Fat Tuesday in the DQ


By Britta

Lt. Tom Paris, recovering Catholic altar boy for lo these many years, shimmied his way through Chakotay's bedroom door wearing nothing but a feathered mask and a whole lot of beaded necklaces, some of which hung to his knees.
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The dark-haired man sitting complacently in his bed, holding a padd in one hand just looked up, blinked a couple of times, and asked, "Are you supposed to be a witchdoctor?"
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"Nope." Tom rattled what had to be several kilos of plastic pearls in a wide variety of colors in front of his face and continued, "It's Mardi Gras, Chakotay. Get up and let's party!"
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"Who's Marty and why should I?" Chakotay replied.
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Tom twirled around, flashing his bare ass and said, "Because I'm asking you. I want to dance and fuck the night away...with you and only you."
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Chakotay received a white-hot kiss and was pulled off the bed with feathers tickling his face. "I said, 'Who's Marty?' Tom?"
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Paris ignored his question but tossed his padd aside. He was silently and skillfully made naked, then Tom called for loud, sexy music and proceeded to bump and grind against him while entangling him in endless ropes of really obvious fake jewels. Every time he started to ask another question, Tom kissed him back into silence and Chakotay's frustration turned quickly into lust.
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Giving up on ever getting an answer, he let Tom have his way. Before he knew it, he was back in bed, on his stomach, with Tom's tongue up his ass. Writhing beneath the unexpected onslaught of sensation, he cried out, "Oh gods! Tom, why?"
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Tom panted, "Just enjoy it, Chakotay. Tomorrow's the beginning of Lent, and I promised to give up eating you for the duration."
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As Tom returned to his task, all Chakotay could do was moan and wonder vaguely who the hell Marty was....

THE END

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