"You'll try in vain, you can't explain the charming, alarming blonde
women.
They fascinate, they captivate, beware the amazing blonde women.
Be careful when you meet a sweet blonde stranger,
you may not know it, but you are greeting danger.
You'll try in vain, you can't explain the charming, alarming blonde women."
Marlene Dietrich - "Blonde Women" (Hollander - Rillo) - The Blue Angel
Who am I? It is usual, I suppose, to begin by giving you some idea of the person addressing you. I am lying on the bed in my quarters, doing nothing, contemplating the ceiling. I sit up, and from here I can see my reflection in the mirror. The person looking back at me has shoulder length auburn hair, quite pronounced facial features; a strong jaw, a determined expression. Eyes, blue. They change, shade to grey, in some lights, or, I am told, when I am angry. I can see my neck and shoulders, encased in the grey under-jersey of my uniform. Hair is mussed, from lying on it. That's what I look like. Who am I? Who are you? You, I suppose, are me too. The critical me. The outsider of me, the one who watches my movements, attempts to be aware of my appearance, physical and otherwise. Who examines my actions. The me behind my eyes. Deep inside and looking out at the world including me. Sometimes I, we, wonder how much of anything is real. It feels sometimes as though the me behind my eyes is seperate from the me that I project into reality. Burning through my gaze and consuming me. Filling me. The woman in the mirror sighs, looks resigned. We get up, matching mirrored movements and she vanishes from the frame. I pull on my jacket. Smoothing non-existant rumples. Head over to the mirror and she's back. We brush our hair and we're ready to face the world again.
"Coffee, black."
I gulp down some of the hot, bitter liquid and hanging on to the cup, stride out of the door. My walk portrays contained energy. It can be interpreted as ferocity, or enthusiasm, or efficiency. I stride down the corridors as though I own the place: which to all intents and purposes, I suppose I do. Confidence. That's what I think the crewmen who greet me on my way to the bridge see. That's what they're supposed to see, as I smile and murmur good mornings in reply. That's their me.
I enter the turbolift under the watchful gaze of more blue eyes. She watches me almost as closely as I do.
"Morning Seven." I'm facing front. I must look every inch the unflappable, capable Captain.
"Good morning Captain." Her eyes are still on me, I can feel rather than see her observation.
We walk on to the bridge, I'm smiling pleasantly, I hope, and I take the centre seat. Reports from the previous duty shift drift around and I pick out the relevant information automatically. Return Chakotay's greeting. Authorise a course change to go in search of useful minerals. Listen to Seven as she recites Borg data on the area we're heading into. Sip my coffee. Appear attentive. Co-ordinator of this busy hub of action. I'm on automatic Captain.
Mid-morning, head into the ready room for administrative tasks. More coffee. I sit at the desk and look industrious. I know I look efficient at my desk, I practice, picture how I must appear. Feel the gaze of the visitor by the door and see as they see. Rehearse the graceful ease as I relax back into my seat when someone enters. Make sure I always look natural. Poise, elegance and grace along with my authority.
Door chime.
"Come in."
I sit back as I look up, smiling.
"Ah, Seven. What can I do for you?"
"I apologise for my absence when you awoke. I had some preparations to make."
Preperations? I'm sure I'm wearing a slight smirk. I know my eyebrow is raised suggestively. It's not an unattractive look, and quite Captainly at times.
"We're on duty Seven. Will you tell me about your 'preparations' later?"
"No. Suffice it to say I have secured some extra holodeck time."
"Oh? Velocity?" sounding marginaly interested.
I don't suppose for one second that she doesn't see through me. She sees past the Captain, but I don't think she sees to the core, where I sit in my little box made of masks and wonder who and where I am. And yet I think she knows a little of me.
"No, not velocity."
I know she has the little box made of masks too, of course. I can penetrate the Borg one. The 'I'm not quite sure how to handle this' expressionless mask. I don't think that's who she is, but I'm not foolish enough to think that 'my' her is her either.
I am naked, apart from the leather restraints at my wrists and ankles and a
heavy leather collar at my throat. It has been tightened carefully. It is
uncomfortable, but it doesn't hurt, and it won't stop me breathing. I kneel
before my Mistress on the cold floor, and she observes me coldly. Here, now, I
cannot step outside and view myself critically. The masks have gone with the
clothes; I am anchored by the restraints and I am left naked, open to her in a
way that anywhere else would be impossible. I cannot tell if she realises what
this scenario does for me, whether she sees past the loss of responsibility and
control. Her leather outfit catches what little light illuminates us, glinting
over her curves. She holds a riding crop, slapping it lightly against her thigh
which is encased in the shiny, black leather of her boots. The boots with the
wickedly pointed heels.
"Look at me." she orders. "Speak."
"Yes, Mistress." I answer quietly, looking up at her as she turns slowly in front of me, taking in the tightly laced corsetry, the blonde hair.
"Hold the image of your tormentor in your mind. Speak."
"I obey, Mistress."
The image of Seven as she is now is not one it would ever be easy for me to forget. A tight black leather basque, laced down the back. Even on Seven's slim waist the ties are tight, digging into her skin. A black leather glove encases her right arm, her left glistening with the mesh of her implant. Thigh boots, whip, and a choker complete the outfit. Her usual strict hairstyle made to seem more cruel by our surroundings. She steps in close to me, lifts my chin, making me look directly into her impossibly blue eyes.
"I control not only your body, but also your mind and your heart. Remember that. Stand."
She secures a blindfold over my eyes and attaches the wrist cuffs to rings in the wall; the clicks of the locks ring in my ears. Then come the sounds of Seven's heels on the faux stone floor of the holodeck as she paces behind me; predatory. I feel the anticipation spread through me; it is not just the cold stone wall causing my nipples to harden. My breathing speeds up, the sound of it engulfing me, seeming to echo in our private chamber.
I hear the noise of her whip cutting the air and I tense, knowing from experience not to flinch away, but I can't stop my reaction completely. It does not connect. A light tickle at the back of my knee, as the tip of the crop is lightly trailed up the back of my leg and I relax against the restraints. Relief or disappointment? Too fast even for me to react to the sound, I feel the bite across the top of my thighs. I grit my teeth on the sharp intake of breath. I wonder whether she will make me count, or if she is still just playing with me. The second cut falls higher than the first, the third below. Then I am lost in the sensation. Each cut is placed carefully, precisely. Accurate and fast. Pain blossoms through me, mingling with my arousal, sharpening it. I am entirely focussed on her actions. Each painful caress connects me to her; each sob of pain/desire is a cry of belonging: an acknowledgement of her possession of my soul.
And suddenly it stops. I sag wearily, empty. I am breathing heavily. A feeling of exhaustion and relief mingles with almost grief at the loss of our connection. I am burning. She is not lost. The aftermath of her whipping lingers hot on my skin, throbbing in time with my speeding pulse. And then she touches me. The cool leather of her glove contrasts with the burning of my skin and I moan. Her tongue touches my abused flesh, wet and cool. Tingling as the cold air dissipates the moisture. Thrilling at the gentle attention. Her teeth clamp down and once again pain claims me. I'm whimpering now. Sensation controls me and I am a trembling mass of frustration, pain and anticipation.
I drift into consciousness, tangled in warm sheets and the embrace of my
lover. I grunt and quickly shift my weight. I get the feeling I may be prowling
rather a lot on the bridge today, rather than lounging in my chair. My movement
wakes her and she gazes sleepily into my eyes, beautiful blonde hair mussed,
eyes heavy-lidded.
"Are you all right?"
I smile. Sleepiness robs her of her usual reserve, and I can't resist the temptation to tease.
"I am functioning within normal parameters."
The implant over her eye quirks. It is her only response. I snuggle up to her and she kisses my forehead so gently, so sweetly.
This morning, when I sit up and catch sight of the reflection grinning back at me, my contemplations are not so maudlin. When the second reflection appears in the mirror, presses it's lips to the bare shoulder of the woman I see there, I decide I have plenty of time before I have to go out and face the day.