Dea Ex Machina
He has never been a religious man, although in his more paranoid moments he truly believes there is a higher power out to get him. But he knows enough to kneel in service of a Goddess. She looks down at him, eyes full of liquid compassion. He worships her, whispering prayers across her naked skin. His hands clasped together tightly as she moves against his knuckles, her supplicant. Soft, pale skin. So smooth against his touch you'd think she was real. The folds of her gown are thin and filmy against his touch, iridescent and changing colour in the light like a gauzy chameleon. Tasting the body of his deity on his tongue, biting and sucking soft flesh leaving tiny red marks scattered across the expanse of white skin. He likes to think of her walking around the ship, speaking to the Captain, having dinner with Will, the pressure of his lips and teeth branding her wherever she goes. She won't, of course. Not really. Sometimes he pretends she will, conjuring up some dull scenario where she talks to Picard, the bruised red flesh just showing at the corner of her uniform.
Sometimes it is all he can do not to fall to his knees, trembling, as she passes him in the corridor. Hair tumbling about her shoulders that he longs to run his fingers through but never dares, her uniform clinging to curves he knows intimately. No-one else knows her like he does. Every inch of her body, he's traced each crevice and crease a million times with his tongue, so often that sometimes it's a daily ritual. He confesses his sins in low, hushed tones and she absolves him, tracing her fingertips and lips lightly across his skin. This is about her, not him. He thinks he made that clear after the first time, when the aftershocks were already trembling through her body as he entered, spilling himself inside almost instantly. She smiled sweetly and stroked his hair for an hour before he had to zip up his pants and go to his counselling appointment with stories of engineering simulations and a problem he needed to fix. He was worried she would sense the lust and guilt in his soul, and the smell of sex on his skin. If she did she never commented. She never mentions sex to him outside the program.
No matter what the rumours say, to him she is pure and inviolate. Once or twice she is seen with a visiting delegate, laughing a little too hard at one of his jokes, dancing a little too close, disappearing behind the swishing doors of his quarters only to reappear tousled and sated the next morning. Then he runs to the haven of the holodeck and his fingers press bruisingly against her skin as he makes her swear she loves only him. Today she is a goddess. Tomorrow she may be back in her office, long dark hair and white naked flesh spilling over her counselor's couch, or on her chair on the Bridge with her legs wrapped around his waist and her voice hoarse from ecstatic gasps. Whatever he wants, and he knows he'll always want her. Outside this room she may smile and pat his arm, her large black eyes filling with confusion as she invents another excuse for not having dinner with him. Here, she'll always say yes.