The following is a poem about sex.  It happens to rhyme because of all the screaming certain people did when I went around declaiming rhyming verse.  I thought the screaming was amusing, and decided to write an epic story of sex and lust on the Voyager -- with rhyme, of course.


We've Got Rhythm, We've Got Whips, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)



The Klingon engineer went a-bouncing
down to Engineering one day
where she met the blonde hunk
Paris, preening, along the way.

B'Elanna thought as she saw him,
"His ass is so luscious."
Paris thought as she drew closer,
"God, her hair smells delicious."

"Come to my quarters, B'Elanna,"
Tom pleaded with all of his heart.
"On your knees, boy," said B'Elanna
and her voice as she spoke was tart.

Her right hand was empty,
her left held a whip.
You couldn't find a bigger one
on the whole damn ship.

Paris dropped his pants
and fell to his knees --
as pretty a picture
as anyone could please.

Anyone could see him
kneeling there,
Paris was half-naked
and tension filled the air.

B'Elanna's hand stroked down his back
to his tight g-string
and said as she snapped it,
"Next time, don't wear this thing."

"Of course not, B'Elanna,"
Tom said with a cower.
He'd always lusted after
a woman with power.

B'Elanna took her time
marking her prey
with each stroke of the whip
she had something to say.

"You're mine now, boy,
remember that well.
You belong to a Klingon
and I expect you to excel

in pleasing me
in bed and out of it, too.
You'll find I'm not easy
but that's what you'll do."

"Oh, mistress," Tom said,
"you know I live only to please,
whatever you wish, I will submit
just tell me, don't tease."

B'Elanna did as she pleased
and left him right there
tied and trussed like a Klingon ga'ngh
Tom Paris, handsome, naked and fair.