At the Captain's Pleasure
by Julie Barrett

"Sir." Ensign Stewart saluted crisply and stood at attention.

The Captain made a quick inspection tour of the new man, eying his muscular build, his firm buttocks, and outlines of impressive nipples that showed through the fabric of his not-too-tight uniform shirt. Almost perfect.

"As you were, Ensign." The Captain unconsciously patted a stray hair back into place.

The Captain was 47 and not afraid to let her age show. She could afford to when she looked that good, Stewart mused. The few gray threads scattered amongst her raven hair added to her carefully groomed air of authority. She probably looked hot when her hair was out of that severe knot, her gently curled tresses flowing with abandon down her alabaster back.

Stewart assumed parade rest. His abs rippled underneath his khaki shirt.

"So," the Captain consulted the display embedded in her desktop. His record was impressive. This was a man who chafed at standard protocols and took more than a few very personal liberties. He got the job done in the end. "It seems you distinguished yourself at OTC."

"Yes, sir."

She wanted to tell him to wipe that smug look off his face already, but when framed by that tousled blond hair it looked so right. "This isn't officer training. I prefer a gender-appropriate address."

Stewart flinched. Inside. Outwardly he twitched an eyebrow, raising it ever so slightly. Obviously, she was all woman – and he'd done his homework to be sure. But this wasn't the time to break protocol. Patience was a virtue. "Yes, ma'am."

The Captain leaned back, casting an appreciative eye over the ensign's features. "The Quartermaster has your uniform and supplies. You understand that you serve at the Captain's pleasure?" She paused ever so slightly between the last two words. "In my quarters, 2300 hours. Don't be late."

"Yes, ma'am." Stewart allowed a trace of a grin. This could be interesting.

"And don't forget your weapon."

Very interesting. He was as good as in. He knew it.

Stewart smoothed the final pesky wrinkle out of his uniform, pressed the buzzer, and stood at attention.

"Right on time. I wouldn't have expected anything less." The Captain had changed into a dress uniform. Not quite what he'd expected, but agility was his middle name. He'd play whatever game she had in mind. "According to your file, you assisted in the instruction of first contact protocols to cadets during your final year."

"I drilled a number of cadets."

"I'll bet you did." She crossed past the bed - the sheets tucked specifically to Fleet specifications – and glanced at her reflection. "A medal out of place. Can't have that." As she bent over her bureau to make the adjustment he couldn't help but notice how well dress trousers suited her hips. He wondered if she'd had them specially tailored. She ran a finger across a row of battle ribbons with a sensuous, delicate move. She turned around to face the Ensign, subjecting him to a close inspection.

"I see you brought your tackle," she remarked as her eye swept to his belt and downward past his sidearm. Stewart nodded. "Then step into my office."

War games could be rough, but oh, so pleasurable.

The door slid open Stewart followed the captain closely, reaching up to set free her freshly-knotted hair. The rules of engagement stated that the superior officer made the first move, but he was not the type to follow the rules. Ever.

"Gentlemen, this the newest member of our crew, Ensign Martin Stewart." This was unexpected, but Stewart was experienced. Only a slight adjustment of body position was necessary to make it look as though he was pulling a piece of lint from the Captain's white tunic. With a practiced move, he snapped to attention, allowing his muscles to ripple into place. Instead, they froze as he took in the sight of the four officers that suddenly seemed to be taking up a lot of space.

The men were huge. And they carried enormous weapons. "First contact on a potentially hostile world, gentlemen. You know the rules."

Stewart realized he was the only person in the room dressed in a red shirt. He was so screwed.

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