Author: Ventura33
Website: https://www.ventura33.com/
Contact: feedback (at) ventura33.com
Series: TOS
Rating: R
Pairing: Kirk/Kitty Sue
Summary: Several fanfic authors, in the form of their alternate universe Mary Sues, have a pajama party on the Enterprise.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to cyber-entities real or imagined is totally intentional.
The Enterprise, when it wasn’t engaged in saving the galaxy from the forces of evil, occasionally allowed its officers and crew to indulge in partying on board. Lieutenant Kitty Sue Jung, a voluptuous young woman with a beautiful singing voice, had been counting the days until Uhura’s birthday party, at which happy event she planned to wear a clingy and very low-cut dress expressly for the purpose of attracting Captain Kirk’s attention. She’d spent a ridiculous amount of money on the dress at the last starbase and had depleted her remaining savings by paying a hefty bribe to Yenta Sudilovsky, a recently enlisted medical assistant of many talents, to prepare a pheromone-laced perfume targeted specifically to Kirk’s genetic structure. No one would be the wiser. Oh yes, this was definitely going to be a night to remember.
Or at least it would have been, until Commander Spock revised the duty roster to assign poor Kitty Sue to the night shift in Engineering, dashing all her romantic hopes. Thoughts of murder and mayhem went through her mind all day. She concluded that the commander probably wanted Kirk for himself; after all, that absurd story of Vulcans being interested in sex only once every seven years couldn’t possibly be true.
Just as she was wondering whether Yenta might be able to whip up a brew that would make Spock’s gonads fall off, Kitty Sue had a different idea. Although she’d been banished to a cold and lonely exile in Engineering, that didn’t necessarily mean that it was impossible for her to have any fun. Accordingly, a few hours before the start of her duty shift, she gave some unusual instructions to the ensigns who would be on duty with her, including M.S. Jonk and Maria Susanna Ventura.
“Wear your nightclothes under your uniform.”
Then, feeling slightly less murderous, she went back to her quarters and took a nice relaxing soak in her favorite peach bubble bath before putting on a naughty black lace teddy with thong panties. Carefully concealing that item of apparel beneath her uniform, Kitty Sue pinned her long, flowing blonde hair up into its usual beehive style and troweled on the makeup.
She reached Engineering just as Ensign Jonk, wearing a uniform that bulged with obviously non-regulation underthings, showed up carrying a large tool box. Ventura, across the room, was saving the ship yet again by patching a crack in the antimatter containment chamber with duct tape. Just another day on the Enterprise.
The engineers from the previous shift disappeared out of that engine room in a bigger hurry than Kitty Sue had seen since the last alien attack. No doubt they had party plans. That was all right, though; she had some of her own.
Scotty really ought to do a better job of hiding his whiskey stash, Kitty Sue thought, whistling cheerfully as she proceeded to pick the lock of a supposedly secret compartment with one of her ubiquitous bobby pins. She was rewarded with the sight of three dozen vintage bottles. With luck, Scotty would imbibe enough of whatever he’d brought to the birthday party so that he wouldn’t even remember his own name the next day, and it might be quite a while before he thought to check on his stash. By which time, Kitty Sue would long since have vaporized all the empty bottles and other evidence with her phaser, and Scotty wouldn’t have a clue as to the culprit.
“I have another contribution to the party,” offered a helpful Jonk, who was now garbed in elegant grey silk pajamas, along with a fedora that had apparently been in the tool box. At the bottom of the box, a bright red model convertible could be seen, with its windows and top all the way up.
“A toy car?” Although Ensign Jonk was one of the more peculiar personalities aboard the Enterprise, Kitty Sue hadn’t been expecting anything this weird.
In a low, secretive tone, Jonk confided, “There’s a large rock in the back seat.”
When no one made any response to this perplexing comment, Jonk carefully lifted the convertible out of the tool box and pressed a series of buttons on the car’s underside. The top and windows went down, revealing a thick clump of a whitish, powdery substance.
“You know, a rock. The twenty-third century’s most widely appreciated agricultural development. Quadro-triti-cocaine.”
At the press of a few more buttons, the trunk flew open to reveal a hidden pipe.
A scandalized Ensign Ventura, now barefoot and wearing a red satin nightie that perfectly matched her painted toenails, sputtered, “But, but, you can’t smoke crack in Engineering! Someone will smell it, and then we’ll all end up in the brig!”
“Not to worry.” Jonk grinned, taking out the pipe and a small cylinder that had been concealed beneath it. “I bought some plomeek-scented air freshener from Ensign Willa Sue Catt, you know, the one they call Wildcat. It’s guaranteed to cover that particular odor completely. If anyone happens to walk in before it dissipates, they’ll just think one of us had an unfortunate bout of flatulence.”
And before anyone could object further, Jonk lit up and took a long, luxurious puff before passing the pipe to an obviously reluctant Ventura.
“What if they walk in right now?”
“Can’t happen. After all, anybody who’s anybody is at Uhura’s party.”
Just then, the doors opened to reveal Lieutenant Marty Stu Bridge, the Enterprise’s new assistant chief of security, who had recently been promoted to the position after the unfortunate demise of every other crewman in a red shirt.
Ventura, caught in the very act of lowering the pipe from her lips, desperately started babbling, “Not mine. I just found it. Never seen it before.” Perhaps she might have been a tad more convincing if she hadn’t been exhaling smoke at the time.
Lieutenant Bridge chuckled, reaching for the pipe. “Then you won’t mind if I have some.” He took a puff with the appreciation of a seasoned connoisseur.
Kitty Sue blinked her long, lovely lashes in surprise. She’d heard that Bridge, who’d been known as a rising star among the engineers before his reluctant transfer to security, hadn’t been his usual impeccably moral self in recent months, but she hadn’t expected such unabashed debauchery.
“The life of a security man on the Enterprise is short, nasty and brutish,” explained Bridge, “so I may as well make the most of it while I can, eh?”
He passed the pipe to Kitty Sue before stripping to his jungle-print boxer shorts, revealing his manly physique. Kitty Sue, still sulking over the loss of her anticipated romantic evening with the captain, didn’t give him more than a glance. Scotty’s whiskey was about all the consolation that she had in mind. Though she had to admit that the cocaine was pretty good stuff, too.
About an hour and a substantial quantity of intoxicants later, Kitty Sue was definitely feeling no pain, and the party had grown to include quite a few crew members that no one could remember inviting. A Latin beat was thumping loudly. Ensign Lori Sue Spears, wearing a sheer and very short negligee, along with a pair of glow-in-the-dark earrings in the shape of a certain intimate part of the male anatomy, was torturing everyone with her atrocious attempts at karaoke. Kitty Sue was tempted to slap her, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble of standing up.
Ventura had set up a picnic table in front of the warp core, with a hugely overflowing bowl of tortilla chips, and she was busily slicing tomatoes for homemade salsa.
“That is one ugly-ass tomato,” Jonk remarked, pointing to a large and lumpy specimen with a long crease that made it look like a baboon’s rear end.
“So, it’s a vegetable. It doesn’t care.”
“An illogical assumption.” The calm voice belonged to Mariselek, a recently bereaved Vulcan widow from T’Lingshar, who had enlisted in Starfleet in an attempt to overcome her grief after her husband had met with a very unfortunate demise. As the result of an extremely rare genetic abnormality, his penis, which had been almost a meter long, had exploded during his pon farr.
“There exists a remote possibility that a tomato may possess some rudimentary form of intelligence,” Mariselek elaborated, pausing to take a long and very undignified gulp of whiskey. “It may be aware, to some extent, of its own being.”
“Dare you to find out.” Jonk’s chuckle was interrupted by a belch. “Try a mind-meld with it.”
“An original and fascinating concept.” Picking up the tomato and holding it carefully at arm’s length, Mariselek intoned in a slightly slurred voice, “My thoughts to your pulp.”
A few seconds passed.
“Well, does it know it’s about to become salsa?” Jonk demanded impatiently.
Mariselek’s face took on an anguished expression. “Oh, the cruel futility of mortal existence! Oh, the dreadful tedium! This cosmic insult cannot be endured!” Her eyes rolling up into her head, the Vulcan abruptly pitched backward in a dead faint.
Ventura deftly caught the tomato before it could splatter and restored it to its place on the cutting board. “Better put it out of its misery, then.”
Although no one bothered to try to catch Mariselek, her fall to the deck was fortuitously broken by one of several large pillows that Wildcat had brought to Engineering in the hope of a pillow fight. Wildcat eventually gave up on that idea and, instead, stuffed Lori Sue’s head into one of the pillowcases to shut her up. A heartfelt applause followed.
The comm beeped.
“Bridge to Engineering.” Chekov’s accented voice was immediately recognizable.
Everyone just stood around for a moment, looking both befuddled and guilty, until Marty Stu Bridge, who had been a competent junior officer in Engineering until his transfer to the dismal purgatory of Security, took the initiative to answer.
“Bridge here. Lieutenant Bridge, that is.”
“Lieutenant, the ship’s sensors are picking up some werry unusual wibrations coming from Engineering. An immediate inwestigation is wital.”
“We’re aware of the, ah, situation, and we’ll be running a full diagnostic wight avay. Er, that is, I mean right . . .”
The room erupted into uncontrolled giggles, and poor Lieutenant Bridge, looking decidedly sheepish, just closed the comm link.
“Ooh, that Chekov, he’s so cute,” squealed Lori Sue, who had finally managed to extricate her head from Wildcat’s pillowcase.
The ship’s counselor, Fizzie M. Ze, frowned slightly at what Ze considered to be misplaced enthusiasm. Ze was Starfleet’s first J’nali, a non-gendered species known to have a strong prejudice against heterosexuals. Although the J’nali generally avoided contact with gendered races, Ze was more adventurous than most, and hir passion for a life of space exploration more than made up for hir occasional bizarre responses to human romantic comments.
“Now, dear, don’t let it bother you. Just think about something else.” Ze, whose idea of pajamas was a prickly natural-fiber suit that resembled a barrel cactus, patted Lori Sue comfortingly on the shoulder. “Poor thing, always in the grip of those beastly hormones. Here, why don’t you try the salsa? It looks delicious.”
Lori Sue, quite unable to come up with a coherent answer to that, obediently took a plate of chips and salsa from the now unattended table. Ventura, having finished her duties as the official tomato terminator, had volunteered to sing backup for Kitty Sue in a rendition of “La Bamba.” Although Kitty Sue’s Spanish was less than perfect, her lovely melodic voice made up for it.
“Arriba! Arriba!” Kitty Sue sang.
Cracking open the last bottle of the pilfered whiskey, Wildcat inquired, “Anybody know what happened to Martin J. Stuart Winter? Thought he’d’ve been here by now.”
“Got no pajamas,” explained Bridge, scratching his butt. “Always sleeps in the nude. I offered to lend him a pair, but you know how particular he is.”
Wildcat just shook her head. “I heard that he spends his evenings drinking cheap booze and writing detective stories, on an ancient typewriter, if you can believe that. They ought to give us medals and hazard pay, just for some of the characters we have to serve with, you know? And guess what, I heard Gilly Sue Shalos managed to collapse from overwork yet again, very dramatically and right in front of Spock, of course.”
The buzz of conversation abruptly died down, allowing Kitty Sue’s voice to soar throughout the room.
“Yo no soy marinero, soy capitan . . .”
Facing away from the door, Kitty Sue didn’t see it open behind her, but she couldn’t miss the change of expression on the faces of her audience.
“Don’t look now,” hissed Bridge, trying to melt inconspicuously into the nearest console, “but El Capitan just walked in.”
Kitty Sue’s voice trailed off into an anguished squeak. A moment later, Ventura shut off the music.
In an instant, Engineering was so quiet that you could have heard a bobby pin drop.
Lori Sue Spears, trying in vain to pull her nightie down far enough to conceal the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear with it, whimpered, “Oops, I did it again.”
Kirk surveyed the assembled miscreants before fixing his gaze on Kitty Sue.
“I believe you are the ranking officer in Engineering on this shift, Lieutenant Jung.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” That’s it, Kitty Sue thought in utter misery. My career’s over, and the worst of it is, now I’ll never get to sleep with the captain.
“Do you have any explanation for your gross dereliction of duty, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
Kirk glanced down at a bottle near his right foot. “Whose whiskey?”
“Commander Scott’s, sir.”
“Guilty of theft as well, I see.” The captain opened a comm channel. “Kirk to Scott. Report to Engineering at once, Mister Scott.”
Lori Sue, abandoning her futile efforts to tug her nightie into a semi-decent position, ventured, “Permission to get dressed, sir?”
“Not until I’ve finished with everything I have to say to you.”
Too bad this isn’t a Klingon ship, Kitty Sue thought. Then he’d just shoot us all and be done with it. Although only a few minutes had passed before Scotty arrived in Engineering, it seemed as if it might as well have been an eternity.
Scotty, after one look at the empty whiskey bottles, sank to his knees in despair. “Och, me poor wee bairns.” Tears streamed down his face. “Lassies, how could ye?”
“I never touched a drop,” Jonk declared virtuously. “Not one.”
That clearly wasn’t true of the unfortunate Ensign Britta Sue Bjarff, who barely missed Kirk’s feet when she started puking uncontrollably.
“You have all,” thundered Kirk, stepping out of the line of fire as he turned his attention back to Kitty Sue, “committed offenses for which you richly deserve to face a court-martial. A full description of this deplorable incident is not a report I look forward to making.”
Kitty Sue, trying to keep her dignity as best she could under the circumstances, resolved that no matter what, she wasn’t going to plead for mercy.
After a moment of silence, broken only by Scotty’s heartbroken sobs and Britta Sue’s retching, Kirk continued, “Or I could impose, shall we say, a less formal punishment, and keep this sorry matter out of your permanent service records. Lieutenant Jung, I want you to go immediately to Storage Locker 7B and bring back the tool kit you’ll find there.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Feeling tremendously relieved to escape the scene of her total humiliation, if only briefly, Kitty Sue got back into uniform and had already arrived at the storage locker before she really started wondering just what the captain intended to do. The tool kit, which had a secure lock that she couldn’t manage to pick, provided no useful information. Either she’d lost her touch with a bobby pin, or more likely, she was just too drunk.
On her way back to Engineering, the proverbial bolt of inspiration struck Kitty Sue, and she made a quick detour to her quarters. Yes, there it was in her makeup kit, the carnation-scented Kirk-attracting perfume, just waiting for a good opportunity to get near the captain. Like right now. Maybe this evening wouldn’t be a total loss after all.
She splashed on enough of the stuff so that a visitor might easily have mistaken her quarters for a June garden, and then she made a beeline for Engineering, drumming her fingers impatiently against a wall of the turbolift. The damn thing had never seemed slower.
By the time she got there, Britta Sue’s vomit had been almost completely cleaned up by an unfortunate swabbie whose name no one ever quite seemed to remember. The empty bottles had been gathered up into a pile at which a glum Scotty was staring, with a face as mournful as a basset hound caught out in a thunderstorm. Engineering looked almost normal again, but for the pajama-clad and exceedingly nervous crowd. Not to mention the mysterious tool box.
Kirk took the box from her without a word and placed his thumb across the identifier. The latch clicked open easily, and after a dramatic pause, Kirk opened the box to reveal its contents.
Kitty Sue’s eyes grew hugely wide at the sight of Kirk’s unorthodox tools of discipline, nestled into a warm red velvet lining as if they were precious treasures. There was a black leather paddle, sparkling with tiny, prickly studs. And next to it, a wooden switch, and a flog that held a myriad of small knotted whips. She almost swooned with excitement. Never in a million years would she have dared to dream that her captain, her beloved captain, would personally grace her unworthy buttocks with the touch of such elegant implements.
“Lieutenant Jung, prepare to be disciplined.”
Of course, she couldn’t leave her uniform on; the very thought was almost sacrilegious. Kirk watched with evident appreciation as she stripped back down to the lace teddy. Was the perfume already starting to arouse him? As for her own feelings, she was somewhat surprised that she hadn’t just melted down into a spontaneously evaporating puddle on the deck.
“Sir, which one . . .”
A slight frown creased Kirk’s brow. “The selection is not open to discussion, Lieutenant. Now, you may bend over Commander Scott’s desk, which I assume was the scene of your little act of larceny.”
It had been too much to hope that he might actually turn her over his knee. Still, her rump quivered in happy expectation of its imminent fiery fate. She submissively turned around, the thong panties leaving nothing to Kirk’s imagination.
The temptation to peek was almost too strong to resist as she heard the rustling sound of some item slowly being lifted out of the box. Leather, it sounded like. The paddle. Ooh, yes, it just had to be. Although she still couldn’t quite believe that Captain James T. Kirk was actually going to . . .
WHOOSH!
The paddle descended expertly in a fluid motion, smooth side down, and struck Kitty Sue’s right buttock with a resounding whack.
That exquisite sensation, the sting of pain intimately intermingled with the all-consuming pleasure of her body’s overwhelming desire, was almost too much to be endured. Before she had time to truly savor her moment of impossible good fortune, Kitty Sue felt a matching explosion ignite a conflagration in her other butt cheek. Again and again Kirk wielded the paddle, thoroughly punishing her oh-so-willing posterior. Kitty Sue shrieked in delicious agony as the sixth blow descended.
And Kirk wasn’t finished yet.
Innumerable tiny darts impaled her flesh as Kirk reversed the paddle and favored her already well-warmed fanny with the studded side. The delight of it was beyond anything she could ever have imagined. Her ecstatic cries, as her body began to shudder with the force of what had to be the best climax of her life, could probably have been heard across several decks.
Not surprisingly, there wasn’t a peep to be heard from the astonished crowd. Unless you cared to count a cozy little nestful of pink Peeps that had taken up residence on the inertial damping controls.
Ventura, pulling up her nightie to reveal a nicely rounded bare bottom, waited in obvious anticipation for her own moment of delight. She couldn’t control her frustration when Kirk gave her nothing more than a few desultory swats with the smooth side of the paddle.
“Sir, that’s not fair! You gave Kitty Sue a much better spanking!”
“Ensign, I didn’t grant you permission to speak.”
THWAK!
“A considerable improvement, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“You are pathetic beyond words, Ensign Ventura.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kirk glanced toward Scotty, who was no longer sobbing in despair, although he still emitted a very deep sigh from time to time.
“Mister Scott, would you care to assist in disseminating discipline?”
Now that two of the obvious ringleaders had already received their whacks, Scotty’s malefic gaze immediately settled upon Jonk as the remaining conspirator among the engineers. Murderous intent was apparent on his glowering face as he lumbered toward the captain’s tool kit.
A somewhat disconcerted but still fairly well composed Jonk turned toward the captain. “Sir, with all due respect, Commander Scott should also be disciplined. None of this would have happened if the commander hadn’t broken several regulations by leaving intoxicating beverages in an area where they weren’t allowed, to the detriment of the good moral order of numerous inexperienced junior officers.”
Kirk considered this for a moment, with the appearance of a man trying very hard not to laugh. “Yes, I believe you may have a valid point, Ensign.”
“I volunteer to administer the punishment, sir.” Jonk, now looking quite cheerful indeed, plucked the wooden switch from its soft velvet bedding.
The chief engineer’s hands clenched in rage. “Ye filthy verminous bugger, ye’re nae goin’ tae come across me arse wi’ that bloody shillelagh . . .”
Jonk, in serious need of allies, glanced around the room and finally settled upon Bridge, who had managed to slip back into his uniform while everyone was distracted.
“Lieutenant, may I request your assistance in restraining Commander Scott?”
The punch that Scotty promptly aimed at Jonk’s head didn’t quite connect, as Jonk was quick to duck, but the unfortunate fedora went flying into the salsa bowl. Bridge, who just happened to be a martial arts expert in addition to his many other talents, soon had the older man subdued as Jonk made good use of the duct tape to truss Scotty into a suitable position.
“Ooh, nice.” An appreciative Wildcat took the opportunity to pull down Scotty’s pants. “I always thought he had a cute . . .”
Jonk applied a final piece of duct tape across Scotty’s mouth as the engineer’s curses reached a deafening volume.
“Can I do it? Please?” Wildcat reached eagerly for the switch.
Jonk hesitated before giving it up.
“How about we take turns?”
An unhappy whimper could be heard from across the room as Kirk selected his next target, Emma Sue Benix, and set aside the paddle in favor of the flog. The poor woman stared at it, aghast, and began to babble frantically.
“Sir, is this really necessary? I promise to make full restitution to Commander Scott. In fact, I’ll provide all the senior officers with anything desired, including my perfect scrambled eggs.”
“A delightful suggestion. I hope you won’t need to sit down in order to cook them.” Kirk chuckled as he took a step forward, raising the flog.
Emma Sue’s yowls finally roused Mariselek, who had until now been lying insensible in the heap of pillows that the swabbie had gathered up. The Vulcan got to her feet, staring strangely in front of her and muttering, “The vine, the lost vine! So far from the spirits of my red, juicy ancestors!”
Kirk gave her a doubtful look. “Does anyone here know enough about Vulcan physiology to explain her condition to me?”
Lori Sue, with a perfectly straight face, suggested, “I believe, Captain, it may be described as a pun too farr.”
Kirk groaned.
Bridge, picking up the flog, took it upon himself to give Lori Sue an appropriate chastisement. The captain then moved on to Ensign Mary Rose Fraser, who had reluctantly pulled up her nightie to reveal a most unexpected sight.
“Ensign Fraser, would you mind telling me what this — object — is supposed to be?”
The unfortunate young officer, looking as if she might die of embarrassment at any moment, stared down at the deck and mumbled, “It’s — uh — a Wonderbum, sir.”
“Is that so?” Kirk lifted the paddle. “Well, Ensign, I hope you’re prepared to get your wonderspanking.”
Before long, all the partygoers had suitably sore butts, with the notable exception of the crafty Jonk, who had avoided discipline by diligently meting it out to others. Bridge probably could have escaped his whacks as well, but instead, he’d voluntarily submitted to a bare-handed rump-smacking from Yeoman Rand, in the evident hope that she would later offer to kiss it and make it better.
Carefully gathering up his tools of discipline, Kirk met the gaze of a bright-eyed Kitty Sue. “Given that you were the ranking officer during this debacle, Lieutenant Jung, I don’t believe that you have received sufficient punishment for your reprehensible behavior.”
“No, sir, I certainly haven’t, sir. I’ve been a very, very bad girl, sir.” Kitty Sue licked her lips. “Your quarters or mine?”
As Kirk turned to leave, with his arm around Kitty Sue, he glanced back toward his rapt audience and made one last remark.
“By the way, I am familiar with certain illicit uses of plomeek-scented air freshener.”
“You — you are, sir?” Jonk squeaked nervously.
“Of course. You didn’t actually think the senior officers had that much plomeek flatulence while on duty on the bridge, did you?”
And Kirk left the room, giving a firm squeeze to Kitty Sue’s still tingling rear, while the speechless junior officers stared after him.