He’s been waiting for this all week, and as soon as he steps through the doors, the weight rolls off his shoulders in droves. A new, nagging problem settles in; the newly fanned spark of his conscience, but Tom shoves it down. What a man does in the holodeck is no one’s business but his own. He has to tell himself that three times before it’s out of his head.
The real gem of his holoprogram—one that took hours of painstaking work to perfect and he still corrects after almost every visit—isn’t in the first room he steps into. Tom kicks off his shoes and socks and lets them tumble into the corner of the room, so very much like his own quarters, except a little tidier. Here, he has a maid. While he rolls his uniform jacket of his shoulders, he whistles, then calls, “Harry?”
There’s a slight scrambling back from where he came—the door that looks like it should lead out into Voyager’s corridors. And it does, in a way. Just not the right ones on the right deck. When they open, Harry steps through, looking as cute and flustered as Tom’s programmed him to, and he comes towards Tom as the doors click shut behind him.
He stops in front of Tom and opens his mouth, says nothing and bites his lip. Tom, already filling in his devious program’s plan, grins and coos, “Held overtime, were you?” He did want it to be adaptive, after all. When he first made this, he had Harry so pristine, so innocent and well-behaved, just like the real Harry Kim. ...But then, when Harry never messed up, there was never any reason to use half of Tom’s tools, so naturally, he asked the computer for a reason to punish Harry.
The computer delivered well. For the first time since Tom started up this program, Harry’s wearing all his clothes: the proper Voyager uniform. His collar isn’t even around his neck. Tom watches his adam’s apple nervously bob when he shrugs and mumbles, “Something like that.” His voice is perfect: just the right timber.
Tom means to berate Harry more but can’t wait, can’t hold himself back; he storms across the short distance between them and grabs Harry, fingers fisting in the material over his shoulders. He jerks Harry forward, and Harry, yelping in surprise, topples into him. Tom smashes their mouths together, and Harry is so solid and right against him, soft, moist lips still open from their gasp. Tom drags his tongue crudely along them and stabs inside, teeth scraping Harry’s bottom lip. He claims Harry’s mouth like a wild animal, just like he always does. He hacked into Harry’s personnel files to make this program; he knows he has it right. He’s already mapped it all out. He knows just what Harry feels like, what Harry tastes like; holotechnology is a remarkable thing. Harry even trembles against him, practically going limp in his arms, and Tom devours Harry with a week’s worth of pent up fervor.
It takes Harry a small eternity to respond. When he does, he doesn’t do it right. He hesitantly splays his hands against Tom’s chest, and Tom pulls back to backhand him hard across the face. Harry reels back and nearly hits the floor, hand rising to his bruised cheek. His eyes go wide, and Tom steps right up to him, snarling, “Don’t you ever be late for me again.”
Harry nods and mumbles, “S... sorry...” He pulls his hand back and looks at it as though expecting blood. Tom never quite takes it that far, but he brings it close.
He grabs a chunk of Harry’s smooth hair and shoves him down; Harry gasps and buckles. His knees hit the ground, hands barely catching him, and Tom pushes him forward before letting go. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” Tom hisses, fitting too well into his role. He tells himself the commanding force is why he’s a lieutenant and Harry’s just an ensign, but he knows that’s not really true. He’s just a shitty person that belongs in prison, and he enjoys seeing Harry on his knees too much. When Harry looks up at Tom, not daring to rise, Tom spits on his face. The gob hits Harry’s cheek, and he flinches away, and Tom watches with a sick satisfaction as it dribbles down Harry’s porcelain skin. Harry doesn’t look at him again, just sits on the floor with his head hung, and Tom, pleased and smirking, bends his knees to lean down to Harry’s level.
He strokes Harry’s dry cheek in mock affection and murmurs, “Honestly, pet. You know better than this. When I get off shift, I expect you here and ready for me. How am I supposed to react when you come strolling in late, still in all your clothes and not even wearing your collar? It’s like you’re trying to make me punish you.”
He pauses long enough to let Harry talk, and Harry, staring submissively down at the floor, whispers, “I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.” Such a good ensign. The devotion makes Tom shiver, and he can’t stop himself from reaching for Harry’s face. He cups Harry’s chin and strokes Harry’s cheek, and then he pulls Harry’s jaw open and tugs Harry forward, tilting him up.
He orders, “Stick out your tongue.” Harry obeys, and Tom spits on it, noting Harry’s subtle wince. But he doesn’t pull away. This isn’t really Harry, after all; it’s a holographic toy programmed to serve Tom’s every whim, and when he lifts Harry’s jaw closed, he watches Harry swallow. Even better is the way Harry shivers after, eyes sliding shut, and Tom has the sudden urge to roll him over and stroke his belly and ask if he wants more.
But then, Tom’s got better things to put in Harry’s stomach. He scratches under Harry’s chin like petting a dog—Harry is his dog—and then he takes hold of Harry’s silky hair again; it’s Tom’s favourite way to move him around. Tom pushes him, gentler this time, down to the floor, and Harry lets himself be shoved, be posed, lies on his side until Tom pushes his skull against the floor. Harry lies on his back, arms useless at his side, fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do. Harry’s face really does look like a puppy’s in this moment; Tom knows he just wants to make Tom happy. Tom brushes back his hair, matted from being grabbed, and tells him, “We’ll fix you up again.” Harry doesn’t look so sure.
Tom doesn’t need him to. It probably would’ve been better to keep Harry standing for this, but the damage is already done, and Tom enjoys the dominance of always towering above his pet, keeping Harry close to his knees or feet. He can manage like this. He puts a hand on Harry’s chest to show that Harry should stay still, and Harry does while Tom moves to his side, hands already on the zipper of his uniform. If he were in a more patient mood, he’d order Harry to strip—do one of those clumsy dance teases that Harry’s so very bad at. Tom could program him better, of course, but the real Harry seems so virginal, and it just wouldn’t be authentic to have him move his hips like a pro. But Tom’s been waiting too long, and he wants the excuse to touch anyway, wants to do it for himself. He tugs down Harry’s zipper and opens the jacket, spreading it aside, the black seams disappearing into the shadows of the crumpled fabric. Tom lifts each arm to pull out of the sleeves, and Harry lets himself be undressed like a doll.
When Tom pulls the jacket aside, the grey undershirt is left, and Tom runs his palms over the smooth stretch of Harry’s abdomen, watching the way Harry bites his lip and shuts his eyes. Tom enjoys a few light rubs, then decides the shirt’s been on too long, and he slaps Harry’s cheek lightly with the back of his hand, ordering, “Take it off.”
Harry gulps, nods, and arches off the floor. He rolls his shirt up his stomach and pulls it over his head, ass and shoulders still on the ground while his back forms an arc, and Tom watches each of Harry’s newly exposed muscles pull taut. When the shirt’s off, Tom grabs it and flings it aside, pushing Harry’s arms back down. Then he runs his hands greedily over Harry’s chest, soaking in every patch of skin that belongs to him.
All of Harry is Tom’s, real or holo, just in different ways. Tom can feel Harry’s eyes on him as he runs his fingers all over Harry’s upper body, squeezing and rubbing and pinching Harry’s small, brownish-pink nipples. Harry’s face is turning redder and redder the more Tom does, and that only eggs Tom on—he thumbs both of Harry’s nipples at once and pushes them in little circles, wondering aloud, “Hm, should I clamp these today...?”
Harry doesn’t answer. Tom tugs one nub as far as it’ll go, relishing in Harry’s groan of pain, and wonders if today’s the day he’ll pierce Harry’s nipples. He can always reset it later if he changes his mind. He ponders the idea for a moment, then decides it would take too long, and he’s got other plans. Instead, he orders, “Computer, clamp one hoop onto each of Harry’s nipples.” Harry gasps even before the computer kicks in, and a second later, little golden rings have appeared, making it look as though Harry has been pierced. Tom tugs on one lightly to check how tight it is and finds it tight enough. Harry looks like he wants to bury his face in his hands and slink into the floor.
Tom pulls both rings up and muses, “Perhaps I should chain these to your collar once I get that on you, hm? Would you like that, pet?”
Harry opens his mouth, closes it, and then somehow manages to mumble, “Uhm, whatever you want, T—Sir.”
Tom only grins at the slip. Harry breaks too easily. It’s why he only gets command of the night shift. There’s visible relief on his face when Tom lets go of his nipple rings, and Tom pets softly around them while he purrs, “That’s right, my delicious little pet. You only want to please me, don’t you? You’d let me pierce your dick and run a chain from that all the way up to your collar, wouldn’t you? Anything to make your master happy...” Harry squirms, fingers fidgeting against the short carpet of Tom’s holoquarters, and Tom leans down to press a chaste kiss to Harry’s cheek. He licks back to Harry’s ear afterwards, turning Harry’s face with his hand, and he adds in a low voice, “You’re so easy for me, Harry Kim. You’re my pet, and my toy, and my slave, and you’d do anything for me.”
He can feel the shiver in Harry’s body, and Harry’s moan sounds suspiciously like, ‘Tom.’
From there, Tom has to pull himself away and resist the urge to lick straight down to Harry’s pants. Lavishing Harry would be a reward, and this is supposed to be a punishment. He uses his hands instead to trail down Harry’s hips, fingertips slipping underneath the waistband of Harry’s uniform pants. Tom runs the entire perimeter, forcing Harry to lift his ass off the ground when Tom reaches under him. Then Tom works the zipper, and he pushes Harry’s pants slowly down Harry’s thighs. He snorts when he sees the underwear underneath—plain, white briefs, like a sexless teenager—and figures he’ll come back for those. He does the entire thing himself, pushing the pants down until he has to tug off Harry’s shoes. When those are all in a heap with the discarded jacket and shirt, Tom runs both hands back up the length of Harry’s legs, twisting in around the thighs and squeezing Harry’s tender flesh; it’s clear that Harry’s trying very, very hard not to squirm. Tom scratches ten pink lines up the creamy skin before coming to the growing bulge in Harry’s underwear. There’s even a small wet spot against the front, probably from precum, and Tom can’t help his smirk.
He glances at Harry’s face to ask, “I’m not going to have to cage your pretty cock up again, am I?” Harry shakes his head quickly, then shuts his eyes, evidently needing to concentrate to control himself. Poor kid. Harry isn’t really a kid, not even that much younger than Tom, but Tom will always think of him as the helpless little ensign that Tom picked up too easily from the bar.
Tom palms Harry through his underwear and squeezes the outline of Harry’s shaft; Harry gasps. Tom squeezes again, strokes it lightly, and dips down to cup Harry’s balls, purring, “Enjoy this while you can, babe. Because you will be punished, and if you want me to touch you again, you’re going to have to earn it.” When Tom takes his hands away, Harry whines.
Tom slaps his hip in lieu of his ass, pressed against the floor and out of reach, and Harry grunts but tries to be quiet. It earns him nothing; Tom still takes his hands away. He’s waited long enough. He loops his thumbs into the sides of Harry’s thin briefs and starts tugging them down. Harry’s hips are trembling. It shouldn’t make Tom harder, but it does. He reveals the well-trimmed, dark path of hair surrounding Harry’s cock, and as soon as he pulls the underwear far enough, Harry’s dick itself springs free, pink at the end and fully aroused. Tom has to force himself to keep going, when all he wants to do is stop and stare and touch, and he releases Harry’s tight balls, smooth and nearly hairless, then pushes the underwear the rest of the way.
Finally, Harry’s completely naked from head to foot, except for the small rings pinching his nipples. He’s got his eyes firmly shut and his cheeks burning, and Tom pats his thigh approvingly and tells him, “There’s a good boy, all pretty and bare for your master...” Harry’s cock twitches in response, obviously approving of the term. “Now, since you’ve been such a good doll for me, I’m going to let you touch yourself.” Harry’s head snaps aside to look at him, and nothing on Tom’s hungry face gives away the cruelty in his plan. Tom nods down Harry’s body and insists, “Come on, pet. I know how innocent you are, but surely even you know how to touch yourself. After all, we both know how often you must stay awake all night, pretending it were me touching you... underneath it all, you’re just desperate for cock, aren’t you? ...Show your master how desperate you are...” Tom runs his hand appreciatively over Harry’s shoulders while he talks, and Harry, in true Ensign Kim form, looks genuinely scared, as though he’s just been caught.
Tom reaches for Harry’s wrist to help the process along, and he brings it over to Harry’s thigh. Harry slowly shifts to life, but the way he wraps his fingers around his cock is still entirely too nervous; Tom’s watched him jerk off before, but clearly this isn’t an area where the computer’s adaptive.
Harry uses his other hand to cover his mouth, but he doesn’t look very surprised when Tom shoves it away. Harry makes the sweetest noises. He strokes himself once, dry, and whimpers, and Tom makes a soothing noise and pets his cheek, encouraging him to go on.
So Harry licks his other palm and uses that, swapping hands and getting more spit. Tom allows it, simply because he likes the way Harry’s cock looks slick with saliva, glistening in the clinical lights of his quarters. Harry’s cock is a fair size, but it’s not as big as Tom’s. It’s a little more curved, lightly veined, and it fits nicely in Harry’s hand. Tom only lets him stroke it up and down a dozen times.
Then Tom orders, “Computer, fit a cock ring around Harry Kim.” The computer does as told, and Harry whines loudly, a small, black metal band clamping around the engorged base. “Adjust nipple rings to the same colour.” They flicker black, and Harry matches nicely, as will his collar and leash, when Tom gets to them.
Tom first admires the way Harry continues to stroke himself, desperately clawing at an orgasm out of reach, then finally recognize the futility, and his hands fall loose. He looks up at Tom with big, pleading eyes, and in that moment, Tom very much wants to make him happy.
But this isn’t one of the date-Harry-Kim programs Tom also keeps secretly buried in the data banks; this is one of the fuck-Harry-Kim-senseless ones. So Tom takes a hold of his hair again and pulls him up to his knees. Harry scrambles around and sits like a good dog, hips shamefully rubbing against the carpet. Tom lets him squirm and stands, liking the feeling of being above his toy.
Instead of ordering it directly on, Tom holds out his hand and says, “Computer, give me Harry’s collar and leash.” The familiar black circlet forms across his palm, the large, metal clasp open, the little, engraved pendant bearing ‘Harry Kim, Property of Tom Paris.’ A nice touch that took a few tries to program. The leash is a standard black attachment; he won’t be using the choke collar today. Clearly, Harry’s in a subservient mood. But then, isn’t he always?
When Tom bends to fit the collar around Harry’s neck, Harry looks like he’s in heaven. His lashes flutter, pupils dilated, and Tom can’t resist tilting his chin up to bestow a short kiss to his lips. Harry tries to follow him back up, but Tom keeps him down. Tom clasps the collar shut at the back of Harry’s neck, and it fits snugly against his throat, pendant resting at the dip of his collarbone, displaying ownership. Tom gives him another peck on the forehead, brushing his dark hair back to do it, and murmurs, “Good boy.” Harry makes an erotic noise just short of an orgasm.
But there’re still a few paces to put Harry through, and Tom straightens out again. The leash stays in his hand; he’s not ready to walk his dog, though he will, just not in bare feet. He’s not going to waste this opportunity. When Harry looks up at him, Tom pointedly looks and wiggles his toes, eyebrow lifting in expectation. Harry’s brow knits together, and it takes him a second to understand.
Then he looks down, leans down, hesitates and shivers. He presses a soft kiss to Tom’s foot, and Tom chuckles good-naturedly, “Come on, Harry. You can do better than that.” Harry kisses him again, harder, then opens his mouth and runs his tongue from Tom’s toes up to his ankle. It almost tickles. Even though Tom can’t see Harry’s mouth, the sight of Harry’s back bent, knees and hands on the floor, ripe, bare ass stuck out, is enough to make Tom salivate. Tom doesn’t tell Harry to stop, so Harry keeps going, gaining confidence as he nips lightly at Tom’s toes, then fits his mouth over what he can, and he sucks and licks and shifts to the other foot. Tom doesn’t miss the way Harry’s hips start to undulate, the act of submission getting to him; after all, there’s nothing holo-Harry loves more than being Tom’s bitch.
Tom lets Harry make quite a mess before he pushes his dog back with one foot, deciding arbitrarily, “That’s enough, pet.” Harry pulls back with a disappointed look on his face, ass back to dragging on the carpet. Tom gestures vaguely across the room and demands, “Fetch my shoes.”
Harry scrambles. The type of game is obvious: he’s Tom’s dog, and dogs walk on all fours, so Harry stays that way, ass waddling attractively back and forth as he scurries faster than he knows how to move. He almost trips once. When he makes it to Tom’s shoes, he hesitates for only a second before picking one of Tom’s socks up in his mouth, looking at Tom. Tom nods, and Harry uses his teeth to put the socks in the shoes. He tries to pick them both up at once but can’t manage. He gets them a few centimeters off the floor before the left one drops out. Impatiently, Harry settles for the one he has, teeth digging into the leathery material, and he scuttles back to Tom, dropping it at Tom’s feet. He’s off to fetch the other one in a flash, and Tom distractedly puts on his right sock and shoe, watching Harry the whole way.
When he gets the left one, he shoves it on, and he pets the top of Harry’s head for a job well done. Harry preens like a cat and nuzzles blearily into Tom’s knees, clearly getting into it. Or getting deeper into it; he looks too turned on to think straight. He never protests Tom’s games, even though Tom did set parameters for a safeword, just in case. Even if it’s just a hologram, he’s not a total monster.
Tom clips the leash to the back of Harry’s collar while Harry’s still nuzzling into him, and he shoves Harry’s head down. Harry kisses both of his shoes, and Tom pulls him back before he can do anymore. His mouth is going to need a lot of washing out before Tom can kiss him. ...Or a single computer order; the beauty of the holodeck. ...Not that he wouldn’t trade it for the real Harry Kim in a heartbeat, even though he’d have to train that one all over again...
Tugging the leash with him, Tom walks over to the washroom, and Harry doesn’t even need to be dragged, he crawls along as quick as he can. The leash is a novelty, really, and another mark of possession: a physical link that brands Harry as his. When they enter the little room attached to Tom’s quarters, no fancier than his real washroom, he can see the confusion on Harry’s face.
He uses his shoe to bump Harry’s ass, urging him forward towards the toilet. Harry looks at it and takes about three seconds to register Tom’s intent.
Then he looks up at Tom with huge eyes and parted lips, and Tom smirks and coos, “What’s the matter, pet? You’re not thirsty? You better take a drink, anyway—I’m going to take you for a very long walk today, so I expect you to store all the water you can like a good little camel. We’re not leaving this quarters until you’ve drunk the whole thing.” Harry’s mouth falls open, and for a second, it looks like he’s going to ruin the game and talk. Tom nudges his ass again, and Harry looks back at the toilet. It’s not as full as it should be, but it’s still a toilet. It’s what dogs drink out of. Finally, Tom takes pity and sighs, “Alright, since you’re usually such a good thing, and this is your first transgression, you can just take a few sips out of that, and you can take the rest from your bowl.” Harry’s eyes are still pleading, but Tom’s face makes it very clear that he’s not going to compromise any further.
Just to compound the humiliation, Tom adds, “Come on, what’s the matter? We’re in my quarters; it’s my toilet. You shouldn’t have any problem with licking the seat, and I didn’t even ask you to do that. The water’s clean.” Another kick to Harry’s ass, this time hard enough to actually slide Harry across the tile floor. “Go on.” With a growing smirk, he decides, “Drink it, before I change my mind and piss in it, although I know how much you prefer to drink that from the source.” Harry goes entirely red, but he listens.
He puts his hands on the brim of the toilet seat, the lid already up, his fingers curled in like paws. Then he shudders and leans down, and Tom steps closer and kneels down to watch as Harry, slowly and full of trepidation, sticks out his tongue and pokes the water.
It’s going to taste fine, of course. The water’s the cleanest part of the toilet, sterile and holographic anyway, even if it feels real. Normally, it wouldn’t have the effects he needs, but Tom’s carefully programmed every bit of this; it’s going to fill Harry up, and Harry’s really going to need a washroom when he’s done. When Harry doesn’t drink fast enough for Tom’s taste, Tom shoves his head down, not quite in the water, but enough that Harry’s forced to take a gulp before Tom lets go. From there, Harry whimpers and starts to lap at the water on his own, and Tom fondly pets his hair while he does it.
After Harry’s next whimper, Tom runs his hand down Harry’s spine instead, and he leans over Harry’s back to spit on him. It trickles down his ass, but Harry, ever a good ensign, doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He continues to play the perfect bitch while Tom rubs the spittle in between his cheeks. Though he means to hold back and wait until later, Tom winds up with both hands on the job, squeezing and kneading Harry’s firm cheeks. He plays with them a bit before prying them open to stare at Harry’s hole, puckered and slick with the spit that’s dribbled onto it; Tom spits on it again. He rubs it around with his fingertip, tickling the furrowed muscles, and Harry whines, hips twitching in Tom’s grip. Tom slaps him to stay still and growls, “Keep drinking.” Harry, utterly debauched, does.
Tom shoves one fingertip past his slick entrance and wriggles it around, pushing a millimeter deeper each time Harry laps up another drink. Only the practiced patience garnered from previous use of this program lets Tom wait all the way until he’s to the knuckle before starting to stab in and out, fingering Harry hard with one digit while Harry nearly cries in distress and takes his drink.
By now, Harry’s gotten nearly half of it down, and Tom, a man of his word whatever his checkered past, tells the air, “Computer, place Harry’s water dish next to the toilet and fill with water.” The particles shimmer in existence, but Harry waits for Tom to wrench his hand out and pull Harry back. When Tom shoves him towards the dish, Harry puts his face to the floor and resumes messily slurping up water, ass now high in the air with the new angle. Tom replaces his finger in Harry’s ass and stretches it enough to fit a second, while Harry bucks helplessly and moans around his mouthfuls.
Harry goes through the water dish much faster than the toilet, but as Tom slides two fingers in and out of Harry’s tight hole, he still notes, “Look at you. You’re gulping that water up almost as fast as you lick up my cum when it’s in that dish.” Harry falters for just a second, and Tom could swear his blush is spreading to his shoulders. Tom pats his ass and assures him, “Don’t worry, pet. There’ll be time to line your stomach in my seed later. Or perhaps I’ll come on you instead; tie you up beside my bed and jerk off on your face all throughout the night... but then, we are in the holodeck... I can give you a lot more loads than that... maybe we should invite Chakotay or Tuvok to come cover you too, hm? Would you like that, pet? You can only swallow my cum, of course, but that doesn’t mean you can’t bathe in everyone else’s while you drink mine from a glass...”
Harry’s mouth is too full to answer, but his ass pistons back onto Tom’s hand. That’s an answer in itself. Tom curls his fingers into precisely the right spot to reward Harry’s eagerness. Harry cries out instantly, forgetting his task in favour of writhing on Tom’s hand, trying to shove his ass and prostate further down Tom’s fingers.
Tom merely pulls them out and wipes them off on the round cheeks of Harry’s ass, idly deciding, “That’s enough for now. You’re full, aren’t you?” Harry, having collapsed onto the floor, nods and moans. He looks like a wreck, and there’s water dripping out the corners of his lips. His hands are curled into tight fists, probably trying to resist touching his cock.
Tom smirks and tugs the leash, forcing Harry to climb back to his hands and knees. Tom leads him out of the washroom, noting the way Harry squirms as he follows. He shouldn’t need to go that fast after drinking, but then, Tom did force him to swallow quite a lot. At least Tom won’t have to wait as long as he thought.
The closer they get to the door of Harry’s quarters, the more Harry’s enthusiasm dies, but he doesn’t once stop. When they hit the doorway, Tom glances down to view Harry’s trepidation, and he coos, “Don’t worry, pet; you know I don’t like to share you. But you have to at least let me show you off. I’ve dressed you up so nice and pretty that it’d be a waste not to parade you around like the wanton thing you are. Come on, we both know you like the attention. Besides, don’t you want the rest of the crew to know how well-behaved you are for me?” Each word only seems to make Harry blush harder and harder, but his face is resolute; Tom knows Harry will follow him. Tom whistles, “Time to walk my bitch,” and the doors open.
He steps out into the corridor—the holographic one outside his quarters, not the ones outside the holodeck, though he’s only programmed these so far—and takes Harry with him.
It’s empty, of course. Maybe next time, he really will program others—he wouldn’t mind seeing Chakotay in particular livid with jealousy—but he’ll have to work his pet up to it. For now, he sets a brisk pace down the hallway, Harry struggling to keep up, trotting along on hands and knees. At the end of it, Harry turns as though expecting to head back, but Tom keeps taking him around, They pass nondescript bulkhead after nondescript bulkhead, flashing screens stuck on the inaccurate readings of a nonexistent ship. Tom watches Harry out the corner of his eye but mostly keeps on ahead: just an owner walking his dog.
By the time they finally loop the deck, passing by the doors to his holoquarters, Harry is barely containing his whimpers. Tom nonetheless tugs him right past the entrance that automatically opens, and Harry is jerked by the leash to follow, having stopped.
He does what he’s told, but he starts to make keening noises, and Tom knows his need is mounting, maybe even surpassing his need to come. They get halfway around another lap before Tom has to slow considerably—Harry’s squirming and rubbing his thighs together. Tom sighs like it’s a huge bother, but he does stop.
Harry looks up at him hopefully, and Tom calls, “Computer, put a potted plant right here.”
“Please specify.” As it’s not something he’s used before, it’s not ready to deliver. Tom takes a moment extra to ponder, just to keep Harry whimpering and squirming at his feet.
“Most common variety of house plant on Earth.” Let the computer deal with it: it doesn’t matter. A generic sort of leafy green thing—Tom’s no botanist—materializes in a short pot. Harry looks at it, clearly not comprehending.
So Tom nudges his ass again, saying casually, “Well? Don’t you have to go?”
Harry’s head snaps around, shock all over his face. Tom remains resolute, and Harry, opening and closing his mouth uselessly, actually breaks his role to mumble hastily, “Tom—”
Feeling forgiving, as Tom knows how much physical distress Harry’s in, Tom merely hushes, “Shh.”
“But, I really don’t think—”
“Harry,” Tom warns, the edge all over his voice, and Harry looks so incredibly torn. The computer’s really done a spectacular job this round. Finally, Tom leans down beside Harry and growls lower, “I’m not going to tell you again, Harry. Either you relieve yourself here, or I tell everyone on this ship how dirty you are, and we’ll see how many others want to join in when I piss on you. Don’t think that just because we’re best friends I’ll show you any mercy. Now... relieve yourself before someone comes around the corner.” Harry looks wildly around, not knowing that the threat’s empty; Tom hasn’t programmed anyone else. He takes the moment of Harry’s distraction to reach between Harry’s legs and pluck off the cock ring; Harry gasps. He’s still hard, but not as sharply as before, his full bladder having taken over. When he looks back at Tom, there might be tears in the corner of his eyes.
But he doesn’t use his safe word or protest again, which means this must really be within Harry Kim’s limits, at least, so far as the computer can extrapolate. Harry hangs his head and turns his hips towards the plant but doesn’t look like he knows what to do.
Tom grabs his legs and helps him, lifting it up like a dog would do. He resists grabbing Harry’s cock and pointing it at the plant; Harry scoots closer on his own, and it dangles over the holographic dirt. Tom keeps holding onto Harry’s leg just for an excuse to touch him, not worried about getting his fingers wet with a holographic mess, and he pets the inside of Harry’s thigh soothingly.
Harry still doesn’t look like he wants to comply, but his body demands otherwise. A short burst of clear yellow liquid trickles out of Harry’s tip, followed by a steady stream, hitting the stem of the plant and splashing off. None of it quite reaches Tom’s hand, and when he slips his hand around Harry’s cock, he keeps near the base, out of harm’s way. He squeezes and tugs Harry gently, not unlike milking a cow. Harry whimpers and the stream thins but still flows out. When Tom lets go of Harry’s leg, Harry keeps it there.
It takes several glorious seconds for Harry to finish. Tom keeps pumping his cock after, milking out the last drops, and he flicks it to clear it before pumping Harry harder. Then he pushes Harry over, and Harry rolls onto his back, looking hazily up at Tom with shame all over his handsome face. Tom rubs his stomach and purrs, “Good boy. I’m so proud of you.” It does nothing to lessen Harry’s embarrassment, but it does make him look incredibly happy. Tom even nods at his cock and says, “Why don’t you touch yourself again?”
Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He wraps both hands around his shaft and tosses his head back, moaning as he strokes himself; evidently, his shame did nothing to dull his excitement. Tom watches him get harder and harder, breath nearly wracking his lungs, noises getting higher pitched and closer to the edge, and then Tom swats Harry’s hands away. He slips the cock ring back on, and Harry covers his face in his hands and looks like he’s going to fall apart.
Tom rolls him over onto his stomach and pats his ass, pleased beyond words. Tom does feel a little sorry for the poor thing, of course, but, like he tells his favourite toy, “Don’t worry. We’re almost done.” It doesn’t seem to ease Harry’s mind much, but Tom’s true to his word.
Tom climbs back to his feet and tugs the leash. It takes a few pulls to get Harry back up again, but Harry does resume his place at Tom’s feet, crawling along beside him. They stroll back to Tom’s quarters, and when the door shuts behind them, Tom keeps going.
He stops at the edge of the bed, turns to sit on it, and tugs Harry up. Harry lifts up on his knees, hands falling to Tom’s lap, and Tom strokes back his hair and touches his face and bends down to kiss his forehead, telling him, “You’ve been very good for me.”
Harry breathes, “Tom,” and it’s so close to a moan that Tom doesn’t punish him. Hearing Harry’s voice dripping with lust like that does things to his body that it really shouldn’t. But then, he’s never claimed to be a saint.
He unclips the leash and tosses it aside, already deciding that next time he has holodeck time, he’ll resume this program right where he left off, and make Harry clean his now littered quarters in an old fashioned maid’s uniform. For now, Tom scratches under Harry’s chin and asks, “Is your body nice and empty now, Harry?” Harry nods curiously up at him, and he chuckles, “Good. Then we can fill it up again.”
He lets go of Harry in favour of unzipping his own pants, and Harry’s eyes flicker in excitement; he’ll finally get his prize. In actuality, Tom’s not sure he will come down Harry’s throat this time; after seeing Harry’s rear waddle down the corridor, he’d rather plug that up. But there’s always next time, and he’ll still feed Harry a little precum first. He can always have the computer make a workable replica of a bowl filled with cum and watch Harry lap it up—something he’s already enjoyed on several occasions. Once he mixed his dating and fucking programs and conducted a dinner date, himself devouring holographic dishes his holographic boyfriend cooked for him, while holo-Harry drank Tom’s fabricated cum from a glass and has his own meal drenched in Tom’s special sauce. The very thought of it makes Tom shiver, and by the time he pulls his cock out of his pants, it’s so very close to bursting that he considers giving himself a cock ring.
Instead, he leans back and strokes himself once, purring, “Well? Do I need to put peanut butter on it, or are you going to figure out what I want you to do?” Harry takes a deep breath like he’s been waiting all his life for this.
He’s on Tom in the next second, nose butting Tom’s hand out of the way, and Harry’s lips press into the underside of Tom’s cock in a clumsy, messy kiss. Harry makes a muffled noise of delight and rubs his lips up and down, then opens them and sticks out his tongue, and he shivers and laps at Tom’s cock like a special treat. His tongue runs over each of Tom’s veins, dipping all the way down to Tom’s heavy balls and twisting back up, and when Harry reaches the top, he stops to moan, rubbing his face into Tom’s saliva-slicked shaft. There’s nothing in the universe hotter than Harry Kim with Tom’s dick on his face, not to Tom, anyway. He has to press his knuckles to his mouth to keep in his swear, and Harry, oblivious, worships Tom’s cock with the same relentless adoration he always gives Tom, in the holodeck or otherwise.
For a brief moment, Tom considers rewriting all of Captain Proton, changing the next chapter to have him fucking Buster Kincaid over the main console. But then, he can’t risk ruining their friendship. He’ll make a separate file then and transfer this Harry there and pretend, like he always does.
He grabs Harry’s jaw and guides Harry up to the head, unable to take anymore, and Harry, ever the good ensign, anticipates his master’s needs. He opens his mouth wide and shoves himself down, impaling himself on Tom’s cock. Tom throws his head back and nearly screams through his grit teeth; he forgot how fucking good Harry’s mouth feels. Hot, wet, tight and completely perfect. He shoves Harry down farther than Harry went on his own, and for the first time in many sessions, Harry actually chokes.
The computer’s a genius. Tom lets go of Harry and lets him pull off, wipe at his slick lips and quickly try again, going farther this time, but still not to the base. Tom doesn’t force him, just bucks up against his throat and watches Harry splutter.
Harry only gets to bob up and down on Tom’s cock a few times before Tom can’t take it anymore, and he kicks Harry back. Harry stumbles against the ground. Tom grabs him by the collar and pulls him up, spins him around to the bed, and throws him over it; his chest lands on the mattress, his legs hanging off. His ass is at the perfect angle for Tom to take, and Tom pulls his legs open, barking, “Computer, lube Harry’s ass.” Harry squeals as soon as his channel’s filled, and Tom pries Harry’s round cheeks aside to watch his tiny hole twitch and leak.
Tom stabs one finger inside without any warning, and Harry claws at the sheets, ass squirming on Tom’s hand. Tom ignores it and starts to plunder Harry’s tight entrance, stretching it bigger; he likes to do this part himself. But he’s hard as a rock and can’t wait forever. He forces in a second finger and scissors Harry open, gentle but brutal all at once. When he crooks his fingers, Harry’s hips jerk backwards, and Tom strokes his prostate once before adding a third finger. Harry starts helplessly humping the bed, and Tom, feeling benevolent in his power-crazed lust, lets him.
Only when Harry’s nice and stretched does Tom pull out, sure that he can fit without hurting his dear pet. He positions himself over Harry’s back, one elbow pressing down between Harry’s shoulder blades to hold him still, and he presses the tip of his cock between Harry’s cheeks, nudging Harry’s dripping hole.
Harry moans, “Tom.” It’s absolutely irresistible.
Tom shoves inside with a cry worthy of a Klingon, and Harry shrieks. He grabs the sheets firm enough to tear them, but Tom hardly notices; he’s busy digging finger marks into Harry’s hips and relishing the squeeze around him. Harry’s ass is an inferno, and it’s so, so tight, and it sucks Tom in, ready and willing. Tom gets balls-deep before he pulls back to stab inside again, shoving Harry forward and the bed with it; it rattles against the wall. Tom doesn’t stop.
Tom starts fucking Harry hard as hell from the beginning, ravaging Harry with a ferocity far beyond Harry’s innocence. He’s bruising Harry’s hips and the cheeks of Harry’s ass, he’s sure, but it’s worth it, so worth it, and he knows he’s not going ask the computer to hide the bruises next time. When he sits back, he can watch Harry’s ass bounce with the force of his thrusts, but he only lasts so long before falling over Harry again. He flattens them together, his clothes clinging to his chest and digging down into Harry’s back. He pins Harry so hard that he doesn’t know if Harry can breathe, hologram or no. Harry’s panting, struggling. Tom bites at the back of his neck and nuzzles against the side of his face, pushing back hair. He digs his teeth into Harry’s cheek, snarling, and Harry moans and presses back into his cock.
Harry’s a fucking dream. After everything, Tom’s so turned on that he’s barely able to keep conscious himself. He’s kisses Harry’s face and clutches Harry’s body and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, touching Harry’s stomach and chest and squeezing the air out of him. He hisses right in Harry’s ear, “You’re mine, Harry Kim, all mine.”
Harry moans a languid, “Yesss, oh, Tom...” Harry’s lost. Tom fucks him so, so hard, and Harry’s whimpers and whines actually swallow up the loud slapping sounds and the banging of the headboard against the wall and Tom’s own grunts and growls. It’s a good thing the holodeck can trap in sound, or they’d hear him all the way up to the bridge.
Tom has half a mind to shout at Harry to scream for him, but Harry’s doing it anyway. All Tom can manage is a steady mantra of, “Mine,” and then his balls are tightening, and he swears under his breath—he doesn’t want to come yet—he wants to fuck Harry all day.
But Harry’s too hot for that, and Tom’s cock explodes a second later. He buries himself deep inside Harry’s tight ass and shoves him hard against the mattress, just barely managing to snake his hand down Harry’s stomach and flip off Harry’s cock ring. Harry comes instantly, and the wild spasms of his ass triple Tom’s orgasm; he’s washed away in a flood of bliss. He’s in heaven. A dirty, disgusting, perfect heaven. He spills himself all over Harry’s insides, fully aware that he’ll have to clean his seed off the holodeck floor after, and he doesn’t care, just wants to mark some form of Harry Kim and make him reek of Tom.
By the time Tom’s head finally starts to come down, he’s dizzy to the point of a blackout. His hand’s soaked from Harry’s orgasm, the other still holding Harry against him. For a few light-headed seconds, he stays slumped against Harry’s sweaty back, too satiated to move.
Then he forces himself to pull back, and he sits up on the floor, knowing it’ll all disappear in a moment. Harry turns to look at him, their knees touching. Harry looks even more wrecked than Tom feels. His collar’s still tight around his neck, his nipples still trapped in little hoops, his cock now spent and his lap a sticky mess. He’s panting hard and hazy-eyed and blushing all over and his hair’s disheveled. He looks like everything Tom’s ever wanted.
But with the game goes Tom’s resolve, and he looks at the image of his best friend, thoroughly fucked, and knows in his gut that he’s a shitty, terrible, disgusting person. The realization sinks hard into his stomach, just as he always does afterwards, even though he knows he’ll never delete this program.
He remembers all the filth that went in Harry’s mouth, and he still leans forward to kiss Harry on the lips, chaste and sweet, even after everything.
He means to pull away and end the program, but instead he migrates his kiss to Harry’s cheek, hugs Harry close with one arm, and murmurs against Harry’s ear, “I love you.” Harry’s arms lift to Tom’s back and hold on.
Harry mumbles, “I love you too,” into Tom’s shoulder. When Tom pulls away, Harry looks even more embarrassed than him. A pristine facsimile.
Tom sighs, “I wish you really did.”
Harry opens his mouth, closes it, then starts to say, “Tom, there’s something I have to tell—”
But Tom can’t handle confessions right now. He already spoiled the mood of his pure-sex adventure. Whatever the computer wants to tell him, it’ll have to do it later. Tom cuts Harry off with a kiss and mutters against the lips of his best friend in the whole universe, “Computer, end program.”
The room disappears.
It’s hard, cold tile underfoot instead of carpet. The bed next to him is gone. All his faux-belongings are gone. The leash around Harry’s neck disappears, as do the nipple rings, and the cock ring on the floor beside them.
But the pile of Harry’s clothes doesn’t go anywhere, Harry’s still sitting in front of him, and there’s a shallow puddle over in the corner.
Tom gapes, and Harry, shrugging sheepishly and red as a dying star, mutters, “I really do.”