Disclaimer: There's sex in this, all happy heterosexual sex between consenting adults, so you probably won't be condemned to hell for reading it if you happen to believe in that sort of thing (hell, I mean, not reading). Let's see, what else.  Oh, yeah: Star Trek Voyager, and all the characters in the story are copyright and trademark Paramount Pictures and yadda-yadda-boom-tiddley-boom. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me: I have a wife, a kid, and several hundred tribbles to feed.

Introduction: This one should be filed under the heading, "Something I Did When I Should Have Been Doing Other Things."  Like, working on the outlines for a story and a novel that the editor has been very patiently waiting for.  Or doing the laundry.  Or taking down the Christmas tree.  But, I made the mistake of casually asking Katie, So, has anyone done any good funny, sexy Captain Proton stories yet?" and she responded (to my shock and horror), "Funny and sexy?  No, not funny and sexy."  I was shocked and appalled, people. Shocked and appalled... And then I thought of the first line.  And then I figured out what I would call B'Elanna's character.  And then... Oh, hell, just read it.  Then come over and somebody help me take down the Christmas tree.  The thing is dried out and there are needles all over the place.

Forgive Tom for not having his baseball chronology exactly right.   400 years later, if he has Jackie Robinson as a contemporary of  Babe Ruth, well, we'll let him slide, won't we?

"bwa ha ha."

"Oh, come on.  That is so lame."

"All right, all right.  Don't critique.  I'm doing my best."

"Try it again."

"Don't pressure me.  How's this: 'Bwah-Ha-Ha!'"

"Still lame. From the diaphragm.  Put some oomph into it."

"Oomph?  You want oomph?  Come over here and I'll give you oomph."

"Uh, B'Elanna?  I can't, you know, come over there," Tom Paris said, twisting his head to look at his wrists.  He was stretched out spread-eagle on an X-shaped platform that was leaning back at about a 45° angle.  B'Elanna was standing across the room on a low dais before a high-backed throne.  "I'm tied up, remember?  If anyone is going anywhere, you're going to have to come over here."

B'Elanna Torres pointed down at her feet and said, very pointedly, "I'm not walking anywhere, Thomas Paris, you big doofus.  Look at these heels.  I almost killed myself walking up these stairs.  I'll be damned if I'm walking down them for anything less than the ship running into a brick wall."

Tom looked at her feet.  Well, her legs and her feet, actually, since the slit in her skin-tight silk dress reached from the floor-length hem right up to the uppermost reaches of her thigh, just centimeters shy of... impure thoughts.  But the shoes... They were pretty outrageous but, as Tom had pointed out when B'Elanna had agreed to play the role of Venoma, the Dragon Queen of Outer Space, they were part of the traditional costume: low-cut green silk dress painted with a swirling red dragon, a silver dragon-crested crown, lots of jewelry (very dangly) and six-inch spiked heels.  Sandals to be precise.  They had these kind of snaky-looking straps that wound around her ankles up to just below her knee.  He had shown B'Elanna the cover illustrations from the issue of Captain Proton Space Adventures that had introduced Venoma, and she had given the go-ahead for him to get the outfit replicated.  In fact, Tom had a sneaking suspicion that it was the costume that had clinched the deal.  B'Elanna had worked hard to get back to her old trim self since Lila Rose was born and Tom had guessed that she looked at the dress as an opportunity to prove it. Probably hadn't noticed the shoes, he guessed.  Or maybe they weren't too obvious in the cover illustration.

Well, he had noticed them.  What was it with shoes and villainesses and the mid-20th century? he wondered.   All the writers from that era must have had interesting personal lives... Pausing to watch his wife teeter down the stairs and across her "Dragon's Lair" towards him, he reconsidered, Or, possibly, no personal life at all...  That would explain a lot.

But he didn't say any of these things.  He didn't even stop to wonder, yet again, what had prompted her to ask him to drag the old Proton holoprogram out of mothballs after so long.  Instead,  as he frequently did to first-time visitors to the Captain Proton  universe, he said, "I'm not Tom."

"What?" B'Elanna said, pausing in mid-wobble.

"I'm not Tom.  I'm Captain Proton.  If you're going to call me by my first name -- which would be completely inappropriate in this situation, by the way -- you can call me 'Les' or, if you must, 'Lester.'"

"Seriously?"  B'Elanna asked.  "That was Captain Proton's first name?"

"Yes."

"'Lester?'"

"Yes."

"As in, 'Bwah-ha-ha, now I have you in my clutches, Lester?'"

Tom sighed, rolled his eyes and said, "I guess.'"

B'Elanna leaned against a snake-festooned brazier and tried to adjust the strap of her left sandal.  Shoe.  Whatever.  "Lester?  Buster? What was it with writers back then?"

Tom shrugged as best he could while bound spread-eagle to a torture table.  "I was just thinking the same thing a minute ago," he said. "Anyway, that's not important.  Just try to stay in character."

B'Elanna adjusted the serpent crown so that it was resting more comfortably on her head. "I can't believe you talked me into this."

"I talked you into this?" Tom asked, incredulously.  "You practically begged me to schedule some holodeck time.  'Tom,' you said, 'I can't take this any more.  If I have to spend one more night here in our quarters, I'll go stir crazy!  Let's go do something together!'  I'm not the one who made the Captain agree to give you three months off after Lila Rose was born."

"I meant something where we could be alone together."

"We ARE alone together," Tom said.  "Well, except for those Lizard Lackeys and the lovely-but-lethal Dragonettes, but they're just holograms."

"And they give me the creeps."

"Well, they're supposed to.  They're evil.  And you're supposed to be evil, too."

"But why do I have to be evil?" B'Elanna asked.  " I'm not really comfortable being evil.  Can't I just be misunderstood?"  She struck a pose, caressing her left shoulder with her right hand.  "You know... Basically good-hearted, but circumstances conspired..."

"To make you want to seize control of the Earth and repopulate it with gigantic dragons subservient to your will?"

B'Elanna ceased her caressing and looked at him.  "Is that what I'm doing?"

"Yes!" Tom said. "Didn't you read any of the notes I gave you?"

"I glanced at them..."

"You glanced at them?  Oh, I see.  And what part do you remember?"

"I remember the part about Captain Proton and Venoma always kind of having this lust thing for each other..."

"...Which was never consummated..."

"...And I remember the part about you being tied up," she purred into his ear. Got better on those heels all of a sudden, Tom thought. Without so much as a stumble, Venoma was suddenly hovering over Captain Proton, the dangerously gaping front of her dress only inches from his nose. Think pure thoughts, Captain, Tom thought.

"And, most important," Venoma (and, quite abruptly, it was Venoma) hissed into his ear, "I remember that this is one of the adventures that doesn't involve Buster."  A snaky tongue lashed out and tickled Captain Proton's ear.

"That's right.  He's lost in the wilds of Pago-Pago."  "Right," Venoma said softly.  "Pago-Pago."  She drew the words out tantalizingly.  "So, he won't be swooping in later."  Every sibilant syllable of every single word slithered down Captain Proton's spine and right into his... his... where he kept his change.  Then, Captain Proton watched as Venoma reached for the zipper of his leather jacket and slowly drew it down.

"Uh," the Captain said. "No.  No, he won't."  But what he was thinking was If only I could reach my gun.  But there was his gun hanging uselessly on the peg across the room, right next to his equally useless rocket pack.  How did Captain Proton get out of this one? Tom wondered, momentarily breaking character.  But, then again, Venoma was sort of breaking character, too.  And, suddenly, it was growing difficult...to...think...clearly.

B'Elanna, er... Venoma yanked open his jacket, then, with a wicked gleam in her eye, began to slowly unbutton his khaki shirt.   One of the buttons got tangled up in an unraveled button hole, momentarily thwarting her evil plot.  She dealt with the delay in a characteristically direct manner: she leaned forward, sucked the button between her teeth and bit through the threads with a single snap of her jaw.  The Captain's shirt parted.

"So," Venoma smirked maliciously.  "I finally have you in my clutches."  The Captain felt her sharp talons slide up under his undershirt, brush the hairs on his lower abdomen, then creep inch-by-agonizing-inch up to his chest.  She took his right nipple between her claws and slowly began to apply pressure.

Captain Proton heroically clamped his jaws shut and denied her the  pleasure of hearing him groan.  Through clenched teeth, he said, "You  think you can make me talk?"

"No, Captain," she breathed .  "If I want you to talk, there are other methods."  Suddenly, without warning, she was leaning her full weight against him.  The crucifix, which had been at a 45° angle, eased nearer to the floor and leveled out.  The exotic scent of her perfume filled his senses; the only sounds he could hear were his own sudden inhalation and the tinkling of her jade and silver earrings. "Sometimes," she sighed, "the villainess just wants the hero to stop talking."

Venoma slithered down over the Captain's chest until her lips were locked onto the nipple she had pinched moments before.  She sucked at it, pulling until just the moment when pleasure and pain became intermingled.  Then she bit him hard enough to draw blood and the Captain arched his back.  But no sound escaped his lips.

He felt her hands on his belt and, for a moment, she was puzzled by its unfamiliar construction. But Venoma had a serpent's wily mind and was quick to master the ins and outs of even the most complex machines.  She slid the bolt back and drew the belt's tongue through the catch.  He heard the faint rasping of her fingers against the cloth of his pants and felt her undoing the buttons of his fly.  Then the Captain felt the cool flow of air over his silk boxer shorts.

"Why, Captain," Venoma hissed.  "I never would have guessed.  Such luxury...  I can hardly wait to tell Demonica and Malicia."

He almost said, With these heavy pants I get rashes... but that was none of her damned business.  If he could have seen her face, he would have spit in it, but, as it happened, her face was elsewhere.

"And this," Venoma sneered, as he felt her slip her hand into the fly of his boxers, "would be Captain Proton's vaunted rocket p..."  He heard her gasp.  "His justifiably vaunted rocket pack."  She raked the rocket boosters with the tips of her claws and the Captain had to  fight the urge to let his engine unleash its full fury.

There came then a near-electric tingle of warmth and wetness just below the tip of his nosecone.  A light touch, to be sure, barely discernable, but so close, oh so close, to the center of his power source. It was as if this witch had performed this intimacy on him a thousand times before.  The Captain began to perspire, to wonder if perhaps his iron will would not be enough to resist Venoma's wiles.

The tingle turned into a shock as he felt himself engulfed by a rushing, swirling inferno. It was almost as if Venoma had unhinged her jaw and her tongue had grown longer and forked.  She did things to him that he had never imagined, that he could scarcely comprehend.  The Captain gritted his teeth and tried to remember the faces of those he loved, of those who depended on him: the Colonel, Buster, his dog Neutron, Constance Goodheart... At which point Venoma did something particularly diabolical with the tip of her finger and his will weakened even further.  The Captain decided, Okay, maybe thinking about Constance isn't such a good idea...

Suddenly, she released him and the Captain felt as if he might be able to regain his will.  She was still there, he could tell. There was a gentle, steady pressure as she sinuously stroked and smoothed, but  there was a pensive quality to it.  Almost as if she had expected him to crack already, but he hadn't.

And he wouldn't.  He was Captain Proton.  Defender of Earth.  Hero of the Airways.  She will crack, he decided, gritting her teeth.  I can turn the tables on Venoma and use her own wiles against her.

Venoma lifted herself up beside him so she could look him in the eye. Her face was flushed, the Captain noticed, and her crown was slightly askew. Maybe this won't be so hard after all, he thought.  "So, Captain," she said.  "You're made of sterner stuff than I would have expected."  And, as if to prove it to herself, Venoma grasped his rocket tightly and gave a long, slow pull.

Through gritted teeth, Captain Proton spit out, "It'll take more than some slimy tricks to make me talk, Venoma."

For a moment, she actually looked hurt.  "Now, Captain.  You know snakes aren't slimy.  Their skins are actually warm and dry.  Let me show you."  At which point she reached behind her neck and undid a clasp or untwisted a tie or did some female thing that no man in all the known galaxy could have done with only one hand.  The front of her dress slid down around her shoulders and she gathered the silky material in her hand.  Slowly, her eyes glowing brighter with each passing moment, she lowered the left side of her dress while simultaneously leaning forward towards the Captain's face.

He tried not to look, to turn his face away from the temptation, but he was powerless.  Not only was he tightly bound by ropes, but there was a hypnotic quality to her gaze, a light burning there that he found impossible to resist.  When the warm skin of her breast touched the side of his face, the Captain could not resist the urge to turn his face towards her, to move his mouth and tongue until he found a peak, and then to nip and lick until he felt the tip thicken and grow in his mouth.

Venoma hissed, then laughed softly.

Even as his mouth moved across her flesh, the Captain's mind raced.

She shifted her weight, offering her other breast.  He repeated his ministrations, first softly licking the underside of her heaving chest, then slowly running his tongue up to the tip of her nipple. Teasing, twisting with lip and teeth, pressing and biting.  When she climbed up onto the table and straddled his chest, the Captain knew that he had a chance.  If only he could keep control.

The thin silk of Venoma's dress whispered as she slowly twisted around, shifting herself so that her dress was pulled up around her waist.  He could not see most of the operation and by the time she was finished, Venoma had settled her thighs down over the Captain's face and was once again teasing his rocket with her tongue.    He inhaled deeply (he couldn't stop himself) and had to admit to himself that this was one situation that he hadn't anticipated when he had left Proton Park that morning...  He thought again of Constance and hoped she would forgive him if he survived.

And if I tell her, he thought.  But I'll worry about that later.  For now, there's work to be done.

Again, the Captain almost became lost in Venoma's intoxicating musk. Somewhere above him, lost in the distance, he heard the tiny, rhythmic clinkings of her many bracelets.  She wasn't slimy, as she had said, but she wasn't dry, either.  The Captain's tongue and lips began by dancing a stately waltz, then gradually moved to a frisky foxtrot, then to a jangling jitterbug as Venoma's hands, lips and mouth played over his own instrument.  It was almost more than he could stand and, more than once, the Captain felt he would lose the war they were waging.  But, fortunately, when he felt his will weakening, he called upon the Holy Trinity that all men call upon in such situations: the Bambino, Joltin' Joe and Jackie.  Robinson steps to the plate and watches as a long, slow one comes sliding over...

It was the bottom of the ninth and the Captain's relief pitcher was just about to be sent to the showers when Venoma began to twitch and cry out.  The  rhythmic clinks became a discordant jangle and he knew that, at least for the moment, that he had won.  Venoma panted and heaved, then had to withdraw the gantry from his rocket.

Moments later, she hissed.  "Damn you, Captain.  You've won this round, but I'm not through with you yet."  He felt her slither around on top of him again and when Venoma's face hove into sight, her crown  was gone, as was her dress.  The only thing left, as far as the Captain could see, was her jewelry and the sandals, and the only reason he could see them was because she was straddling his midsection, feet on the platform, her nether regions poised over his. "But now we're going to see what you're really made of."

She took him in her hand and slowly lowered herself. As she slid down, he felt her sinuously contract herself around him with the  relentless, all-consuming avarice of a boa constrictor stealing the  breath from its prey.  When she reached bottom, when their bodies  finally touched, Venoma groaned, "Docking procedure complete,"  then began to methodically grind the life out of the Captain.

For a moment, he was helpless in her grasp.  The strand of pearls around her throat, the bracelets on her wrists, the earrings that dangled from her ears, all moved in wavelike unison as she slithered and slipped over him.  Her face glowed in her certainty of victory. The tips of her nipples jutted out proudly and he knew that if his hands were free, he would reach up and roughly caress them.

And that would have spelled his defeat, too.  The Captain's steely determination not to betray his friends would not have been enough. But, as it always would, Venoma's inability to love and trust anyone would mean her downfall.  This moment of frustration and insight gave the Captain the strength he needed to outwit her.  A ruse was his only hope.  He had to make her think she had won.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to move his hips beneath her.  It was hard, once he started, not to give in completely, to let the liquid fire at the center of his being take control of him, but the Captain tried to remember Constance's sweet face, found that he couldn't, realized that he could remember some other parts, then decided to concentrate on his dog Neutron.  Good ol' faithful Neutron.

The grin on Venoma's face widened as she sensed his movements and she redoubled her efforts. The Captain tried to smile like he was agreeing, but it was hard.  Very hard.  He thought about Neutron some more.

Venoma shifted her weight and slid her knees to the top of the platform.  Moving with the blinding, sinuous grace of a viper, she slipped the Captain out of her nether regions and slid the tip of his rocket into an even deeper, darker space.  With no more than a grunt of pleasure, she settled back on him and groaned, "So, Captain, welcome to the Dragon's Lair."  Then, Venoma leaned back against him with her full weight and slowly began to contract her muscles as if she were trying to grind his hull into atoms.

It was almost more than he could take.  He felt whatever control he had once possessed slipping away when she made her fatal error. Venoma slipped her hand between their bodies and began to frantically plunge her fingers into her nether regions.  He could not see what she was doing, but could sense the urgency as her bejewelled fingers danced over the center of her being. Hope briefly flared in the Captain's breast, but then something else began to flare as he sensed Venoma's crisis coming closer, ever closer.

Only an evil genius with the computing power of Doctor Chaotica could have calculated who found their way to the deepest depths first, but Captain Proton was a gambling man and even he wouldn't have put any money on it.  Venoma would never say, either, though, in the end, she did turn her back on him long enough for the Captain to wrest himself free of his bonds and reach his rocket pack.  She even seemed to enjoy watching him battle through her Lizard Lackeys and  the lovely-but-lethal Dragonettes.  She even smiled a slow, secret, snaky smile when he carried her (over one shoulder) into the InterPlanetary Hall of Justice.

And he didn't even need Buster's help.

But Neutron looked at the Captain a little funny that night when he got home.

And Constance -- well, sometimes it's the things that a girl doesn't know that makes her so attractive. Sometimes, anyway.

And the next time the Captain battled Venoma's Serpent Army on the steps of her Dragon's Lair,  just before the battle began, someone (maybe Buster) looked over at Lester Proton and saw a slow, wistful smile dance across his face.

And then it was gone.

The good guys won.
 
 

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Changes last made July 29, 1999