Disclaimer: All owned by Paramount. Not mine.
Rated R
The Victorians called it "The Little Death". That perfect moment of climax when the universe turns inside out and the only true reality is between my legs. Chakotay is the maestro; drawing out nuances of expression and prolonging the keening high notes of sensation until the only thing left in my head is that he must stop before I pass out.
That thick thrusting shaft, that swirling hot tongue, those talented fingers play my body like a violin. One crescendo leading inexorably to another, and god help me, yet another.
How many times can one die in one night anyhow?
Feedback? Please. Shayenne
© Shayenne, November 2000 Please email me to post/distribute elsewhere.