Warning by MishRocks:
This is, perhaps, the nerdiest Fight Log you may ever read (but we had a BLAST writing it!). Upon completing this chapter, you MAY have an irresistible compulsion to move into your parents’ basement and debate what you should wear to next year’s Comic-Con You have been warned….
It’s August, 2267. I don’t know the stardate—-I always had trouble calculating it, even at the Academy. It’s all still pretty new to everyone. I know that Stardate 0000.0 began on Tuesday, April 25, 2265, at 00:00 hours. The lowest possible Stardate-to-year ratio is 2635.10833 Stardates per year (at least 7.21468749 Stardates per day, or less than 0.138606142 day per Stardate).
Therefore, one Stardate is no more than 11,975,570.7 milliseconds (0.138606142 day = 11,975,570.7 milliseconds). Given the above starting point and the assumed ratio of 2635.10833 Stardates per year, it is possible to calculate the calendar date. Maybe Mr. Spock can do this in his head—-but me—-screw it. I’ll just access my calendar! http://trekguide.com/Stardates.htm
Two months after graduation from the Academy, and I’ve just finished my sixth week aboard
We had studied missions of the crew of the Enterprise in many of our classes. The exploits of its first captain, Robert April, were legend. After that 5-year mission, we knew that Chris Pike had taken the helm, but his command was cut short by the tragic accident that confined him to a life-support wheelchair for the rest of his days. And then of course, assuming command after Pike’s departure, the brash young lieutenant who, it was rumored, was the only cadet ever to have beaten the Kobayashi Maru scenario prior to graduation.
James Tiberius Kirk!! I feel my heart race just at the mention of his name! The youngest Starfleet captain to date, and already tongues are wagging about him all over the galaxy. His swagger, his decisiveness, his, um, hot body! Rumors are that he’s fathered at least six babies in this quadrant, one with that beautiful but kind of nutty Carol Marcus.
But in the six weeks I’ve been here, I’ve seen the captain only once. The day we came aboard—-a formal ceremony with lots of flourish, but since then, nada. As a newbie ensign, I do not have my choice of shifts or assignments. I go where I’m told. And for the last six weeks, I am on third shift, in the auxiliary transport room. No, not the one where Mr. Scott hangs out when he’s not crawling up and down some Jeffries Tube, transporting James T, Mr. Spock, and that crusty curmudgeon Dr. McCoy here, there, and everywhere.
Nope, this was auxiliary transport. No celebs here. Now and then, I got to beam up some cargo—-whooo-hooo!. But the shift was solitary, and much of my first six weeks was trudging from my quarters at 23:30, staffing my shift by myself, monitoring the efficiency of the phase inducers, checking the sensors and logging in data regarding gaseous anomalies. And this isn’t even my field! Transportation services? That’s Engineering!! Red uniforms! I’m Science! Blue uniform!! But, as a new ensign, sometimes you fill odd shifts, even if it’s not in your area—cross-training they call it. Yesterday, I was able to beam over a cargo container filled with some sort of foul-smelling alien (ooops, we’re not supposed to use that word), uh, non-terrestrial vegetable matter—-the ingredients for some type of plomik soup that Nurse Chapel was experimenting with for Mr. Spock.
Yes, that was the extent of my exciting life aboard the Enterprise these days. I, of course, read the Captain’s Log each day (and fantasized about doing other things with the Captain’s log…), and knew that a few days ago, the Captain, Spock
I tug at the bottom of my blue tunic. Science division, of course, They call it a tunic. From my research back to ancient Earth
I am roused by incessant beeping from one of the panels, and as I rise to check it out, the great ship lurches, sending me staggering a few steps to the right. Bracing myself against the bulkhead, I make my way to the panel, and check the readings. Huh. That’s interesting. The specialized equipment I have here to seek out gaseous anomalies has detected a large concentration of ions. And I mean LARGE. This is like an ion storm, highly concentrated. I should lock down the transporter, given the possibility of the storm affecting the circuitry, but—-the concentration is SO narrow, and the small channels open from this transporter are so tiny, the odds that one would affect the other are minute.
So, abandoning protocol (like the great James T!), I do nothing, and in a few seconds, the ion mini-burst has passed, and all is well in the universe.
The mission was simple. At least, they made it sound that way. The last words I heard, standing in the transporter room, while the explosions rocked the Capital were; “Good luck, Ensign. Failure is not an option, everything hangs on balance.” My field of vision turned blue’ish white, staring at the scarred face of Political Officer Hikaru Sulu, with his Gestapo-like chilliness and cunning. And just as the familiar burst of light and slight vertigo of being beamed-out hit me, I saw the door of the room explode, the hinges bursting, and the heavy Trellium-D door flying across crushing one of the poor red shirts against the wall.
Behind the door, a bearded face of a Vulcan appeared, holding a phaser, pointing it at Sulu, who ducked behind a panel, and I could hear the screams. One calling for shooting the transporter, while the other yelled for protecting it by all their lives — and I did feel special for a moment!! All that fuss for me!! — Actually, not me, my mission, but hey!! I am the mission!!!! White flash fills my vision, and I feel my body disintegrating. I’ve been beamed before, and since the old days, the technology has been refined for minimal sickness-inducement. But… this was not a normal beam. The artificial ion-field generator took care of making me feel like every cell of my being was being electrocuted, and then everything went dark with a with a POP.
I don’t know how long passed, but when I woke up, I could feel the cold Transparent Aluminum floor under me, as I laid flat on it. My cheek smudged, my lips parted, in a pool of my saliva that slowly expanded around me. I
Ensign H-I-675582. Class of 2271. Service: Four years upon the I.S.S Enterprise, under Captain James Tiberius Kirk. Class-A witness to the Halkans-Anomaly.
For all that, I was handpicked for my mission. Besides first-hand encounter of this series of events that lead to the mutiny of Mr. Spock, the seizure of the I.S.S. Enterprise, and the assassination of the Emperor along with several high-ranking officers in the Administration. But atop of all that, is that medical records that I had the lowest aging index from all possible candidates. Putting bluntly, I have physically aged the least, and that could certainly facilitate the issue of infiltrating the parallel universe’s ranks, to get the needed opportunity to execute my mission. The assassination of Captain James Tiberius Kirk before the events of the Halkans-Anomaly.
I took few deep breaths, trying to take control of both my wits, and body, stretching on the cold floor, then slowly pushing up. I pushed my tunic down, to cover the matching color of my panties. Black boots on my feet, I stumbled to the door. Still dizzy, I pressed my hand against the panel, sliding it open. And stepping into the hallway. It was empty, good, I did not want anyone to see me looking this dizzy, or worse, question what I’m doing so close to the Engine room when I’m supposed to be in the transport room. I swallowed hard, the headache rapidly fading, and I pushed forwards, trying to remember the way to the station.
Just as I cut a corner, I spot a familiar face, a Vulcan, the same face I saw blowing down the door moments before I was beamed. Mr. Spock!! And I freeze. But his gaze just moves past me, and I almost sigh in relief, urging my legs to push forwards and pass him, when I hear his voice; “Ensign.” My heart skips a beat, and I turn. “You look sickly, your heartbeat seems elevated, unsteady. Reporting to the Sick-bay is recommended.” – “Yes
FUCK!! That was close. But at least that random encounter seems to have cleared my head with the surge of adrenaline it stimulated. And now, I know the way to the transporter room. I make my way to it quickly, passing some random blue and red shirts, who don’t seem to share the Vulcan’s interest in the young ensign, although I can feel few heads turning, which strangely make me blush, knowing they are checking out my cute body. I guess peekers are the same, no matter what Universe you are in.
I arrive at the door to the transport room. And I breathe hard. Here it is, my first target. My own self. The instructions are clear, getting to Kirk might take days, weeks, and I need to assimilate and blend in, no mistakes are allowed. And someone needs to be taken care of. I reach to my belt, to feel my phaser and FUCK… It’s not there.. I glance down, my heart skipping a beat. It must still be there on the floor in the engine room. I feel a bit of panic, the chance of running into Spock again on my way there deters me from heading back. I’ll just have to find another way.
I just walk to the door, pressing my hand against the panel, the DNA sensors affirming my identity, I am biologically identical to my ‘Evil Clone’ of this universe. And as the door parts open, I step inside slowly, seeing the familiar room, and the large chair, too big for my size, and even though I can’t see anyone sitting on it from behind, I know that my (your) petite form is probably concealed behind it. I step towards it. My fists clenched. I cannot fail — I cannot fail — I can NOT fail!!
“You’re sleeping on duty, ensign?” The voice startles me, my bootless feet up on the console, my hands in my lap. But I’m not alarmed. It’s a booming, authoritative voice—one that has commanded thousands, and thousands unequivocally do what the voice dictates. But for me, it’s soothing and reassuring, my anchor in a sea of galactic turmoil and shipboard drama. Without moving, my head below the back of the chair, the only telltale sign that I am actually there is the boots askew on the floor, and, depending on your angle, my cute toes sticking up from the console, their zebra-print toenails wiggling freely; I answer slowly, “Not sleeping—doing mental calculations.”
Strong hands turn the chair; my feet are swept off the console, and I look up, a huge grin on my face, straight into the eyes of James T! He reaches down and scoops me up effortlessly, pressing my body to his—his shirt is off, which is certainly non-regulation—but I don’t question it. Pressed against his hairless chest, I feel his hands slip beneath my tunic; his eyebrows rise, quickly discovering that my My Little Pony panties are balled up inside my boot. Pulling me closer, his lips brush against mine, his hand starting to rub me gently, my hips beginning to stir, to gyrate, responding to his gentle touch. “Mmmmm, James T,” I
The whoosh of the doors startles me! James T dissolves before me in an instant, and my feet drop to the cold metal deck. Trying to collect myself quickly and quietly, I eye my boots, placed neatly in front of the chair—out of view of anyone coming in, and close enough that I can slip them on surreptitiously if I needed to. I smooth my tunic, still sitting low, and feel—FUCK! the bastard got me wet—even in my dreams, he makes me wet! Hopefully, My Little Pony is absorbent, because right now there’s nothing I can do, other than hope it doesn’t seep through to my tunic and make a statement that this ensign REALLY LOVES her work! Deciding it’s better to get reprimanded for having my boots off than for trying to blatantly cover it up, I spring to my feet, turning and preparing to acknowledge whatever officer is popping in to check up on me. I complete my turn, and the words, “Good Evening, Sir” get caught in my throat, because it looks like, for a moment anyway, someone has dropped off a large mirror into the transporter room. Because there I am, looking at my
And then in the asylum, Kirk taken prisoner, the demented caretaker assuming his form with some type of shape-shifting device, fooling the crew for a while until Mr. Spock figures things out. But me? Why create a double of me? I see your—my?—fists clenched as you stare, no doubt a little taken aback at seeing you—me—standing in front of yourself. Yup same me. 5’2″, about 100 lbs, Longish chestnut brown hair. So cute!! You look, um, a little more worn, more tired, I guess, than I do, and, the superficial part of me kicks in for a second, and I actually smirk! But shit, I’m here in my bare feet on duty facing myself—all bets are off right now. I ball my fists as well, mirroring (couldn’t resist) you, dismissing the smirk. “Who—what—are you?” I demand.
I move close to the chair. I can see the boots there on the floor, one flopped over to the side, and then the toes, wiggling softly, in a motion that tells me that you are either waking up, or lost in some real wet fantasy. That’s how I would wiggle my toes anywa—EEWWW!! What’s… that… God awful print…. It looks like last week’s black pedicure puke on this week’s white pedicure to create this horrid swirly lined mess… Is that white polish with black streaks, or black polish with white streaks??? This universe is TRULY evil!!!
I feel my anger ebb, the fury flowing through my veins, and my plans of knocking you out then beaming you to the deserts of Halkan-prime change. No, I’ll fucking beam you straight to one of their binary suns. That atrocity of a paint finish has no room in this universe or any other. The multi-verse is much better off without that! But my fascination with your horrible aesthetic choices is suddenly interrupted when the chair turns and you bounce to your feet… SHIT!!! I should have fucking moved while you still slumbered, and I hear the voice. MY voice coming to my ears…. and it sounds… so different…
I mean… everyone is startled when they hear their voice for the first time, and not the voice you hear inside you speak, but when you hear yourself on a recording… There is a fucking reason SO many people out there think they can sing or impersonate others when they actually can’t, people!!! But the way you stare at me, and your jaw drops says it all. You’re as taken and startled as me. Your eyes shift, and I can see the confusion, giving place to even more confusion, then to a …. smirk?? really?? FUCKING REALLY??
You question me, and who I am, and I see your hands curl into fists…. Okay… I should have known… You are me after all… And I should have fully expected that your fear would fade quickly. But I need to act before the whole effects of the surprise fade. And without any kind of fucking hesitation… I charge at you wildly, my eyes spotting the large panel behind you. The metal edges, and little angle that it is raised off. The colorful lights bleeping and beeping (what’s the difference, I never figured…. But they always wrote it in the Textbooks of the Academy, bleeping and beeping..)
I just say in a brief voice; “I’m you… Just better, BITCH!!!” — And then charge wildly, bending my body at the waist, and I thrust my right shoulder as powerfully as I can into your chest, just below your (my) perfect titties, ramming my boney shoulder hard, hoping it stuns you and sends you stumbling back to slam your back into the metal with the mother of all spears!
I’ve been told in the past to calm myself; watch myself; control myself; pace myself; congratulate myself; reward myself; warned not to punish myself; and, on occasion, even told to go fuck myself. But fight
My musings come to an abrupt end as you charge me—just as I would do, trying to take me—you—me—by surprise. Coming in low, shoulder first, you lunge, hissing, “I’m you—just better, bitch!” Your shoulder plowing into my chest, driving me
One would think that a week’s worth of briefing, mental and physical conditioning would prepare you for this. The sight of seeing YOURSELF standing upon you, then attacking and beating *yourself* down… HA!! — Easier said than done!! And perhaps the one lesson they kept repeating to me over and over and fucking OVER, is that I’m fighting someone who ‘knows my only move’. How can I fucking out maneuver and smart that?? — I guess it’s up to me to find a way now, and like with everything in my life, just freaking wing it!! I spear you powerfully and you crash into the panel, clutching my sleeves, and I hear the double-grunt leaving your lips, from the shoulder to your chest and then the slam into the panel.
Grabbing your V-neck and whipping your head around a bit, I am gratified
mishrocks95: As I try to battle on those two fronts, you bring your knee up, slamming into my abs. They’re tough—firm and honed, and they absorb a good part of the blow, but the impact evacuates air from my lungs, pushing breathing from a labored chore to a painstaking necessity right now. And for the first time, I realize that this is not just a fight. You’re trying to kill me. And the only way I’m getting out of this, I think, is to, well, kill you instead. The why’s and what if’s will have to wait. A duplicate me—low-level ensign—there has to be a reason—maybe slipping in as a spy—who would suspect? But I’ll figure it out later, after I…um, after I KILL you. Not something we really covered in Starfleet Academy–more about honor and duty and all that—they tended to skip over how to actually kill another being—without using a
My head is dizzied, the smash of my forehead to the tough glass panel has truly dizzied me, and the haymaker to my cheek did me NO favors… But that’s an afterthought now when we wrestle on our sides, and I try to use one of the freaking FEW moves I learned in the hasty combat training of last week. One of the few moves that did stick. I mean, what kind of a moron would I be to forget a neck claw/choke? My left arm pushes your neck further back, to keep your windpipe exposed. And my knee rebounds against your abs. FUCK. I guess this Universe’s evil me is as religious about her core workouts as I am!
Your hand strangling my choking right hand, as it slowly loosens off your grip, then you swing your punches into my abs and firm, half-exposed tits with absolute brutality
Losing my grip on it, I just reach down and grab your dress’s collar, my neck arched back, I hiss; “Fine, let’s do this the HARD way then,
Your hand drops to my own v-neck, grasping it securely, as your booted foot comes crashing down on my one
The boot smashing down on your foot does the trick. And you cry out, no doubt from the sensation of your frail itty-bitty bones crushed under a firm stomp delivered by someone who has your own ridiculous leg power. Stumbling, falling, and pulling me with you. In an ironic as much as it’s iconic ‘drag me to hell with you’ gesture, sending us both plummeting and hitting the floor *HARD* I yelp in pain and roll away from you, feeling the fabric of the coiled up dress shredding and pressing uncomfortably into my lower back and shoulders.
We both spring to our knees, and despite your injuries, you match and mirror me, both tugging on our torn garments and tossing them aside. And yet, you reveal another proof of your evil. Those horrid four-hooved beasts, spawn of Satan no doubt, printed over your white knickers. My own blue ones clear of color, yet of a very similar cut. The bras, following the color schemes dictated by the bottoms reflect the white and blue tones. I see your fist rising, and mine are already clenched by my side.
Bruises on my abs and left tit, pushed up slightly in the bra cup, just enough to show a tiny bit of nip slip, we lunge, and swing our right arms in a mirroring punch. Fists connecting with the other’s cheeks at ONCE. A double grunt filling the room; “UUNNGGHH!!!” — Fuck Mishie!! You gotta top that bitch. My left following up with a wild uppercut to your chin, and SMACKKKK!!! Your fist hammers my chin precisely the same moment mine hit yours, and we both fly to our backs again, moaning in pain!!! Before rolling to our right pushing up to our feet. Blinking hard in pain, realizing what just happened! It’s like fighting a mirror!!
OK, I think, THAT was bizarre. It’s as if I just went
I scramble to my feet. A thin line of blood running down the right corner of my lip, turning the taste of my own saliva coppery. My tongue feels swollen. Did I cut it?? But whatever damage I caused seems to be replicated precisely on
And I don’t know if you’ve seen that and realized that you need to up it, but you turn and dash slipping your hand into your shoe, wtf, GROSS!! And hold it up, the heavy sole facing me, the other one swung around in you grip like a mace. FUCK!!! — I stumble back, glaring at you warily, seeing the sadistic look on your face, and I start to look around in turn. –! THINK Michelle… Fucking THINK!!” And oh… I see it… My own discarded dress, and I lunge at it, grabbing it, and I start to twirl it in my grip, turning it into one long rope, holding it. And while it looks comical in my grip vs your heavy-duty combat boots, it has a purpose.
Like some time-warped knight who stopped at a saddlery shop on his way to a jousting match, I approach with my booted weapons. The look on your face is priceless—arched eyebrows,
We rush the other, my dress-whip flashing at your face, *cracking* through the air narrowly missing your right cheek, but you surely feel the puff of air it releases, while our legs kick wildly. My boot drilling into your abs, while your bare foot into mine, and “UNNGGHH!!!” we stagger back, and I crash to my knees hard, watching you fly, and fall to your ass, groaning in pain. And I see my chance, I see it within your spread-eagled legs (oh my Gawd, did my evil twin HAVE to be such a slut too??)
And I pounce wildly, using my boots to propel myself and come crashing atop of you, my body moving in a semi-straddle, my right knee hitting the floor between your spread legs, my left knee to the outside of your body. My right arm swinging in a wild punch to you left wrist, trying to hammer it hard and knock your boot off your grip, while my left moves to *grab* at your right one, the one deeply embedded in your boot, to hold and control it down against the floor.
Groaning, barely able to move—the steel sole of your boot not only knocking much of the wind out of
I pause for just a second as you—I—gaze down at me, hair sweaty and matted, lip bleeding, welts on your chest and belly, and I think—shit, I am one good-looking chick! The thought energizes me a bit, and as you fight me to wrest control of my mace-boot, I bring my right knee up in
I land atop you, soft, creamy thighs rubbing together, and for a brief moment, I feel the brush of my blue panties against your hooved beasts. And the sensation does distract me. Detecting the large, wet splash stain on your centaurs or whatever manner of mythical monstrosities. I blink, my movements coming to a halt, not realizing that the cause for this leak is your wet dreams of James T!!! And the moment costs me. I mean, you are a well-oiled mean fighting machine after all!!! Your knee rising and thumping my back, sending me falling, to smack my tits against your face, losing my leverage and we roll over, and suddenly it’s me on
And the arms that were pinning your wrists down end up just holding them up. I tense my body, feeling the muscles flexing, only to be matched by yours — “ACKKK!!” I scream, seeing the rage and menace in your eyes. My eyes trailing to look at the river of sweat running down your neck, between the scratches and welts, and I twist right and left, but there is no knocking you off me by brute strength. And my arms needed to keep your boots at back, I lift my feet up, slamming them down, pounding my heeled boots on your calves wildly, drumming them repeatedly, my head jolting up, maw gaped, trying to snap my teeth at you right shoulder muscle.
FINALLY! This feels like the first bit of offense, er, defense, er, whatever, that actually connected for me. A gratifying feeling surges throughout my body as my knee solidly and forcefully slams into your spine, propelling you forward onto me, your firm, pert 32C’s pressing into my face (OK,this is just weird). Taking quick advantage of your stupor, I plant my right foot onto the deck and push us over, rolling you onto your back, me on top. Your hands still grip my arms as you attempt to de-boot me, but now, it’s to keep me at bay. Raising my torso up, I try and press down with my body weight—as you well know, not a whole hell of a lot, but I’m hoping that you cannot sustain keeping 100 or so pounds up and off you for any great length of time.
And I think it shows—your arms start to tremble slightly as I press down on you, almost drooling to totally flatten you, getting your arms to collapse so I can pummel you with my boots. So you, as I would, resort to Plan B—using your footed (?) boots to start to slam onto my legs, pummeling my calves with the steel soles fast and furiously; thankfully, your arms ARE keeping me at bay for the moment, as your head bounces up and you snap at me—I’ve no doubt that were I a bit closer, you’d have torn off a chunk of flesh. “Chomp away, pseudo-Mish…nothing but air!” I wince as your boots continue to pound into me, but I can take it. To move things along and weaken you further, I hope, I raise my hips, my cute ass in the air, and slam my crotch down and on yours, hoping that the angle and arc that I come down with rams the firmer part of my mound into your kitty.
Sweat beads forming on my forehead. Staring at your face.
Your words hitting my ears, just as your hips, tummy, and breasts grind down on mine, pressing and flattening me under you. And yeah you’re not fat or heavy, but you’re still an extra body weight laying on my chest; “The air is all in your head, you psychotic-
The firm, yet gentle
Slamming my body down on yours, doing whatever I can think of to pry my wrists from your grip—it all falls short—your grip is relentless, as well it should be. Because, Pseudo-Mish, once these arms are free, you are Federation TOAST! I’ll make sure your pretty face and tight little body are formally introduced to the steel-toed ends of these boots—they’re made for pounding, after all. I feel your body drop down flat after my pelvic pound, and for a brief second, I wonder if I may have you, finally! As your legs cross behind mine, I have my answer. So relieved that the pounding on my legs with YOUR boots has finally stopped—my calves feeling close to numb and no doubt pretty bruised and battered, I have little to anchor myself, as you initiate a huge upward heave with your hips, literally sending me toppling off your body and rolling to the side. I manage to yank one hand free from your grip as I fall off, the hand holding the boot as a mace, but the one ‘wearing’ the boot remains in your grip, tenuously, and I try to pull it free. Planting my bare feet in your side, almost forming a T with our bodies, I press into your side, your ribs, with my bare feet, your grip on my wrist the only thing ‘connecting us’, and I try to straighten and lock my knees—in the process pulling and stretching your arm—and mine, to a lesser extent—out as far as I can.
Loud hisses, gasps, grunts, and the strangest of sensations decorate this most bizarre of conflicts. There are friends fighting, besties fighting, sisters fighting, twins fighting, even clones fighting
And the fate of this struggle is simple, you seek a break, separation that would allow you to commence another round of swinging with your hammer-hand and club-hand. And I just can’t fucking allow it! I start to kick my right boot against the floor, smacking the ankle and sole against it to loosen it a bit, then I pull my foot out….
My right leg coming up between us, I push my perfect *CLEAR* pedicured toes against your Satanic hooved panties, slipping my toes through the material that feels damp. Fuck! I know I’m hot, but COME ON!!! My right hand clamping down on the boot covering your right hand and instead of resisting you, I pull hard, yanking on the boot with *both* hands, while pinching my toes on your panties and rolling my body back and away from you! Trying to pull that boot off your hand and peel those panties down a bit, or rip them, or punch a hole into them, or anything at all!
Pulling your arm with mine and pushing your body away with my feet—my ultimate goal is either to break free from
My eyes glaze with a glance of rage and insanity. Fuck this bitch!! Err fuck me… Or fuck her… or fuck us both!! I don’t fucking care!!!! Perhaps the ONLY thing that is making me feel a BIT better about all this is that I know that your skills are only a reflection of my own!!! We’re equally powerful and brilliant fighters!! — or… are we equally weak?? Hmmm… No no no… It’s the former for sure!!! I pull the boot off your right hand and yank it back, a little grin of victory on my face ,, my toes tugging your panties down a little sending myself rolling to my right, and I go over a full revolution, a smirk on my face, expecting to see you far away, huffing and puffing…
But WHAT THE FUCK?? You are just… there… still as close as you were, in
But while you just smile and grin, my hands, both still holding your boot above my head, swing it wildly, like I’m holding a tennis racket, sending the heel towards your cheek and temple with my own
SLAMMING my boot into your tummy, the steel-toe denting those nice tight abs I have spent so long honing in the gym, I feel a surge as your feet fly up in the air, (singing hey, diddle-diddle), and another surge—of foamy saliva as you spit out upon the impact. “Primitive BITCH!” I cry out, disgusted at the salivary explosion, and I slam the boot down again into you, wondering why the hell you don’t release my other hand and try to defend yourself. Your body jerks and spasms a bit as the second blow arrives, and I’m thinking…one more of these, and that might just finish things up! Won’t James T be proud
That did it! As my head rocks to the left, my body follows, no longer tethered to yours by the battle of the boot. You have one of yours on your foot and one of mine in your hand. I have one of mine in my hand, and I roll off you, trying to put some space, the final frontier, between us. And in doing so, my bare back feels the faux-leather (we stopped killing cows for leather in the 22nd century, of course) form of your discarded boot as I roll over it. As I complete the revolution, I snatch it up and roll to all fours, clutching the saddlery and keeping you in my sight at all times. I know what a sneaky bitch I can be, after all.
*THWAPPPP!!!!* The sound of leather, steel, and rubber smacking your face is just beautiful, and more so is the little imprint of — EEWWW!!! — the federation left on your cheek from where the sole emblem impacted. You fall off me and I watch you rolling, tugging my boot up in your other hand and raising it defensively. But I don’t wait, I need to recuperate and I roll to my right and rise up to my knees, holding your boot in my left hand, but against your two-booted stance, I need to even the odds… *THUNK THUNK THUNK!!* I hammer my left boot into the floor, loosening it and I reach down grabbing it, pulling it up challengingly.
Now, each of us wielding one of her boots, and one of the
And when I swing my left arm wildly in a follow-up, I take note of where your head moved, how it shifted, and I let go of the boot (yours), sending it propelling through the air aiming for your lips and nose.
Getting to my knees, I hold a boot in each hand, watching you get to your knees as well, and, seeing that you’re under-armed (under-legged?), you pound your foot on the deck to pry off the other boot. And here we are—both on our knees, both stripped down to our underwear, both holding boots as weapons—both, um, being me—talk about mirror-mirror! I feel the air on the top part of my mound, but try to pay it no mind. After all, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before! But my eyebrows shoot up as you start to rant—something about ‘my federation’, and the “Terran Empire” and sabotage. Oh, Bad-Wishy-Mishy, what a nasty trip you’ve been on! Is this my mentally ill clone perhaps, cells scraped off my tongue or something when I was asleep and cultivated in Khan’s old genetic lab? Ewww, I hope not! As we close in on each other, you swing your right hand/boot at my face, missing by a mile, but then follow quickly with a left—not a boot-punch, but rather a throw—actually, more of a whipping the boot at my head! Nice aim, me! The hardened sole of the boot cracks into the side of my head—my reflexes too slow to throw up a hand to block it. It hurts, but hardly debilitating. And now you’re down to one boot, your missile bouncing off my head and sliding over near the wall. I move in closer to you, swinging both boots windmill style, hoping to batter your arms and hands as you try and defend yourself. Feeling the boots slam into your forearms, bending your fingers with the occasional glance, I move in on you, wary of your own solitary boot.
I fling the boot and *BAM* It hits your head and it deflects flying in a little spin over one of the consoles to fall near the transporter. But instead of falling back, your head stops, then turns back an angry look at your face. THE FUCK?? Is she a fucking cyborg?? I blink, realizing that tossing the shoe was not my most brilliant of military strategies.
The cries only encouraging you to swing more, and I realize that blocking is not the way to go. Sliding my knees back to put some distance, I start to dodge and avoid, but you keep creeping in, and I know in such a room, I *will* be pushed to a corner soon. So I begin to swing the single shoe madly at you, with purpose, aiming as carefully as I can, instead of windmilling, and I luck out with a boot-to-boob, hitting your left tit, and one smacking on your left shoulder. But still, my success rate is half as yours at best!! And with that, I have only one plan of action. Instead of backing off, I fling my body at you, getting a boot to the temple, and another to the ribs in the process.
But I cut the distance between us, bringing us chest to chest, my right arm going over your left shoulder, and my sweaty, stained bra making contact with your own. And it’s a very hostile contact!! My right arm stretched behind you, I begin to swing it back, grinding the heel on the back of your head wildly, trying to slow you down. My left arm straight up down, between us, moving between your spread thighs, curling my fingers, jabbing them into your pussy, gouging the puffy, leaky sex with my short nails, and like a little five-pronged vise, I start to close my tiny hand in a fist, gouging my nails into moist fabric and bare skin alike!
Boots flying at each other, toes and soles banging into flesh—mostly yours—but you don’t back down. Swinging your weapon, blocking but trying to cut through the buzz saw of
And then I lose the second prediction as well, assuming that your next move would be to try and choke me or punch me, I am really off guard as your hand slides down between us and clamps down on my panties, claws out, digging into my kitty, nails practically cutting through the ponies and into my flesh! “AAAAGH, you demented bitch!” I cry out, trying to stave off the hammering into my head and the carving of my crotch. My arms drop to my sides, releasing the boots quickly so they fall flat to the deck, on their soles. Grimacing as your claw flexes deeper into me, I slide my hands into the boots, as gloves again, and slowly bring them up. WHACK!! WHACK!! Two more blows into the back of my head, and for a moment I see double–um, well, maybe triple—cuz I see two of me in front of me and then myself—whatever, I raise my arms quickly, stretching them out to the sides, and then bring them in just as quickly, hoping to sandwich your head in between the soles of my boots!
We get close, so close, far TOO close!! But can you truly be too close to yourself?? A question for philosophers and hologrammers for many eons to come. But right here, the only reason is the one of rubber, leather, and steel smacking into stubborn skulls and bodies. My left claw twisting and mauling your crotch, landing a good number of blows to the back of your head. I twist my nails wickedly and it just feels WRONG. I’m grimacing feeling that I’m doing this to myself, but come on Mish!! There is no time to be squea-Mish or subtle now. Then *BAM BAM!! Two blows slam on my head, and my eyes cross.
And I PLOP back to my back and ass, moaning in pain, clutching my head….
My eyes starting to water as you claw and rip into my pussy, jamming bits of torn fabric from my panties into me, gouging at my labia, a fucking sadistic smirk on my —your—pretty face. It’s that smirk that fuels the rage that ignites my booted hands into the sides of your head—soles and heels slamming into your temples and ears, and now, it’s me who smiles as I toy with the phrase Sand-Mish as an apt representation of what I am doing to your skull. I feel your body flinch upon impact, and readily expect you to simply drop to the deck, writhing in pain. But you’re a tough bitch—I should know!— and instead of dropping, you dig your nails into me deeper, and then slowly drag them upward, tearing through what’s left of my panties and cutting into my now-exposed sex. Another cry of agony explodes from my lips, and although I start to feel you fall back a bit, I bring my arms up and ready them to slam into your head once again. As I collapse my arms inward, this time aiming a little lower, hoping to leave impressions, literally, of
Like two gladiators in ancient times, when they were called boxers in the 20th century, dealing one last double-KO blow to each other, we fire the boots like pistons. Yours smashing into my temples and ears, sending me back, and me straight into the tied-up prettiest lips on the USS Enterprise, turning them into 2nd prettiest lips, after my own of course, and sending you flat back to the deck. We lay there, moaning, twitching, our knees bumping and rubbing, our legs bent painfully beneath us. The buzzing in my ears continuing, and I can feel some warm stickiness on my upper ears, where the boot nicked their shells to drip some blood down mixing it in my hair.
I blink, shaking my head, trying to get up, my abs still hurting from the boot plow to them, I shake my right arm and let the boot drop to the floor, pushing myself on my elbows, breathing hard, and staring at you, seeing you twitching, starting to rise, and I quickly slide down, not wanting you to see it coming. My fingers moving, feeling for your ankles, and I find them to my sides, wrapping my fingers quickly around them tightly, holding them in place, tensing my right leg, I fire it down, sending my heel drumming between your thighs, and straight into your naked and clawed up pussy!
Splayed out momentarily, the lower half of my body on fire, the upper half throbbing, I lift my head a bit, seeing my evil doppelganger splayed out similarly within arm’s reach, but neither of us moving other than a groan and a tenuous twitch. I hear the unmistakable sound of a boot hitting the floor, and that means you’re moving, so I start to as well. I am practically naked at this point, simple shreds hanging from my hips, only my bra somewhat still doing its job, although even that it a bit tattered and quite stretched. As I tighten my abs and start to sit up, I already know you’ve beaten me to it, as I feel your wrists grab my ankles, clamping down tightly. Fearing you’re going to stand and then flip me over to my stomach, I try to kick out, but the beating you gave my calves with that boot has taken a toll—my legs barely respond to my will, and at best I flail a bit in your grips. But standing is not your intent, it seems, as you stay low, pulling my legs apart slightly. I feel your own leg slip between mine, and I become wide-eyed instantly, pushing all of my pain aside as best I can. Trying to roll over, bring my hands down to block/protect my kitty, but I’m not fast enough! Your bare sole powers up the tunnel formed by my legs and plows into me—bending me at the waist as a guttural moan oozes from my mouth. My stomach feels as if it will evacuate its contents, and my hands finally complete the journey south, cupping and protecting my crotch, although friends, the horse is already out of the barn.
You scream and flail, flapping and clutching your wounded peach. And I quickly roll to my left, and start to scamper quickly towards your head. Watching you rocking and sobbing, knowing that the brief moment of blindness taking your senses from the aftershock of this vicious blow would last only few moments before you know where I am. I position myself above your head, just inches, and I roll up to my butt, sliding my legs outwards, and grabbing at your hair, giving it a strong PULL up, sliding your head just over my own crotch, letting you feel my equally damp pussy against the back of your neck…
My left leg curling over your left shoulder, and back, pressing my toned calf muscle against your throat, and my right leg, curling at the knee, locking my left ankle just behind it, and I tighten my body, dropping back, and tensing my legs, trying to knock you out!
Holding onto my wounded and torn kitty, crunched up in an almost-nude ball, rocking and trying not to sob, the pain searing throughout my body, I know I am at my most vulnerable right now. All I can focus on is trying to put this agony behind me and focus on you. Hell, I don’t even know where you are, which is hugely dangerous! Opening my eyes, I glance over to where you should be—or at least where I last recall seeing you, as we were both lying in proximity. But of course,—nothing, and you are not touching any part of my body yet. My pussy still throbbing but not quite as aflame as it was moments ago, I slowly start to lift my head, and then stop suddenly! A presence…one that I have not felt in many….FUCK!!
You grab a handful of my hair from behind, jerking my head up sharply! I feel my head being pulled and placed …in your lap? nope—oh, fuck. On your crotch. I can feel the sticky, viscous puddle on the back of my neck. My hands leave my wounded kitty and fly up as your smooth leg curls over my shoulder, your calf up against my throat. My fingers grab your shin at the same moment your right leg drapes over your left ankle, bending so as to lock it in place, and then I feel the vise start to close—your legs tightening around my neck…that calf muscle, alternately flexing, and with each flex, my airflow drops to almost nothing. Your body drops back—wise, as my next move was to raise my hands and grab at your face or breasts or hair… and you squeeze even more, your whole body tightening, muscles tensing, and I know I have little time left. I paw at your shins, try to rock my head, maybe so I can lift it and slam it back into your kitty—but your hold around my head and neck is way too tight, and there is no room for movement. My hands slide over your knees to your outer thighs, and I try and play your game—nails digging into to your thigh, drilling down grabbing and tearing ribbons of flesh under my nails as I rake your muscled thighs. My left hand slides over, closer to my neck and the softer, silkier skin of you inner thigh, and I do the same—tearing into it like a spoon into a fresh bowl of pudding, pinching and clawing, desperate to do what I can to escape this slow suffocation. As you increase the pressure, I start to cough and gag, working hard to suck in air, kicking my feet on the deck futilely…
I flop to my back. Grimacing, and tightening my leg. I see your flying fists, and they do look strange without one of them wedged inside boot like a
Holding your hair with my left hand still, claws dug into your scalp and tightening, scratching it roughly, pouring all my power in to subdue you. “SHHHHH!!! Stop fighting!! Just… fucking… STOP FIGHTING!!!” I scream hysterically… Unable to keep the calm needed to make my words as soothing and terrifying as I see in movies when someone has the other in such a terminal grip. My wet crotch rubbing against your neck, or is it your neck that’s rubbing mine. I just gyrate my hip a bit. A little bit of arousal easily identifiable on the front of my panties, giving the phrase; ‘Go fuck yourself’ another depth and meaning!
But we’re not fucking, sadly… Or happily… or whatever… No, and you’re not even done, your claws pushing into my thighs, and like freaking ice cream scoops you rake and peel my skin under the beds of your nails; “AAHHHHHHIIIIEEEE!!! FUUUUCCKKK!!” I scream, my head arched back, the red bloody furrows forming on my creamy thighs. Tears rolling from my eyes, but I grunt, rocking my body right and left, shaking you and trying to empty the last bit of air from your lungs, then I quickly ROLL to the left, sending us both flopping over, tummies and chests down, and now putting the weight of my hips and my pelvis on the back of your neck, tugging tighter, trying to wrest every bit of power out of you… “COME ON!!! FUCKING COME ONNNN!!”
My left hand giving your hair angry, controlled yanks, pulling your neck more and more against my pussy, my thighs flexing more, grinding harder into your neck, feeling a sudden surge through my body and I CUMMMMMM hard
Normally, your screams of writhing pain as I continue to carve into your legs and thighs would be enough to give me a little boost, a little extra something to maybe power out of a hold or apply a little more pressure to a choke. But your cries don’t do that this time—your clamp on my throat so tight and unyielding, that I barely even register your howls of pain—it’s all I can do to gouge, gouge at you and drill my nails as deep as I can into you, leaving bloody trails and furrows all over your legs. Amidst your screams (where the FUCK are those stupid red-shirts when you need them—are they fucking deaf?!) you begin rocking your body side to side, shaking my head and neck, like a tube of toothpaste,
I am long past the point of being able to scream or yell—a gurgled murmur about the best I can do. I feel your hip move to the side with a bit more force, and then—–UUUUNGH—you roll us over to the left, my body flopping from back to stomach, chest pressed to the deck, your grip on my throat even more intense now, as your body weight presses down on me. I try to lift my head again, jamming it back into your sex, feeling—-ewwwww—you’re having quite a party back there at my expense! Pushing my head back into you, my neck rubbing against your own wet, throbbing pussy—may not have been the smartest thing, as I feel you start to push back, grinding into my neck as you continue to choke me out—clearly that’s what’s happening, I cannot see how I will not pass out or die between your thighs unless some miraculous escape plan develops in my brain in the next 30 seconds or so. More pulses of your powerful legs around my neck, soft gurgles
My hands drop from your thighs as your muscles tense with even greater force—partially to finish me off, partially, well, to finish YOU off, it feels like. I know my body, er, your body—I know how it responds, and what it feels like when it’s ready to release. And Fake-Mish is just about there! My hands flail across the deck, my field of vision narrowed now since you flipped me over to my stomach, truly, no air coming in at the point, and my left hand feebly paws at your legs as my right sweeps the deck, feeling small shreds of what used to be my panties, and, the edge of one of our boots. Too little, too late. I don’t have the strength to use it as a weapon now, but I clutch it nonetheless.
Your hips continue to writhe above me, up and down, pressing your crotch into my neck. I wait—like I have a choice?—trying to time it, knowing I have but mere seconds left. I feel you tense even more, an upward
Rolled down on our chests, faces, and tummies, I keep on it, choking, and well
I lick my lips sensuously and deliciously… Enjoying this…. domination… Complete and utter destruction of my evil doppelganger…. Step one of the plan… working… I see your arm coming up with the boot… And I blink, staring… Are you going to hit me with it, fine, another bruise will be ok… But then…. I see your arm retracting and you fling the boot… and…. *thunk*…. it hits the floor…. two feet away from us…. And I just laugh…. Tightening more, more,, and then your body goes limp and you are knocked out…
I keep the grip for few moments…. Then… I roll us over, and release your neck… Breathing hard… Blinking… I know I stopped early… But… I know I couldn’t do it… There is something INHERENTLY wrong about killing myself… Wouldn’t that be suicide?? And I’m sure not going to live the rest of my life thinking of that…. I turn my head around, trying to figure out a way through this dilemma… And I smile, my eyes falling on the transporter… Licking my lips.. I get up, and grabbing your wrists, I drag you to one of the transporter pads… laying your body on it…
“ERROR — ERROR ….. Incorrect code…” — WTF!!! I madly enter the code for
I spin and stare at a VERY familiar face
I stutter… Gasping and saying; “Uh!! I was … I was doing my work out sir!! I’m sorry!!” He smiles, and turns his face a bit, as two red shirts arrive… Seeing the sight, but they relax upon seeing him; “Sorry guys I was doing some
They turn and leave, and Sulu says; “For future reference, Ensign, the transporter room is not a gym. We have a special facility for that…” — “Yes sir!!” I respond, and he turns leaving.. and I gasp, almost collapsing… Looking down, at the unconscious mess at my feet