn,” she says softly, and you look up to see her eyes have slid shut. “You told me you would not let our relationship interfere with your command decisions.”
Her middle finger trails down, dipping into her lightly to pull up her moisture before returning up to circle her clit slowly.
“You were right to do so. I do not question this. I would have it no other way.”
Her other hand moves up to grasp her breast, fingers pinching at her nipple, and your thighs clench, sending twin shocks of pain and aching desire through you.
“Our relationship should not interfere with your command decisions. But it pains me to think that they do not inform them.”
Her middle finger trails down again, pressing into her more fully this time before pulling out slowly, languorously.
“Kathryn, do you understand how much I need you?”
Her movements slow, and you look up at her face and catch her eyes.
Your entire body trembles from the effort to keep yourself upright, from holding back the warring desires to bury your face in her neck and beg for her forgiveness, and to bury your face in her cunt and drag out her forgiveness on your tongue. A moan escapes your lips as your fingers twitch behind you.
She speeds up her movements again, inserting another finger, hips bucking against her own hand. “The thought of losing you is unbearable to me, Kathryn. It is unacceptable. That is what needs to inform, not interfere with, your command decisions.”
“Please,” you whimper, voice breaking. “Please, let me touch you.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “This is what would remain for me if you were gone, Kathryn. Do you not find it suitable?”
“No.”
Her head falls back, and you swear you hear her laugh. “Oh, my sweet girl. Do you understand now?”
You squirm again, ignoring the pain in your thighs as you nod desperately. “Yes, mistress, I do.”
“Good. Now come lick my cunt like a good girl.”
You dive forward eagerly, her hands catching you and smoothing your hair out of your face as you wrap your lips around her clit, sucking eagerly. She bucks against you, and you hum your pleasure before licking your way down and thrusting your tongue inside of her, lapping up as much of her essence as you can, delighting in the way her legs clench around you.
It only takes a few more gentle laps at her clit for her to come, her chest arcing up, breasts heaving as she groans out her pleasure. You wiggle yourself forward, pressing kisses up her torso, until you’re awkwardly laying your head on her chest, arms still bound behind you, hips between her legs.
You feel her chuckle beneath your cheek this time as her hands reach down to untie yours. You let her maneuver you until you’re draped over her, cheek pressed to the top swell of her breast, one of her hands gently caressing your hair while the other trails up and down your arm draped across her chest, tracing the bruises she darkened with her own grip.
“You’re mine, Kathryn,” she whispers, voice rough with emotion. “And I need you.”
You tilt your chin up so you can look at her, meeting her gaze, glassy with tears. “I’m yours, Seven,” you breathe, watching as she closes her eyes tightly. “You have me. All of me.”