by Calico


Warning: bizarre pov. Nothing you can't cope with, though. Probably.

The first I really knew of Harry Kim was when I started getting bitten. Repeatedly. Every time he entered the room.

You see, I'm Tom's tongue. And in order to evade the embarrassment of an erection, I gather, he bites down on me hard and concentrates on the pain. It's bloody annoying. But, never mind.

Because until Harry came along, or until Tom began to get interested in him, I had a relatively monotonous, easy life. All I had to do was manage my taste-buds and help him make words.

Words -- they are simple. I don't even know what they mean, the Brain just sends me the impulses and I relay them. If I'm really interested, I might try and understand them -- with a little concentration I can widen my horizons and understand what goes on in the rest of the body. But mostly, I try not to poke my... nose... into another organ's business. I'm all caught up with my taste-buds.

And yet, before Harry turned up, I didn't truly appreciate that area either. There was a blurred rush of colourful taste and sensation while Tom was growing up; in retrospect it was luxury, yet at the time I hardly noticed. There was no savouring -- flavours were hardly explored before being replaced by another, wilder, taste -- Tom was a well pampered child who didn't notice.

And once at the academy, the flow of hurried extravagance continued. I wince, now, realising how soon that gratuitously fine French food became completely taken for granted, expected but hardly enjoyed. He had better things to do than eat, apparently. And I can still feel the textured scar he chose not to repair on the inside of his lip, where he bit right through it during the infernal incident which closed that chapter of his life.

After the accident -- well, he fell into heavy drinking, dulling my senses, and while intoxicated oblivion had been attempted a couple of times before, this was with purpose. Consumption with intent. Although I have to point out, I saved his life a few times then; detecting that rancid, bitter edge to the liquor offered by rivals and other rough types, to whom Tom was so casual about owing money.

He was numb, yet I was horribly aware. The flow of beautiful dishes, previously presumed were my right rather than privilege, was checked abruptly and replaced by unpleasant meals snatched through a haze of that bad tasting alcohol burn.

Things were hardly better on the Marquis ship -- although then even the drink was rationed away, and I experienced those rank dishes first hand and shuddered -- but then, in prison -- Well, I don't want to talk about it. It was an insult, truly, and not something I wish to store in my memory.

But Voyager -- I understand this is the name of his beloved ship, now -- was a welcome change. To begin with.

Almost the first thing he did, on entering his room, was treat me to a memorable evening. My taste-buds were singing, with the wonderful array of intense, contrasting flavours, and I almost understood what the Eyes had tried to explain about when they mentioned the sunrise or an exploding star.

So for a couple of weeks, if I interpreted the time correctly, I was indulged in a vast extravagance of variety, rich flavours, luxury. They took me back to his childhood, and I began to appreciate tastes where I hadn't before. And then he suddenly began to lose interest -- I can think of no other reason why he might treat me so badly -- and let his appetites slide into monotony. Soup, mostly. Tomato.

I mean, of course, it's nice. It's rich, and can be luscious, and does flood me with water when the Nose detects the flavour in the air. But honestly, day after day, the same predictable dish -- I was bored. And sometimes, he'd drink when it was still too hot, and I'd be thoroughly scalded, and the horrible pain is the worst I've encountered. Of course, a dermal regenerator aids a quick repair -- but I still felt raw after such an experience.

And then suddenly, everything changed. The first I knew was when I got a little too well aquatinted with the jaw, quite a lot too often. Just my tip, caught between uncompromising teeth, a prolonged dash of pain spreading slowly through my entire surface. Pressure increasing until his bloody erection deflated.

But this was more than made up for about a week later.

Tom began a slow seduction. It was painfully slow, according to the rest of his body. But for me -- well, I just adore flirting.

Because Tom uses me a lot -- slowly outlining his lips with a pointed tip, delicately licking his fingers during a meal -- oh, wait. I could go on, but I must tell you about those meals. They were ecstasy. Pure, extravagant delight. The best days of my life.

He started small, inviting Harry round for an extended version of their customary dinner together. Little by little, he began adding new choices and flavours -- beginning with a mere dish of olives, pungent and tempting in a rich olive oil, the flavour carefully enhanced by green shards of thyme, coriander, and a hint of lemon juice.

Delicious and addictive, to my palate, and yet made subtle by being interspersed with their usual drab foods. Gems hidden deliberately, just waiting to be discovered among their bland counterparts.

I gather Harry reacted favourably. I also understand this was Tom's aim, and that he replied with a shrug, and a claim to 'getting suddenly inspired' on random culinary occasions. Harry decided that Tom should cook the next night as well.

And I was made oh so happy, that next night. Tom tasted every dish many times, and I served him well, detecting the minute changes in flavour and texture as he added a little more salt or pepper, as he fried onion with butter in a sizzling pan before stirring it into tomato sauce, as he ground fresh basil with some finely grated hard cheese, oily pine nuts and yet more of the delicious green olive oil, as he squeezed a dribble of lemon juice over the steaming dish of sun-dried tomato pasta, then tasted the finished product with a smile. I agreed with that smile.

The cold metal prongs of the fork had impaled a single twist of pasta, warm and firm, draped in a hot, thick sauce whose flavour curled heavy and invading. Small chunks of onion, olives and red pepper were all delightful parcels of crunchy moisture within the overall thick smoothness. And as I explored, the fainter characteristics of lemon and basil and black pepper all rose, blending with the underlying tomato and harmonising excellently. A job well done.

That's the wonderful thing about Tom -- he did actually cook, replicating the raw ingredients and then compounding them to get the perfect balance of tastes and colours. And it was lucky he'd stored up rations, and had been doing so for some time, because ingredients as fine as these are expensive.

It would undoubtedly be cheaper to replicate the meal ready made, but this one night Tom was out to impress, with basic intricacies of cooking from scratch -- and Harry was very impressed.

That night, I got to savour a wine. Of course, I've experienced wine before. But Tom had never been in the mood to savour it -- always concentrating on other things and using the drink as a distraction. But sitting with Harry, who'd been suitably dazzled by rarely-paraded culinary skills, and had responded by dialling up this glorious dessert wine -- sweet, white, luxurious -- had forced Tom to sip slowly and enjoy.

Eyes inform me dreamily that Harry looked gorgeous, sitting relaxed at the other end of the couch, fingers curled loosely around the stem of his wine glass. Lips opening to sip briefly, an expression of satisfaction, eyes locking dark with Tom's, both sitting in dreamy silence, taking pleasure from that most indulgent of experiences: a fine wine and someone to share it with. But, however much enjoyment the Eyes found in their experience, I have to protest that mine was better.

Because not only did I get to savour a very sumptuous drink, later that evening I also managed to taste the paradise of Harry's delicious mouth. Oh, such a kiss.

I mean, Tom's body enjoys kissing. But as his tongue, having the vital role -- give or take a couple of lips -- I really, really enjoy kissing. And so I've perfected the art, as best I can, so that his many and varied lovers will stay with me as long as possible before resorting to more desperate methods of achieving completion. Though that's not always necessary -- my proudest achievement has to be kissing someone to climax. Or the same, but with Tom the one being kissed. Mmm. I love that.

Not that I don't enjoy 'more desperate methods'. Oh, I do, so very much. In fact, I like everything to do with sex -- the sensations, the flavours, the variety. Freed from the uncompromising prison of teeth, exploring planes of warm, salty flesh, teasing and tasting and probing and playing.

Not that it started so good. Tom's first kiss was a bad introduction to this world of treasures. Hurried, demanding, too wet, too fast, far too impersonal. In my opinion, it was too female -- I've always preferred men, though the Eyes disagree at times.

But, undeterred by this first oral disaster, he found himself another girl. Who was much more skilful. Christ, those memories are powerful. It's not that her tongue taught me everything I know, but she certainly gave me some starting blocks.

When they broke up, I just remember a flurry of mouths being tested against Tom's for a decent substitute. He'd find one, date for a while, and break up. Until he was seventeen. Despairing in the 'fairer' sex, he saw the light and turned to the other side of the population. At this point I was still quite naive, and then Tom found himself a really delicious mouth that belonged to a man I shall never forget.

Ahh, such a good time. The feel of those soft lips brushing Tom's -- I have a very strong connection to the other areas of his mouth -- was so enticing, and as they parted I dared lick a thin line against the firm bottom lip. Apparently he chuckled, but all I could feel was a buzzing vibration of breath, before his mouth opened wider and he invaded, somewhat.

From that moment, I definitely preferred men. Never mind that some of them are too hesitant or pushy for their situation, I just know that no female kiss ever rated higher than that first man.

His hands, I understand, came up to hold Tom's head still as he explored, but all I was aware of was the spicy flavour of his hot mouth, tongue sliding against me as he searched, perhaps for the secret of the universe, investigating and challenging.

And I damn well took up that challenge, if I say so myself.

But I'm getting caught up in memories. Basically, there were a couple of years of bliss, as a tongue. Sure, there were periods when the food was just dire, but I could hardly complain about lack of exercise. As it were.

And then he bit down hard, as he ruined his life, in instalments. For a while that memory of hot, salty blood was the only highlight for my poor taste-buds. His appetites had gone. Except two. And they were hardly gourmet.

He drank heavily. No thought for quality or flavour, just a blind search for oblivion. And while he'd always moved through people quickly, relationships better justified as flings apart from some notable exceptions, now he was on a roll. A minimum of three different bodies a week. Men or women, fucking or being fucked -- and yet I didn't see any of them.

He preferred fast and unconcerned, which meant no kissing, no exploring, just rapid search for insubstantial relief.

Actually, that's a lie. I did see some of them. The ones who wanted a bit more, the men who had some interest left after screwing him down, they generally got to hold his head level with their hips and I'd get introduced. Somewhat forcefully, but time has mercifully dimmed the sensation. It's over now. He tends not to think about it.

Shaken after one particularly nasty encounter, he backed off from people for a while. I hardly noticed being in the Marquis.

Then prison -- I don't really want to think about it. You could say it was all consensual, but then, considering the options, he wasn't about to say no.

However, there was one guy there, who basically saved it for me. Tom wasn't exactly fond of his fellow man at this point. But I myself didn't really have any of the psychological nasties to think about, and I longed for the old days of explicit heat and spice. Divorced from his surroundings, feeling only faint echoes of discomfort from other organs, I hungered after memories of good food, and sustained my faith that men could be fun.

And luckily for me, one exceptionally brutal figure took some sort of unexplained shine to Tom, and protected him. Not completely, but he himself put energy into fighting and winning, and mostly ignored sex. The others were put out, but they had other toys.

So when Tom joined Voyager he was vulnerable, and angry, but still owned most of himself, and scars heal quite well when you can fly your dream. Once again, he threw himself into women. To my surprise, I enjoyed it a lot; the softness of a woman's body is exquisite, and the musk and salt taste clean and sharp, delightful. Together with the sudden interest in food, these months were divine.

And then he started biting me, and suddenly I realised that a long time had passed since I'd tasted anyone, that the gourmet foods had faded from my palate, that I hardly acknowledged the god-awful meals served daily -- the mess hall? -- which I now understand were endured to save up the precious rations needed to implement Tom's long-planned seduction.

And with that understanding comes forgiveness. I no longer mourn for those days of bland, joyless food and no sex. He made up for all that, many times over. That evening (which is stored in my memory as the Sublime evening... indulge me a whim, okay?) brought forgiveness to him by the shipload.

Those flavours are as clear to me today as always -- sharp contrasts, the pasta and the basil and the olives -- and that wine, to follow -- and that kiss, to finish.

Yes, to finish, not to begin. He didn't stay the night. That evening, I got no further than the ensign's mouth, which actually suited me fine, although I gather Tom was left feeling a little put out. I also understand he dreamt that night -- but that's beside the point.

I was mourning the end of the wine, myself. I'd felt the glass tilted back, and realised there was no more. The heady, luxurious flavour was quick to fade, melting against my taste-buds in a rapid, glorious encounter and then sliding down the throat, irretrievable.

Later, I discovered what had prompted what happened next. Tom had locked gazes with his friend, felt a sort of internal whimper, then looked pointedly at his glass and back at Harry.

Harry smiled good-naturedly, amused, and leaned forwards to take the bottle from the table. Tom held out his glass. Harry began to tilt the bottle, but as the liquid began to flow the weight changed, and Tom's hand, unsteady with muted lust, swayed slightly.

Apparently without thinking, Harry's other hand moved from the bottle to steady Tom's, palm over the back of his hand, fingers incidentally slipping between each other against the glass.

And now I shudder. Because at that contact, Tom's hand jerked slightly -- some organs talk of electric shock; personally, I felt nothing -- and the wine spilt over the glass and over their fingers. A waste, in my opinion. But, never mind, because I am all in favour of what happened next.

Harry chuckled, and moved to set the glass down. Tom leaned forwards as well, making sure they didn't disengage, reaching towards the table -- I don't know what excuse he'd have given for that because it wasn't like Harry couldn't carry a wine glass -- but as it was, no questions were asked.

As they set the glass down, their fingers were still somewhat laced, and somewhat sticky too. Tom made his move -- reckless, but then he's like that.

Locking gazes with Harry, he made no move to disentangle as he brought his -- their -- hands to his mouth. I flicked out, drawing a random line over the tip of their threaded fingers, tasting wine and feeling warm flesh capped with smooth nails, as Tom moved their hands slowly across his lips. I had no work, I just let the sticky fingertips slide past. Apparently Harry shivered, and curled his fingers down, increasing and firming the contact but moving him from my reach.

No matter. Tom took one of his own fingers in his mouth. Ahh, I remember this so clearly. The tip cold and damp from my brief ministrations, the rest sweet and sticky. I could have just stripped all the wine from the skin in one second, but Tom was flirting, and I saw no problem with that.

So Harry watched, his hand captive, knuckles pressing against Tom's lips, as Tom carefully sucked the sweet residue from his finger. Then, eyes still focused on Harry, he drew back and angled his head, tilting down, this time taking one of Harry's fingers in alongside his own.

Mmm. The clear sweetness of the wine, contrasting with the salt of Harry's skin, and the fullness, with two male fingers against me, as I searched out every element of alcohol.

Probably, that was all the reassurance Tom needed -- that his friend would agree to having his finger cleaned in this manner meant he wouldn't be adverse to more intimate exploration -- but he was enjoying it, and so continued sucking, taking in more and more, until finally he drew his hand away completely, leaving two of Harry's fingers in his mouth.

Once again, I accepted the challenge with glee, worrying the fingers, sucking them deeper, grazing them gently with teeth --

According to the Eyes, Harry's gaze grew so dark, his breathing increased, his lips parted slightly, and it was all Tom could do not to grab him and -- but he didn't, and we continued, putting more pressure with his teeth and sucking hard.

Then Tom trailed the tip of his damp thumb down Harry's wrist -- very soft skin, I'm informed -- and found a spot to coax shivers from, stroking the vein in tiny, light caresses, to the same cadence as nibbling on his fingers.

I gather that Harry endured this for a couple of seconds, before closing the gap between them in one quick move, and as Harry leans in, Tom allows the fingers to slide from his mouth, and within the next heartbeat the vacancy is filled admirably.

Christ, that was an incredible kiss.

The first stage, very gentle, not even touching me, just parted lips fitting between parted lips, soft and reassuring. Though, that stage passed pretty fast. And you know how I mentioned earlier, that I didn't feel any kind of electric current or similar? Well, if I said that here, I'd be lying.

Tom shivered, and pressed closer. I am told his hands moved up, fingers curling through satin strands of midnight inky hair -- but I was unaware, because Tom's teeth had parted in deference to what has to be the best tasting mouth I've ever... tasted.

Dusky. There was a sweet aftermath of the wine, and a faint blur of acid just out of reach -- tomato -- but the underlying flavour was a low, rich musk, dark and addictive. I pressed in, enveloped immediately by the heat, feeling textures shift against me as I explored, eager, unabashed.

I don't really believe in shy kisses. Not when such a matrix of delights has opened up so willingly before me.

I gather that one of them moaned, because the silken wet heat vibrated around me, and Tom drew back and tilted his head in the other direction, finding the angle with practised instincts.

A mouth of furnace softness, enclosed in boundaries of strong, smooth teeth, opened to admit me as I returned full of expectation. Harry's tongue swirled against me, firm and satiny, challenging me the instant I invaded that mouth. Initiating a duel. Which I accepted, willingly. Touching each other, writhing and tasting, exploring the new territory, oh, yes, I felt flames in that kiss. They consumed, burning first in Tom's mouth then in Harry's, and back again, moving, enthusiastic and desperate for contact.

More in Tom's mouth, I was quick to realise. I soon discovered my counterpart's preference, for deep kisses, searing and searching, and I yielded willingly. Harry's tongue redeemed my faith that men were worth chasing -- because Tom's never found a woman who could kiss so thoroughly, so demandingly, and yet still feet so sweet.

Tom was pressed back into the couch, as they kissed harder -- and suddenly Harry broke off. Tom moaned a protest, and a hand came up to silence him. Undeterred, Tom sucked one of the fingers into his mouth -- but I didn't even get to touch it before it was withdrawn again.

Apparently, Harry laughed softly, delighted, but shook his head.

I was used in a brief conversation, and my unwillingness to be so far away from Harry's mouth was matched by Tom's reluctance to exchange these particular words. But he had no choice.

Because Harry basically, though breathlessly, thought things were going a little too fast, that he didn't know what he was doing. When Tom countered, leering, that a little spontaneity didn't tend to do people much harm, Harry replied dryly that he was allergic. (That is, to spontaneity, not to harm though he probably doesn't want harm either -- oh, never mind. You understand.)

Anyway, the upshot was that Harry wanted to wait a while, but that Tom was welcome to come round and eat the following evening, at Harry's.

Oh, my, that was a nice meal.

A plain rice, well cooked, not sticky or slimy, with a delicious, steaming sauce -- okra, peppers, onion, in a light spicy base, seasoned with herbs and black pepper. The slightly rough okra, plump and thin skinned, splitting from the slightest pressure to find the tasty seeds inside. Slick, heady flavour, wonderful contrast with the crunchy onion and peppers. Ohh.

This treat was followed by a sorbet -- and it became apparent that Harry wasn't exactly scrimping on his luxuries, either -- which was refreshing and tart, the lemon lily not gilded with syrup.

Tom had been nervous all day, at least I assume that was why he hadn't eaten. Although perhaps he just couldn't face Neelix's (is that the villain?) food after the splendour of the previous evening. Anyway, the hunger just added to the experience. I was flooded with wet craving from the first scent, as Tom stepped through the door to his friend's quarters.

As the last mouthful of lemony ice melted on me, I felt a sudden tension stiffen Tom's casual pose. And the bastard bit me, so I knew exactly what was happening.

However, Harry elevated himself to hero status in my opinion, when he returned from disposing of the dishes and took Tom's head in his hands and kissed him straight out. A second electric shock, I can't deny it.

Tom's teeth parted instantly, and the pain faded from me even as Harry's tongue reinitiated it's command over me. Sharp lemon rushed around me, the heat of Harry's mouth making it taste sweeter, the musky undertone lifting the flavour and deepening this heart-stopping experience. Then the echoes of the meal blended away, and I was left with the rich, curling flavour of Harry's mouth, dizzying Tom, exciting me.

I welcomed my counterpart as it entered Tom's mouth, and for a second we simply roved over each other, absorbing every sensation, desperate to rediscover the taste, friction slowing things down even as it warmed them up. Then Harry's tongue pushed deeper, and Tom started sucking harder, and I felt little ribbons of jealousy for whoever had taught this tongue how to kiss so well.

Hot, restless, deep -- attacking but caressing, a blade wrapped in velvet carving me into frantic, brilliant submission. A spur of the moment retaliation was combated with a gentle nip of lips, and Tom moaned helplessly at the small pain.

Finally, still too soon, Harry drew back, and the two men took brief stock of what was happening. So did I.

I discovered, after a brief concentration and sharing of notes with other startled senses, that Tom had been manoeuvred backwards into Harry's bedroom, that they'd divested all their carefully chosen clothes but had to part briefly for actual removal of their tops. Ah. That would have been that momentary, cotton-flavoured caress, then, before addictive wet heat returned.

So now, naked on Harry's bed -- apparently the boots were a problem, by the way -- they were entwined together and gasping and blood was pounding...and Harry broke off, and looked Tom directly in the eye.

Another quick discussion. Ears gloat over the cracks in Harry's voice, the quaver which betrayed the undertone of lust that thrummed beneath the words.

Not a complicated conversation. Harry liked to do things by the book. And the book said, he didn't do one night stands. He wanted Tom's assurance that this wasn't a one night stand.

And evidently Tom agreed, because suddenly I got to taste Harry's mouth again, that dusky flavour rushing up to meet me, tongue sliding over me and claiming my surroundings as its own. Well, I don't care. I'm very happy to cohabit. In fact, it would be great, as long as Harry stayed attached to the other end...

Then that kiss ended, and a flurry of sensations began.

You know orgasms? Well, that's about the only time I feel everything connected all over Tom's body. All the nerves, all the veins, every cell scorching into an ecstatic oblivion. It's great!

And, in the run up, I start to feel all the touches to his erection, to his nipples, and all the shivers and prickling heat, every response flashing through me like luminous shards of molten glass.

And so now, with Tom on top, determined to draw every last whimper out of his friend until he's all whimpered out and has to resort to involuntary moans, I'm beginning to feel flickers of sensation in the same way the Eyes are aware of things in their blind spot.

Tom leans down, and I lick Harry's neck. I know his head's fallen back, from all the increased awareness, and I'd grin to myself smugly if I had the time. But I'm somewhat pressed for time -- urgency is warring with oxygen for air-space around these two.

I continue down the planes of warm skin, tasting the musk and salt that springs to the surface under me, feeling the powerful flutter of a fast heart, until the smooth, slick expanse is interrupted by a small, contracted nipple.

Almost a pity I can't feel the transition as soft flat tissue raises and firms to the small, tempting button, and yet -- I swirl around it, memory surfacing sharply of similar journeys, teasing the hot nub of tight, puckered flesh, grazing it gently with careful teeth before lifting away. Blowing cold -- feels like ice, Tom knows from experience -- and then returning, repeating, until finally sucking hard.

I'm told, in a satisfied relay, that Harry gasps and moans at this.

When I begin to lift off again, his chest arches up to follow me, and I feel Tom's lips split in a grin as he notices. Quickly, we switch to the other side. The salt, which had been cleaned away from the first nipple, was strong again here, and I lap at it before continuing the task.

Ahh, he is so responsive.

I linger there, receiving the sweet relays that talked of sighs and moans, of fingers fluttering helplessly over Tom's head, indecisive of whether to encourage or push away.

At last, I trail a teasing path downwards again, briefly investigating his navel -- I much prefer ones that go in than out, more satisfying to probe -- and then suddenly I'm tickled by wiry hair curling and tangling.

Oh, of course. In my delight, I'd actually forgotten this. But, how could I? This is the best bit...

I can feel, as Tom applies a torturous lesson of restraint, Harry's hips surging up as I edge down inch by inch. The flavour here is stronger, more musk than salt, hot and heady and overpowering and inviting.

Tom lifts away, and then I draw small circles on Harry's inner thigh. Light touches, with intention to tease, velvet butterflies and breath of snowflakes and fire.

Then evidently we take pity, or perhaps our collective erection convinces us, because there is an unanimous decision to go down on him right now, cutting short an eternity of teasing wet feathers.

Ahh, god. I've waited so long, since that first painful introduction to the world of lusting after ensign Kim, to taste this. A single long lick reaffirms my slightly sceptical realisation -- yes this one's big. Wow.

I reach the head, feeling the skin hot and tight against me, reaching the treasure of flavour at the tip, licking it eagerly. Heady taste, hot, pervading, unbearably addictive. Liquid musk -- I probe the slit, cautious in case he's oversensitive, but unable to resist the search. Which proves successful -- yet more fluid is released to my attention.

Ohh. I could do this all day. But sadly, Tom's not that cruel. Harry's bucking, grinding, beneath me, held in check by Tom's hands, which is in itself failing, as Tom gets more and more overwhelmed by reality. A stray thought flickers through me -- aah, there's a naked Harry Kim letting me suck his cock -- and I feel a whole load more shivers.

And now I can't resist, I slide down, taking him in until he's hot the length of me, head bumping the back of Tom's throat. Okay, so this won't work. He's too long, at least for now. Back off, tilt to side, wrap around him like that instead. And lick, and nibble, gentle blow, pointed tip trace that full vein, and nibble and lick again, and suck -- now. Mmm, I like that shudder. Ohh, though, message from brain: not long now. No, I bet not.

Tom's grip fails momentarily, and he surges upwards. Okay, a brief gag, never mind... evidently Kim hasn't had much experience getting head -- at least, getting it and keeping still. There again, he's not grabbing Tom's hair or anything -- and under these conditions, you can forgive him a little slip. I can, anyway. There again, I quite like rough.

I work my way down then up the shaft again in quick kisses, open-mouthed and sliding, feeling the skin quiver and tighten further against my touch. God, there's power, in being a tongue, in this situation.

Reaching the top, pausing, sucking up the fresh pearl I've evoked during my journey, all the signals come together and Tom relaxes his throat, sucking him back, deep, and I'm flattened against the bottom of his mouth by firm hot flesh, and Tom's swallowing hard.

Damnit, because Harry comes in two sharp jerks, right at the back of Tom's throat, so I hardly taste a thing. Still, cleaning up -- long licks, careful not to rasp on over-sensitised skin -- fills my surroundings with heavy musk, thick taste curling, strong treasure overwhelming as I commit it to memory.

A moment's rest, then kisses, soft and light, growing heavier, and I can feel the tingles as Tom involuntarily presses his cock into Harry's warm, slick stomach. The flavour of Harry's mouth, and the flavour of Harry's come -- I offer it to his tongue, which accepts gratefully, sliding against me, saying thankyou. A moment's foray into Harry's mouth, stealing the kiss while the other's too lazy to retaliate -- just probing, sharing, interested but not fervent.

Gradually growing fervent. And sliding back into Tom's mouth -- I definitely don't complain, because this man kisses like a dream when he's demanding, and I love it.

Suddenly I feel a rush of tension, and gather from the other organs that Tom has located lubricant with his long arms, and is now preparing his friend for his entry. A momentary surprised resistance. Yet, according to Tom's fingers, who are mostly raving about the agonising heat, the silk, the tight slick world, so slow to breech, satin furnace -- Ahem. According to Tom's fingers, Harry succumbed pretty quickly to insistent fingers coated in warm gel.

Something I could deduce for myself, a moment later, because soon he's moaning against me, vibrations from the tongue beside me; Harry's moving and gasping, and then we draw apart, and he's turned over, I guess, because suddenly I've got an expanse of delicious back and neck to explore and no mouth. A shame, and Tom's lips are tingling from the farewell pinch of teeth, but there's this great replacement. I vary; long licks, sharp nibbles on vertebrae, interspersed with short, fluttery teasing, and Tom's grinning as Harry writhes beneath my playful ministrations. I can feel his breathing quicken, as his back moves, and as the Ears delight in the ragged shuddery gasps.

And then threads of intoxication flash through Tom, as he enters, and his teeth graze the nape of Harry's neck, and he's trying not to bite, but he's at the end of his control.

Only a few deep movements, fast and hard, before everything rises in an incredible rush of pleasure, and I am toe and ear and blood vessel, and it's sheer ecstasy, and then falling into a deep, forgiving black.

God, that was a good time. That first night with Harry, learning his taste and texture until I could recognise it blind -- well, I am blind, but you know, I could distinguish it from a million others.

And there followed about three weeks of They kept it secret, continued going to Sandrine's and flirting with the women (at least Tom did. Harry just didn't give up his blush) and making like there was nothing going on.

Because both felt it was so precious, yet so very fragile, and they didn't want to risk public outcry or disapproval to taint the experience.

They just didn't appear in the mess hall in the evenings, very often. Both made more and more outrageous bets, in order to fuel their good-food addiction. Ahh, glory on a plate, and in a bed.

And then, to my alarm, it stopped. My heaven faltered, and withered, from starvation. Now, normally I don't bother finding out what happened to Tom's old lovers. But Harry wasn't a lover to me. He was a lease to a life I wanted back.

And so I endeavoured to discover the reason.

Harry is on an away mission. And Tom, the stupid fool, is saving up for a really gourmet meal to mark their first secret anniversary -- a month, I think -- and so I'm being subjected to five days of misery. Not that I disagree on the anniversary thing. It happens to be tonight. And they've pretty much made up their minds, that tomorrow they'll allow the secret to melt into rumour, that they'll take things public. Uh, well, not take everything public... But basically, I haven't a problem with saving up.

I just wish he'd be a little less total about sacrificing my pleasure for the precious rations. I'd just got used to the good life.

If the truth be known, the only reason for me to tell my story is to get that hideous creation Neelix uses to insult the name casserole -- a really, really foul thing -- from my mind.

To get the last five days out of my mind -- the torture! None of my previous experiences of deprivation -- not even prison -- have cravings as strong as this for a break in the miserable monotony.

Misery depicted here by the memory of my sixth bowl of tomato soup. Oh, nice -- in fact, the first sip of the first bowl brought back some good memories of warmth and comfort. Since then...I miss Harry.

He could think of interesting things to do with a thing like soup. Many of them would involve me. Few would include that purposeless instrument they call a spoon.

And now it's the last hour, and I'm flicking over Tom's lips, and the skin is too dry and tight - caused by excessive licking, I think, because he's nervous and hungry. The smells of his 'banquet' are so tempting, so strong; spices have been taunting me, the aroma flooding through Tom's mouth for way too long, but he's adamant he's going to -- and now finally I feel a shiver and receive an urgent eager message from the Eyes echoing through Tom and it turns out Harry hasn't even bothered changing into normal clothes before coming straight from the shuttle to find his lover -- and I can't talk now I've been claimed.

Harry doesn't seem to care about dry lips. God, hot musk, raw satin, fevered exploration. Feels natural, perfect. Like coming home.

make a statement.

scamper off