The virus had hit me hard on the first day, so hard that it threatened to drive me insane along with everyone else. My mind had gone onto autopilot then, ruthlessly repressing my own urges until my body reached a new equilibrium. My Vulcan heritage hasn't always been easy to live with; I am constantly striving to find a balance between my instinct to show emotion and to hide it. It's maddening in and of itself, which might be another reason why I was able to cope while my crewmates didn't.
So now, I found myself in a position that I imagine a great many young men would envy. I was a lone male on a ship of the Valkyries, flung to some unknown corner of the Galaxy, lost with over sixty incurably horny women. One might ask, why the hell wasn't I taking advantage?
The answer was simple. I was afraid of opening the floodgates. I knew that if I lost control once, I might never get it back - perhaps it's the Vulcan in me, but whatever the reason, I need self-control. As a result, I had developed an intimate relationship with my own right hand over the past few weeks, but that was rapidly becoming unsatisfactory.
My solution was work. I spent as much time as I could at the helm, and the hours I wasn't either there or sleeping were spent in the gym. That was a mixed blessing, because I could expend my energy on the workout equipment, but also had to deal with scantily-clad females watching me with hungry eyes. I tried to maintain the illusion that the virus hadn't affected me, and it seemed to be working. Only Dr. Akira and Captain Lance knew better.
I sat at my station on the bridge with the navigation console slaved to mine, watching the sensor readings as we cruised at warp eight. For the past month, it had been a waiting game, as we warped through a long stretch of nothing. Space really is very empty.
"Status report!" called the Captain. "Helm?"
"We're cruising at warp eight," I replied instantly. "Sensors are continuously scanning for possible M-class worlds. No response yet."
As she took status from the other stations, I returned to my own thoughts, much as I would have preferred not to. Lately they'd been drifting toward Minya, the strange alien woman we'd brought on board. I hadn't even seen her until about a week after the virus attack, but once I had, I was smitten. The rumor was that she was a genetically enhanced being designed for sexual service, that her chameleiod ablility was only the tip of the iceberg. She was said to be a shape-shifter as well. Her current appearance, that of an overtly busty human woman, was geared to her last clients. And I had to admit, they had good taste, even if breasts the size of watermelons weren't something in my usual experience.
I tried not to watch as Ensign Amasova practically ran across the bridge to the Captain's ready room in order to relieve herself. There was too much of me that wanted to help her with the task, and every other woman on the bridge while I was at it.
My manhood was rock-hard in my uniform trousers (it was hard practically all the time now). I tried to turn my thoughts away from Minya or any of the other women on board and focus on my tasks.
Just then, the alert on the Captain's chair sounded. "Report!" she called out. I looked over my boards to see what we'd come across.
|