Ewa S vs. MishRocks — To Boldly Go — Mirror, Mirror

MishRocks vs. Ewa S. on FCF

Warning by MishRocks:

This is, perhaps, the nerdiest Fight Log you may ever read (but we had a BLAST writing it!).  Upon completing this chapter, you MAY have an irresistible compulsion to move into your parents’ basement and debate what you should wear to next year’s Comic-Con  You have been warned….


It’s August, 2267. I don’t know the stardate—-I always had trouble calculating it, even at the Academy. It’s all still pretty new to everyone. I know that Stardate 0000.0 began on Tuesday, April 25, 2265, at 00:00 hours. The lowest possible Stardate-to-year ratio is 2635.10833 Stardates per year (at least 7.21468749 Stardates per day, or less than 0.138606142 day per Stardate). 

Therefore, one Stardate is no more than 11,975,570.7 milliseconds (0.138606142 day = 11,975,570.7 milliseconds). Given the above starting point and the assumed ratio of 2635.10833 Stardates per year, it is possible to calculate the calendar date. Maybe Mr. Spock can do this in his head—-but me—-screw it. I’ll just access my calendar! http://trekguide.com/Stardates.htm

Two months after graduation from the Academy, and I’ve just finished my sixth week aboard StarFleet’s flagship, the USS Enterprise! So many of us had hoped to get an assignment on a starship, no less the Enterprise, but most ended up on scientific or medical frigates, a few assigned to Starbase K-7, and some sent to the Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards around Mars, to work on designing the next class of starship, moving away from the Constitution class, of which the Enterprise was the prime example, to something known only as the Ambassador-class ship line. 

We had studied missions of the crew of the Enterprise in many of our classes. The exploits of its first captain, Robert April, were legend. After that 5-year mission, we knew that Chris Pike had taken the helm, but his command was cut short by the tragic accident that confined him to a life-support wheelchair for the rest of his days. And then of course, assuming command after Pike’s departure, the brash young lieutenant who, it was rumored, was the only cadet ever to have beaten the Kobayashi Maru scenario prior to graduation.

James Tiberius Kirk!! I feel my heart race just at the mention of his name! The youngest Starfleet captain to date, and already tongues are wagging about him all over the galaxy. His swagger, his decisiveness, his, um, hot body! Rumors are that he’s fathered at least six babies in this quadrant, one with that beautiful but kind of nutty Carol Marcus.

But in the six weeks I’ve been here, I’ve seen the captain only once. The day we came aboard—-a formal ceremony with lots of flourish, but since then, nada. As a newbie ensign, I do not have my choice of shifts or assignments. I go where I’m told. And for the last six weeks, I am on third shift, in the auxiliary transport room. No, not the one where Mr. Scott hangs out when he’s not crawling up and down some Jeffries Tube, transporting James T, Mr. Spock, and that crusty curmudgeon Dr. McCoy here, there, and everywhere.

Nope, this was auxiliary transport. No celebs here. Now and then, I got to beam up some cargo—-whooo-hooo!. But the shift was solitary, and much of my first six weeks was trudging from my quarters at 23:30, staffing my shift by myself, monitoring the efficiency of the phase inducers, checking the sensors and logging in data regarding gaseous anomalies. And this isn’t even my field!  Transportation services?  That’s Engineering!! Red uniforms!  I’m Science!  Blue uniform!!  But, as a new ensign, sometimes you fill odd shifts, even if it’s not in your area—cross-training they call it.  Yesterday, I was able to beam over a cargo container filled with some sort of foul-smelling alien (ooops, we’re not supposed to use that word), uh, non-terrestrial vegetable matter—-the ingredients for some type of plomik soup that Nurse Chapel was experimenting with for Mr. Spock. 

Yes, that was the extent of my exciting life aboard the Enterprise these days. I, of course, read the Captain’s Log each day (and fantasized about doing other things with the Captain’s log…), and knew that a few days ago, the Captain, Spock and McCoy had actually been in 1930’s America, working with some woman named Edith Keeler; and about a week ago, we had this boy on board, Charlie,who when angered could make people just disappear with his mind. I guess, if you really stretch it, that was one of the good things about being part of the nameless 430 crew members buried deep in the bowels of the ship. You were relatively safe from what seems like weekly peril around here. Oh, and don’t get me started on the fate of those poor guys who wear red shirts! 

I tug at the bottom of my blue tunic. Science division, of course, They call it a tunic. From my research back to ancient Earth fashion, to me it looks more like a mini-dress! Being down here in the bowels, especially third shift, I tend to be a bit relaxed about dress code. Today, my boots are off and I wore my kitschy My Little Pony panties underneath—supposedly they were all the rage hundreds of years ago with children—-the ponies, not the panties—-but I just thought they were cute. No, they didn’t have the regulation Delta shield on them. But really—who was going to look? 

I am roused by incessant beeping from one of the panels, and as I rise to check it out, the great ship lurches, sending me staggering a few steps to the right. Bracing myself against the bulkhead, I make my way to the panel, and check the readings. Huh. That’s interesting. The specialized equipment I have here to seek out gaseous anomalies has detected a large concentration of ions. And I mean LARGE. This is like an ion storm, highly concentrated. I should lock down the transporter, given the possibility of the storm affecting the circuitry, but—-the concentration is SO narrow, and the small channels open from this transporter are so tiny, the odds that one would affect the other are minute. 

So, abandoning protocol (like the great James T!), I do nothing, and in a few seconds, the ion mini-burst has passed, and all is well in the universe. 

Ewa S.

The mission was simple. At least, they made it sound that way. The last words I heard, standing in the transporter room, while the explosions rocked the Capital were; “Good luck, Ensign. Failure is not an option, everything hangs on balance.” My field of vision turned blue’ish white, staring at the scarred face of Political Officer Hikaru Sulu, with his Gestapo-like chilliness and cunning. And just as the familiar burst of light and slight vertigo of being beamed-out hit me, I saw the door of the room explode, the hinges bursting, and the heavy Trellium-D door flying across crushing one of the poor red shirts against the wall.

Behind the door, a bearded face of a Vulcan appeared, holding a phaser, pointing it at Sulu, who ducked behind a panel, and I could hear the screams. One calling for shooting the transporter, while the other yelled for protecting it by all their lives — and I did feel special for a moment!! All that fuss for me!! — Actually, not me, my mission, but hey!! I am the mission!!!! White flash fills my vision, and I feel my body disintegrating. I’ve been beamed before, and since the old days, the technology has been refined for minimal sickness-inducement. But… this was not a normal beam. The artificial ion-field generator took care of making me feel like every cell of my being was being electrocuted, and then everything went dark with a with a POP.

I don’t know how long passed, but when I woke up, I could feel the cold Transparent Aluminum floor under me, as I laid flat on it. My cheek smudged, my lips parted, in a pool of my saliva that slowly expanded around me. I stirred, and tried to get up. But I could not. I was devastated. I just slumped down, and opted for rest. Wherever I am, I surely was not found. I closed my eyes, trying to control my headache, and remind myself of who I am, and my Mission…..

Ensign H-I-675582. Class of 2271. Service: Four years upon the I.S.S Enterprise, under Captain James Tiberius Kirk. Class-A witness to the Halkans-Anomaly. Encounter of the Third Kind with the infiltrators, spotting the fraudulent Cpt. Kirk aboard the Enterprise, mistaking him for the real Cpt. First responder to the Transport room to assist the real Captain Kirk, Dr. McCoy, Lieutenant Uhura, and Chief Engineer Scott, before carrying out the order to commence Orbital Bombardment of the Halkans homeworld for refusing to trade their dilithium.

For all that, I was handpicked for my mission. Besides first-hand encounter of this series of events that lead to the mutiny of Mr. Spock, the seizure of the I.S.S. Enterprise, and the assassination of the Emperor along with several high-ranking officers in the Administration. But atop of all that, is that medical records that I had the lowest aging index from all possible candidates. Putting bluntly, I have physically aged the least, and that could certainly facilitate the issue of infiltrating the parallel universe’s ranks, to get the needed opportunity to execute my mission. The assassination of Captain James Tiberius Kirk before the events of the Halkans-Anomaly.

I took few deep breaths, trying to take control of both my wits, and body, stretching on the cold floor, then slowly pushing up. I pushed my tunic down, to cover the matching color of my panties. Black boots on my feet, I stumbled to the door. Still dizzy, I pressed my hand against the panel, sliding it open. And stepping into the hallway. It was empty, good, I did not want anyone to see me looking this dizzy, or worse, question what I’m doing so close to the Engine room when I’m supposed to be in the transport room. I swallowed hard, the headache rapidly fading, and I pushed forwards, trying to remember the way to the station.

Just as I cut a corner, I spot a familiar face, a Vulcan, the same face I saw blowing down the door moments before I was beamed. Mr. Spock!! And I freeze. But his gaze just moves past me, and I almost sigh in relief, urging my legs to push forwards and pass him, when I hear his voice; “Ensign.” My heart skips a beat, and I turn. “You look sickly, your heartbeat seems elevated, unsteady. Reporting to the Sick-bay is recommended.” – “Yes sir.” I say with a little, innocent smile, and I turn, walking down the hallways, and for a strange reason I can feel his piercing gaze at my back, but I reach the corner and I take it quickly. Breathing hard.

FUCK!! That was close. But at least that random encounter seems to have cleared my head with the surge of adrenaline it stimulated. And now, I know the way to the transporter room. I make my way to it quickly, passing some random blue and red shirts, who don’t seem to share the Vulcan’s interest in the young ensign, although I can feel few heads turning, which strangely make me blush, knowing they are checking out my cute body. I guess peekers are the same, no matter what Universe you are in.

I arrive at the door to the transport room. And I breathe hard. Here it is, my first target. My own self. The instructions are clear, getting to Kirk might take days, weeks, and I need to assimilate and blend in, no mistakes are allowed. And someone needs to be taken care of. I reach to my belt, to feel my phaser and FUCK… It’s not there.. I glance down, my heart skipping a beat. It must still be there on the floor in the engine room. I feel a bit of panic, the chance of running into Spock again on my way there deters me from heading back. I’ll just have to find another way.

I just walk to the door, pressing my hand against the panel, the DNA sensors affirming my identity, I am biologically identical to my ‘Evil Clone’ of this universe. And as the door parts open, I step inside slowly, seeing the familiar room, and the large chair, too big for my size, and even though I can’t see anyone sitting on it from behind, I know that my (your) petite form is probably concealed behind it. I step towards it. My fists clenched. I cannot fail — I cannot fail — I can NOT fail!!


“You’re sleeping on duty, ensign?” The voice startles me, my bootless feet up on the console, my hands in my lap. But I’m not alarmed. It’s a booming, authoritative voice—one that has commanded thousands, and thousands unequivocally do what the voice dictates. But for me, it’s soothing and reassuring, my anchor in a sea of galactic turmoil and shipboard drama. Without moving, my head below the back of the chair, the only telltale sign that I am actually there is the boots askew on the floor, and, depending on your angle, my cute toes sticking up from the console, their zebra-print toenails wiggling freely; I answer slowly, “Not sleeping—doing mental calculations.”

Strong hands turn the chair; my feet are swept off the console, and I look up, a huge grin on my face, straight into the eyes of James T! He reaches down and scoops me up effortlessly, pressing my body to his—his shirt is off, which is certainly non-regulation—but I don’t question it. Pressed against his hairless chest, I feel his hands slip beneath my tunic; his eyebrows rise, quickly discovering that my My Little Pony panties are balled up inside my boot. Pulling me closer, his lips brush against mine, his hand starting to rub me gently, my hips beginning to stir, to gyrate, responding to his gentle touch. “Mmmmm, James T,” I purrrrrr, “Ensign Rox reporting for…”

The whoosh of the doors startles me! James T dissolves before me in an instant, and my feet drop to the cold metal deck. Trying to collect myself quickly and quietly, I eye my boots, placed neatly in front of the chair—out of view of anyone coming in, and close enough that I can slip them on surreptitiously if I needed to. I smooth my tunic, still sitting low, and feel—FUCK! the bastard got me wet—even in my dreams, he makes me wet! Hopefully, My Little Pony is absorbent, because right now there’s nothing I can do, other than hope it doesn’t seep through to my tunic and make a statement that this ensign REALLY LOVES her work! Deciding it’s better to get reprimanded for having my boots off than for trying to blatantly cover it up, I spring to my feet, turning and preparing to acknowledge whatever officer is popping in to check up on me. I complete my turn, and the words, “Good Evening, Sir” get caught in my throat, because it looks like, for a moment anyway, someone has dropped off a large mirror into the transporter room. Because there I am, looking at my reflecti…huh? I place my hand on my hip—my reflection does not. Shit.. SHIT! We studied this! Kirk, transporter accident—creates a double of him, leaves his crew, including the kind Mr. Sulu, on the surface of this god awful icy planet as he and his double fight it out on the ship.

And then in the asylum, Kirk taken prisoner, the demented caretaker assuming his form with some type of shape-shifting device, fooling the crew for a while until Mr. Spock figures things out. But me? Why create a double of me? I see your—my?—fists clenched as you stare, no doubt a little taken aback at seeing you—me—standing in front of yourself. Yup same me. 5’2″, about 100 lbs, Longish chestnut brown hair. So cute!! You look, um, a little more worn, more tired, I guess, than I do, and, the superficial part of me kicks in for a second, and I actually smirk! But shit, I’m here in my bare feet on duty facing myself—all bets are off right now. I ball my fists as well, mirroring (couldn’t resist) you, dismissing the smirk. “Who—what—are you?” I demand.


I move close to the chair. I can see the boots there on the floor, one flopped over to the side, and then the toes, wiggling softly, in a motion that tells me that you are either waking up, or lost in some real wet fantasy. That’s how I would wiggle my toes anywa—EEWWW!! What’s… that… God awful print…. It looks like last week’s black pedicure puke on this week’s white pedicure to create this horrid swirly lined mess… Is that white polish with black streaks, or black polish with white streaks??? This universe is TRULY evil!!!

I feel my anger ebb, the fury flowing through my veins, and my plans of knocking you out then beaming you to the deserts of Halkan-prime change. No, I’ll fucking beam you straight to one of their binary suns. That atrocity of a paint finish has no room in this universe or any other. The multi-verse is much better off without that! But my fascination with your horrible aesthetic choices is suddenly interrupted when the chair turns and you bounce to your feet… SHIT!!! I should have fucking moved while you still slumbered, and I hear the voice. MY voice coming to my ears…. and it sounds… so different…

I mean… everyone is startled when they hear their voice for the first time, and not the voice you hear inside you speak, but when you hear yourself on a recording… There is a fucking reason SO many people out there think they can sing or impersonate others when they actually can’t, people!!! But the way you stare at me, and your jaw drops says it all. You’re as taken and startled as me. Your eyes shift, and I can see the confusion, giving place to even more confusion, then to a …. smirk?? really?? FUCKING REALLY??

You question me, and who I am, and I see your hands curl into fists…. Okay… I should have known… You are me after all… And I should have fully expected that your fear would fade quickly. But I need to act before the whole effects of the surprise fade. And without any kind of fucking hesitation… I charge at you wildly, my eyes spotting the large panel behind you. The metal edges, and little angle that it is raised off. The colorful lights bleeping and beeping (what’s the difference, I never figured…. But they always wrote it in the Textbooks of the Academy, bleeping and beeping..)

I just say in a brief voice; “I’m you… Just better, BITCH!!!” — And then charge wildly, bending my body at the waist, and I thrust my right shoulder as powerfully as I can into your chest, just below your (my) perfect titties, ramming my boney shoulder hard, hoping it stuns you and sends you stumbling back to slam your back into the metal with the mother of all spears!


I’ve been told in the past to calm myself; watch myself; control myself; pace myself; congratulate myself; reward myself; warned not to punish myself; and, on occasion, even told to go fuck myself. But fight myself? Well, this is a first. Of course, we had the requisite self-defense classes in the Academy. And prior to that, this little kitten found herself in a series of scraps with others. So, facing another 100-pound petite girl shouldn’t be….oh, wait. That means you—you’ve had the same training? Experiences? Are you even human? What if you’re like a cyborg, constructed to look like me? (Place a brief fantasy here about an army of cute little android me’s all over the planet).

My musings come to an abrupt end as you charge me—just as I would do, trying to take me—you—me—by surprise. Coming in low, shoulder first, you lunge, hissing, “I’m you—just better, bitch!” Your shoulder plowing into my chest, driving me backwards, my bare feet finding little friction on the metal floor. Our momentum stops as my back slams into one of the consoles, first straightening me up and then bending me backwards, back flat on the angled panel…buttons and knobs protruding into my back. You’d think that 300 years after the invention of the iPad we’d have flat-panel, touch technology on a starship! My hands grab the sleeves of your tunic as you slam into me, and as I am bent back onto the console, I release your sleeves and try and move quickly, processing and trying to push down the pain in my spine as I leap into defense mode. My left hand slides from your arm to your v-neck, gripping it around the collar, trying to whip your head back and forth, while my right hand curls into a fist again, and prepares to serve a warm dish called payback to your left cheek. 


One would think that a week’s worth of briefing, mental and physical conditioning would prepare you for this. The sight of seeing YOURSELF standing upon you, then attacking and beating *yourself* down… HA!! — Easier said than done!! And perhaps the one lesson they kept repeating to me over and over and fucking OVER, is that I’m fighting someone who ‘knows my only move’. How can I fucking out maneuver and smart that?? — I guess it’s up to me to find a way now, and like with everything in my life, just freaking wing it!! I spear you powerfully and you crash into the panel, clutching my sleeves, and I hear the double-grunt leaving your lips, from the shoulder to your chest and then the slam into the panel.

I move quickly, trying to lean back, my left arm moving between us, pressing my forearm against your chest, and readying myself to sock you in your mouth with my fist. But you are quick, well, I am quick, so I can fucking take credit for that I’m sure, grabbing my V-neck pushing me back then in “ARRGGHH!!” I cry out over the low ‘riiip‘, the seams of my ‘tunic’ ripping some, showing a bit more of the cleavage and top of my left breast, my forehead smashed into the Gorilla XXIV glass, my eyes crossing, only to eat your incoming punch to my left cheek! 

I cry out and fall to my right side against the panel. Our bodies turning, and I’m on my right side, you on your left, glaring at each other. — FUCK!! I guess *I* am going to put up a fight!! I better bring up my game, so I can beat up me!!! My left palm coming up fast, smacking into the underside of your chin, trying to knock your head back, my right hand moving up to your neck, palm pressing against your windpipe, while my short, yet sharp kitten-claws stab on the sides of your neck, four nails on the left side, my thumb on the right side, and I start to squeeze, trying to throttle you. My left knee firing up in a harsh shot aiming for your lower abs


Grabbing your V-neck and whipping your head around a bit, I am gratified as your skull slams into one of the glass panels–nothing can break these babies, and right now, that’s a great thing, as all I wanted was to dent your skull. I quickly snap my right into your face, rocking your head to the right, and sending us both falling to the angled console on our sides. You’re fast, I’ll give you that! Before I can even formulate my next move, you’re already into yours—left palm slamming under my chin, knocking my head back and up, while your right hand grasps my exposed throat, sharpened nails digging into my flesh, palm pressing into my trachea, narrowing it almost immediately, my fight for air instant and significant.

mishrocks95: As I try to battle on those two fronts, you bring your knee up, slamming into my abs. They’re tough—firm and honed, and they absorb a good part of the blow, but the impact evacuates air from my lungs, pushing breathing from a labored chore to a painstaking necessity right now. And for the first time, I realize that this is not just a fight. You’re trying to kill me. And the only way I’m getting out of this, I think, is to, well, kill you instead. The why’s and what if’s will have to wait. A duplicate me—low-level ensign—there has to be a reason—maybe slipping in as a spy—who would suspect? But I’ll figure it out later, after I…um, after I KILL you. Not something we really covered in Starfleet Academy–more about honor and duty and all that—they tended to skip over how to actually kill another being—without using a phaser of course. But I’m sure it’ll come to me—hopefully quickly as I start to gurgle and cough as your hand squeezes my throat, and I feel your knee back off, no doubt readying itself for another assault. Coughing wildly now, wheezing and gasping, my left hand flies to your right, my fingers locking around your wrist as I squeeze slowly and tightly, simultaneously trying to pry your hand off me and deaden it if I can, at least temporarily. As you bring your knee back down, I swing my own right leg up, jamming my bare foot under the bottom of your tunic, and up to your tummy, and then pushing hard and fast, my right sole slamming into your abs, hoping to knock you back. Wending my foot up through your dress, it has ridden up your body significantly, leaving you all sorts of exposed, and as I try and wrest your right hand off my throat, my own right hands starts to punch and pummel your exposed belly and chest.


My head is dizzied, the smash of my forehead to the tough glass panel has truly dizzied me, and the haymaker to my cheek did me NO favors… But that’s an afterthought now when we wrestle on our sides, and I try to use one of the freaking FEW moves I learned in the hasty combat training of last week. One of the few moves that did stick. I mean, what kind of a moron would I be to forget a neck claw/choke? My left arm pushes your neck further back, to keep your windpipe exposed. And my knee rebounds against your abs. FUCK. I guess this Universe’s evil me is as religious about her core workouts as I am!

I pummel you and keep the hold, hissing; “Just stay still!! This won’t take a minute, and it will hurt MUCH less if you stop resisting!!” — and I’m actually talking about it hurting us BOTH less… But of course you won’t. Your right leg slides up and lifts my tunic, exposing my blue panties, and your foot crawls up my tummy, jamming into my abs, shoving me back!!! My grunt filling the air, hearing the dress strain and tear from the seams, hiking up my thighs and hips, all the way to my lower abs. 

Your hand strangling my choking right hand, as it slowly loosens off your grip, then you swing your punches into my abs and firm, half-exposed tits with absolute brutality.. “UNGGHH!! UGGHH!!! ARRGHH!! GHHH!!!” Punch after punch and it takes a good four of them before I reach down and block the incoming fifth punch, my claws digging into your right forearm, and I draggg them slowly, clawing all the way to you wrist, trying to use my nails just as I have on your neck.

Losing my grip on it, I just reach down and grab your dress’s collar, my neck arched back, I hiss; “Fine, let’s do this the HARD way then, xxxxxxxxxx!” Lifting my booted right foot, and with you standing only on ONE foot, I SLAM the heavy sole of my boot as hard as I can on your bare left, grinding it hard, trying to crush your fucking toes, my right hand tightening around your dress/tunic, my left claw digging further into your wrist, to RIP the former and RAKE the latter viciously once you start to fall, knowing FULL well that your right leg will do the same to my own dress.


Oh those damned nails! That CAN’T be Starfleet, or Klingon, or Romulan standard training! Three, four unanswered punches pound into your belly and breasts, taking a toll—I hope—as I continue to wrest your hand off my throat. I feel it start to weaken, and then, the TALONS! Jamming your nails into my arm, you slowly rake them down, collecting small ribbons of my flesh under your nails, welts raising on my skin immediately, followed by small rivulets of blood. I wince mightily at the searing pain in my arm, again realizing that using standard tactics against you will probably result in me ending up being shot off in an empty photon torpedo tube tomorrow as a digital version of bagpipes playing Amazing Grace is heard in the background.

Your hand drops to my own v-neck, grasping it securely, as your booted foot comes crashing down on my one bare foot, stomping on my toes, waves of searing pain coursing through every part of my body. “AAAGH, you fucking whore!!!” (astoundingly, in 300 years few new curse words have been created, other than slong, which refers to the genitalia of the male horta, and has become popular when describing a very rigid but small, unimaginative prick). I start to lose my balance, of course, and as I fall, your grip on my tunic gets stronger, resulting in RRRRRIIIIIP! as the material almost tears entirely down the side seam of the garment. Nicely, my foot wedged in between your body and tunic pushes out at the garment as well as we fall, and a similar sound ensues. Cheap fabric purchased from a Ferengi, no doubt. We both hit the DECK at the same time, our tunics in shambles, grips on each other released at impact, and I roll to the side, my tattered uniform hanging from me, my arm and throat bleeding, and you–you seem a bit winded, but clearly, I’m worse for the wear right now. Throwing off the tattered remains, in nothing but my standard issue white bra and My Little Pony panties, I ball my fists, eyeing the, right now, stronger version of myself, but knowing now that I need to up my game NOW in order to survive.

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The boot smashing down on your foot does the trick. And you cry out, no doubt from the sensation of your frail itty-bitty bones crushed under a firm stomp delivered by someone who has your own ridiculous leg power. Stumbling, falling, and pulling me with you. In an ironic as much as it’s iconic ‘drag me to hell with you’ gesture, sending us both plummeting and hitting the floor *HARD* I yelp in pain and roll away from you, feeling the fabric of the coiled up dress shredding and pressing uncomfortably into my lower back and shoulders.

We both spring to our knees, and despite your injuries, you match and mirror me, both tugging on our torn garments and tossing them aside. And yet, you reveal another proof of your evil. Those horrid four-hooved beasts, spawn of Satan no doubt, printed over your white knickers. My own blue ones clear of color, yet of a very similar cut. The bras, following the color schemes dictated by the bottoms reflect the white and blue tones. I see your fist rising, and mine are already clenched by my side.

Bruises on my abs and left tit, pushed up slightly in the bra cup, just enough to show a tiny bit of nip slip, we lunge, and swing our right arms in a mirroring punch. Fists connecting with the other’s cheeks at ONCE. A double grunt filling the room; “UUNNGGHH!!!” — Fuck Mishie!! You gotta top that bitch. My left following up with a wild uppercut to your chin, and SMACKKKK!!! Your fist hammers my chin precisely the same moment mine hit yours, and we both fly to our backs again, moaning in pain!!! Before rolling to our right pushing up to our feet. Blinking hard in pain, realizing what just happened! It’s like fighting a mirror!!

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OK, I think, THAT was bizarre. It’s as if I just went a round with myself—well, I guess I did. Our moves and strategies the same—our motivations, though—well, I guess they would be the same too. Although I have no idea WHY you’re trying to kill me, bottom line—I want to live, you want to live, and both, in the current scenario, cannot occur. I stagger to my feet, trying to think—what would I do now normally, and then, what would I NEVER do? But—wouldn’t you be having those same thoughts? We didn’t get much past the how-to-help-your-crewmates-tell-you-apart-from-an-imposter lessons at the Academy, certainly not how to outthink your double. Circling you, hands balled into fists, I try to slow my thinking–where are we? In the transporter room. How that can that help me? My eyes dart around the room. I see the red intercom near the door, behind you. It would take an act of the Federation for me to get by you to signal general alarm. In back of me, in my mind’s memory, are the panels, my chair, and…think Michelle….fuck. Oh yes! FUCK! Pivoting quickly, turning my back on you for no more than 2-3 seconds, I lunge down at the chair, scooping up my boots, slipping one over my left hand as a make-shift boxing glove, and holding the other by its edge, swinging the 18-inch floppy faux-leather shoe with the steel toe like a mace, I approach you, a sadistic little smirk starting to form.

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I scramble to my feet. A thin line of blood running down the right corner of my lip, turning the taste of my own saliva coppery. My tongue feels swollen. Did I cut it?? But whatever damage I caused seems to be replicated precisely on you face, from that crimson line draw from the corner of your lip down to you jawbone. We breathe hard and stumble. You seem a bit lighter, but it’s because I have those boots on my feet, weighing me down. I think about taking them off, but that would open me for you. I’m experiencing the same thoughts, staring at you, and then it hits me, seeing the rakes on your right forearm and the gouges on your neck. I open my hands a bit, turning the fists into claws!!! 

And I don’t know if you’ve seen that and realized that you need to up it, but you turn and dash slipping your hand into your shoe, wtf, GROSS!! And hold it up, the heavy sole facing me, the other one swung around in you grip like a mace. FUCK!!! — I stumble back, glaring at you warily, seeing the sadistic look on your face, and I start to look around in turn. –! THINK Michelle… Fucking THINK!!” And oh… I see it… My own discarded dress, and I lunge at it, grabbing it, and I start to twirl it in my grip, turning it into one long rope, holding it. And while it looks comical in my grip vs your heavy-duty combat boots, it has a purpose. 

I charge at you, swinging the dress around with my right arm, cracking it like a whip through thin air!! Whop-eesh!!! Whop-eesh!!! Trying to aim it for your face, or eyes to be specific to make you flinch or close them, trying to get close enough to swing my right leg in a wild kick with the sole of my boot towards your belly button! 

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Like some time-warped knight who stopped at a saddlery shop on his way to a jousting match, I approach with my booted weapons. The look on your face is priceless—arched eyebrows, sneer of disgust, followed by a quick look of panic as I swing the boot menacingly. Clearly, THIS one didn’t occur to you, and secretly, I am so thankful for the non-regulation WWJTD synthetic rubber bracelet I’m wearing. It reminds me every day to be mindful and follow our core teachings of how to treat others and how to treat ourselves—What Would James T Do? Panic seems to give to rise to brainstorming, as I see your pretty face look around the room for help, just as I did moments before. But I’m not waiting. I move in, swinging, booted fist.

Leading me, about to come into range, when I see you quickly dart to your side and grab the torn remains of your uniform, holding it like an ahnwoon, and then, charging at me, whipping around and at me, my face your likely target. I take a step back and raise my boot—um, my fist-boot, hoping to block the whipping garment while at the same time raising my right foot, to snap my foot into your gut as your approach. But—fuck this mirror shit!—you do the same, only your foot is swaddled in faux-leather and steel soles, and THAT’s what plows into me, doubling me over and dropping me to the deck. In pain—excruciating pain, I can’t even look up to see what, if any, damage my kick may have done to you.

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We rush the other, my dress-whip flashing at your face, *cracking* through the air narrowly missing your right cheek, but you surely feel the puff of air it releases, while our legs kick wildly. My boot drilling into your abs, while your bare foot into mine, and “UNNGGHH!!!” we stagger back, and I crash to my knees hard, watching you fly, and fall to your ass, groaning in pain. And I see my chance, I see it within your spread-eagled legs (oh my Gawd, did my evil twin HAVE to be such a slut too??)

And I pounce wildly, using my boots to propel myself and come crashing atop of you, my body moving in a semi-straddle, my right knee hitting the floor between your spread legs, my left knee to the outside of your body. My right arm swinging in a wild punch to you left wrist, trying to hammer it hard and knock your boot off your grip, while my left moves to *grab* at your right one, the one deeply embedded in your boot, to hold and control it down against the floor.


Groaning, barely able to move—the steel sole of your boot not only knocking much of the wind out of me, but—well, my abs, as tough as they are, are no match against metal being hurled at them. I writhe in pain, laying on my back, hoping I’ve done at least some damage to you with my barefoot kick to your gut. But my answer comes quickly, as you pounce on me, slamming your hot little body onto mine, your right knee between my legs. I’m slow to react, still trying to recover from your booted attack, and am too slow to stop your punch to my wrist, trying to loosen my grip, no doubt, on my mace-boot. Your other hand simply pins my glove-boot down to the deck, semi-immobilizing my hand. Struggling under you.

I pause for just a second as you—I—gaze down at me, hair sweaty and matted, lip bleeding, welts on your chest and belly, and I think—shit, I am one good-looking chick! The thought energizes me a bit, and as you fight me to wrest control of my mace-boot, I bring my right knee up in back of you, HARD, and try to slam it into your spine, hoping to knock you off or over me.


I land atop you, soft, creamy thighs rubbing together, and for a brief moment, I feel the brush of my blue panties against your hooved beasts. And the sensation does distract me. Detecting the large, wet splash stain on your centaurs or whatever manner of mythical monstrosities. I blink, my movements coming to a halt, not realizing that the cause for this leak is your wet dreams of James T!!! And the moment costs me. I mean, you are a well-oiled mean fighting machine after all!!! Your knee rising and thumping my back, sending me falling, to smack my tits against your face, losing my leverage and we roll over, and suddenly it’s me on bottom, and you on top!! 

And the arms that were pinning your wrists down end up just holding them up. I tense my body, feeling the muscles flexing, only to be matched by yours — “ACKKK!!” I scream, seeing the rage and menace in your eyes. My eyes trailing to look at the river of sweat running down your neck, between the scratches and welts, and I twist right and left, but there is no knocking you off me by brute strength. And my arms needed to keep your boots at back, I lift my feet up, slamming them down, pounding my heeled boots on your calves wildly, drumming them repeatedly, my head jolting up, maw gaped, trying to snap my teeth at you right shoulder muscle.


FINALLY! This feels like the first bit of offense, er, defense, er, whatever, that actually connected for me. A gratifying feeling surges throughout my body as my knee solidly and forcefully slams into your spine, propelling you forward onto me, your firm, pert 32C’s pressing into my face (OK,this is just weird). Taking quick advantage of your stupor, I plant my right foot onto the deck and push us over, rolling you onto your back, me on top. Your hands still grip my arms as you attempt to de-boot me, but now, it’s to keep me at bay. Raising my torso up, I try and press down with my body weight—as you well know, not a whole hell of a lot, but I’m hoping that you cannot sustain keeping 100 or so pounds up and off you for any great length of time.

And I think it shows—your arms start to tremble slightly as I press down on you, almost drooling to totally flatten you, getting your arms to collapse so I can pummel you with my boots. So you, as I would, resort to Plan B—using your footed (?) boots to start to slam onto my legs, pummeling my calves with the steel soles fast and furiously; thankfully, your arms ARE keeping me at bay for the moment, as your head bounces up and you snap at me—I’ve no doubt that were I a bit closer, you’d have torn off a chunk of flesh. “Chomp away, pseudo-Mish…nothing but air!” I wince as your boots continue to pound into me, but I can take it. To move things along and weaken you further, I hope, I raise my hips, my cute ass in the air, and slam my crotch down and on yours, hoping that the angle and arc that I come down with rams the firmer part of my mound into your kitty.


Sweat beads forming on my forehead. Staring at your face. GOSH I do have some freaking dazzling eyes. Look at that bone structure!!! Despite the bruising and tiny specks of blood here and there, you (I) look freaking amazing! Those soft tresses on my skin, sticking with the natural body glue to foreheads and temples are making everything look and feel like we’re about to lock lips, not pound the other silly with our steely boots. Mine commence their assault and stomping on your calves, and while it seems to hurt you, it only causes you to sink lower, literally and figuratively. 

Your words hitting my ears, just as your hips, tummy, and breasts grind down on mine, pressing and flattening me under you. And yeah you’re not fat or heavy, but you’re still an extra body weight laying on my chest; “The air is all in your head, you psychotic-doppleganger!!” — I roar, twisting right, twisting left, bucking *upppp* with my hip, but; “UUGGHHH!!” You are just like a lead weight… And I stop resisting, apart from my fingers holding your wrists… I just breathe hard, trying to calm myself… Not to expend my strength… Glaring at you, feeling your crotch smacking into mine, and I grimace….

The firm, yet gentle rubbb of your camel-toe very evidently poking through the lace and rubbing across my own, and I moan softly.. Staring at you. I abandon my stomping on your calves, they should be swollen to your head’s size by now, and instead I cross my legs behind yours, boots to the floor, I send my hips flying UP hard, slamming my pussy against yours hard; “GET OFF!!” — not making it clear, what kind of getting off I mean right now!! 


Slamming my body down on yours, doing whatever I can think of to pry my wrists from your grip—it all falls short—your grip is relentless, as well it should be. Because, Pseudo-Mish, once these arms are free, you are Federation TOAST! I’ll make sure your pretty face and tight little body are formally introduced to the steel-toed ends of these boots—they’re made for pounding, after all. I feel your body drop down flat after my pelvic pound, and for a brief second, I wonder if I may have you, finally! As your legs cross behind mine, I have my answer. So relieved that the pounding on my legs with YOUR boots has finally stopped—my calves feeling close to numb and no doubt pretty bruised and battered, I have little to anchor myself, as you initiate a huge upward heave with your hips, literally sending me toppling off your body and rolling to the side. I manage to yank one hand free from your grip as I fall off, the hand holding the boot as a mace, but the one ‘wearing’ the boot remains in your grip, tenuously, and I try to pull it free. Planting my bare feet in your side, almost forming a T with our bodies, I press into your side, your ribs, with my bare feet, your grip on my wrist the only thing ‘connecting us’, and I try to straighten and lock my knees—in the process pulling and stretching your arm—and mine, to a lesser extent—out as far as I can.


Loud hisses, gasps, grunts, and the strangest of sensations decorate this most bizarre of conflicts. There are friends fighting, besties fighting, sisters fighting, twins fighting, even clones fighting…. But Multiverse duplicates fighting is a completely new level of PSYCHE!!! Identical to every chromosome and DNA strand, we just fight and battle it out, falling to our sides, and your foot presses on my hip, pushing, pushing and sliding us away, while you slip your damned left wrist from my grip, waving that fucking boot like a mace!! My right arm going up ready to deflect a blow, but you keep pushing us back and away. 

And the fate of this struggle is simple, you seek a break, separation that would allow you to commence another round of swinging with your hammer-hand and club-hand. And I just can’t fucking allow it! I start to kick my right boot against the floor, smacking the ankle and sole against it to loosen it a bit, then I pull my foot out….

My right leg coming up between us, I push my perfect *CLEAR* pedicured toes against your Satanic hooved panties, slipping my toes through the material that feels damp. Fuck! I know I’m hot, but COME ON!!! My right hand clamping down on the boot covering your right hand and instead of resisting you, I pull hard, yanking on the boot with *both* hands, while pinching my toes on your panties and rolling my body back and away from you! Trying to pull that boot off your hand and peel those panties down a bit, or rip them, or punch a hole into them, or anything at all!


Pulling your arm with mine and pushing your body away with my feet—my ultimate goal is either to break free from you, or wrest your arm from its socket—which would probably accomplish the first goal as well. And as you writhe and struggle against me, I feel us moving in that direction, especially when you start to kick and pound your right foot on the floor—almost like a petulant child! A slight smirk starts to develop on my face—but only for a second, as I realize that, no! You’re not having a tantrum—you’re—fuck! You slip your foot out from your boot and pivot your hips, your right foot landing on my panties, barely missing a dead-on blow to my kitty. I’m slightly embarrassed, as I know your bare foot can feel my moistness–no doubt thinking it’s all about you, er, me…um, me versus me…well, whatever—it’s about James T! Ok, well, maybe a little about me versus me, too. Your yanking at my handed boot jolts me from my mental masturbation, and I feel your toes curling, grabbing onto my panties, like some chimp using its feet as hands. What a freakin’ primitive and devolved culture you must come from! With a quick bend of your knee, you manage to pull the panties down a bit, so that the waistband is now around almost the middle of my hips, pulled down about 3 or 4 inches. Fine! You want me so much—covet my boot and my panties so much! I bend my knees and roll in towards you, raising my other hand—the one with the boot as a mace and get ready to pummel you—that nice flat tummy, exposed, both your hands grabbing at my other boot—time to re-boot you, bitch

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My eyes glaze with a glance of rage and insanity. Fuck this bitch!! Err fuck me… Or fuck her… or fuck us both!! I don’t fucking care!!!! Perhaps the ONLY thing that is making me feel a BIT better about all this is that I know that your skills are only a reflection of my own!!! We’re equally powerful and brilliant fighters!! — or… are we equally weak?? Hmmm… No no no… It’s the former for sure!!! I pull the boot off your right hand and yank it back, a little grin of victory on my face ,, my toes tugging your panties down a little sending myself rolling to my right, and I go over a full revolution, a smirk on my face, expecting to see you far away, huffing and puffing…

But WHAT THE FUCK?? You are just… there… still as close as you were, in fact a bit closer, and higher, your arm up above your head and before I can cover up; “OOOMMPHHH!!!!” You drill the steel heel of the boot right into my abs, my body jolting up, shoulders and feet both kicking in the air, and giving your face a lovely shower of spittle, before crashing back down. Moaning in pain. I stare at you, and the sadistic look at your face. Is that how you’re getting off?? Fucking violence and insanity!!! No wonder your kind just envied the order and discipline of my universe and decided you need to destroy it. 

But while you just smile and grin, my hands, both still holding your boot above my head, swing it wildly, like I’m holding a tennis racket, sending the heel towards your cheek and temple with my own reBOOTal!! 

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SLAMMING my boot into your tummy, the steel-toe denting those nice tight abs I have spent so long honing in the gym, I feel a surge as your feet fly up in the air, (singing hey, diddle-diddle), and another surge—of foamy saliva as you spit out upon the impact. “Primitive BITCH!” I cry out, disgusted at the salivary explosion, and I slam the boot down again into you, wondering why the hell you don’t release my other hand and try to defend yourself. Your body jerks and spasms a bit as the second blow arrives, and I’m thinking…one more of these, and that might just finish things up! Won’t James T be proud of.. My cheek feels as if it is on fire and my head rocks to the side as you finally seize control of the other boot and tag my face with it, swinging it wildly into my head!

That did it! As my head rocks to the left, my body follows, no longer tethered to yours by the battle of the boot. You have one of yours on your foot and one of mine in your hand. I have one of mine in my hand, and I roll off you, trying to put some space, the final frontier, between us. And in doing so, my bare back feels the faux-leather (we stopped killing cows for leather in the 22nd century, of course) form of your discarded boot as I roll over it. As I complete the revolution, I snatch it up and roll to all fours, clutching the saddlery and keeping you in my sight at all times. I know what a sneaky bitch I can be, after all. 

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*THWAPPPP!!!!* The sound of leather, steel, and rubber smacking your face is just beautiful, and more so is the little imprint of — EEWWW!!! — the federation left on your cheek from where the sole emblem impacted. You fall off me and I watch you rolling, tugging my boot up in your other hand and raising it defensively. But I don’t wait, I need to recuperate and I roll to my right and rise up to my knees, holding your boot in my left hand, but against your two-booted stance, I need to even the odds… *THUNK THUNK THUNK!!* I hammer my left boot into the floor, loosening it and I reach down grabbing it, pulling it up challengingly.

Now, each of us wielding one of her boots, and one of the other’s in her hand. I breathe and stare at you. On our knees, I shift forwards, my bare knee dragging on the Aluminum flooring. Waving the two weapons in the air. My abs hurting like FUCK. But it’s okie, I can take it, I glance down and spot the peeled down panties, a wicked smirk on my face, seeing a bit of your crown poking through it. —- “Weakling…. You and your Federation will be crushed under the feet of the Terran Empire…. Your attempts to sabotage are doomed to fail!!!” — Shifting on our knees like two boxing midgets, and I then swing my right boot at your face, a far shot of course, but it causes air to swoosh at your face.

And when I swing my left arm wildly in a follow-up, I take note of where your head moved, how it shifted, and I let go of the boot (yours), sending it propelling through the air aiming for your lips and nose.

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Getting to my knees, I hold a boot in each hand, watching you get to your knees as well, and, seeing that you’re under-armed (under-legged?), you pound your foot on the deck to pry off the other boot. And here we are—both on our knees, both stripped down to our underwear, both holding boots as weapons—both, um, being me—talk about mirror-mirror! I feel the air on the top part of my mound, but try to pay it no mind. After all, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before! But my eyebrows shoot up as you start to rant—something about ‘my federation’, and the “Terran Empire” and sabotage.

Oh, Bad-Wishy-Mishy, what a nasty trip you’ve been on! Is this my mentally ill clone perhaps, cells scraped off my tongue or something when I was asleep and cultivated in Khan’s old genetic lab? Ewww, I hope not! As we close in on each other, you swing your right hand/boot at my face, missing by a mile, but then follow quickly with a left—not a boot-punch, but rather a throw—actually, more of a whipping the boot at my head! Nice aim, me! The hardened sole of the boot cracks into the side of my head—my reflexes too slow to throw up a hand to block it.

It hurts, but hardly debilitating. And now you’re down to one boot, your missile bouncing off my head and sliding over near the wall. I move in closer to you, swinging both boots windmill style, hoping to batter your arms and hands as you try and defend yourself. Feeling the boots slam into your forearms, bending your fingers with the occasional glance, I move in on you, wary of your own solitary boot.

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I fling the boot and *BAM* It hits your head and it deflects flying in a little spin over one of the consoles to fall near the transporter. But instead of falling back, your head stops, then turns back an angry look at your face. THE FUCK?? Is she a fucking cyborg?? I blink, realizing that tossing the shoe was not my most brilliant of military strategies. Well I guess that’s why I’ve been picked for the science division, and not one of the Empire’s expansion corps finest!! You come at me swinging and windmilling, and I bring the boot up, trying to deflect what I can, but the shoes hit my forearms repeatedly: “AW AW AW AWWWW!!” 

The cries only encouraging you to swing more, and I realize that blocking is not the way to go. Sliding my knees back to put some distance, I start to dodge and avoid, but you keep creeping in, and I know in such a room, I *will* be pushed to a corner soon. So I begin to swing the single shoe madly at you, with purpose, aiming as carefully as I can, instead of windmilling, and I luck out with a boot-to-boob, hitting your left tit, and one smacking on your left shoulder. But still, my success rate is half as yours at best!! And with that, I have only one plan of action. Instead of backing off, I fling my body at you, getting a boot to the temple, and another to the ribs in the process.

But I cut the distance between us, bringing us chest to chest, my right arm going over your left shoulder, and my sweaty, stained bra making contact with your own. And it’s a very hostile contact!! My right arm stretched behind you, I begin to swing it back, grinding the heel on the back of your head wildly, trying to slow you down. My left arm straight up down, between us, moving between your spread thighs, curling my fingers, jabbing them into your pussy, gouging the puffy, leaky sex with my short nails, and like a little five-pronged vise, I start to close my tiny hand in a fist, gouging my nails into moist fabric and bare skin alike!


Boots flying at each other, toes and soles banging into flesh—mostly yours—but you don’t back down. Swinging your weapon, blocking but trying to cut through the buzz saw of bootery, you manage to land a few good shots—hitting my breast, my shoulder. Damn, these things hurt! Good!!! I think as I continue swinging—my two versus your one. Clearly, you realize that the 2:1 ratio is going end in your undoing, so, just as I would, you lunge! The nice thing about fighting myself is that, at least some time, I can anticipate a move. I manage to THWACK your head and body a few more times as your body sails into mine, but what I don’t anticipate is your arms going in back of me and pummeling the back of my skull with the boot heel.

And then I lose the second prediction as well, assuming that your next move would be to try and choke me or punch me, I am really off guard as your hand slides down between us and clamps down on my panties, claws out, digging into my kitty, nails practically cutting through the ponies and into my flesh! “AAAAGH, you demented bitch!” I cry out, trying to stave off the hammering into my head and the carving of my crotch. My arms drop to my sides, releasing the boots quickly so they fall flat to the deck, on their soles. Grimacing as your claw flexes deeper into me, I slide my hands into the boots, as gloves again, and slowly bring them up. WHACK!! WHACK!! Two more blows into the back of my head, and for a moment I see double–um, well, maybe triple—cuz I see two of me in front of me and then myself—whatever, I raise my arms quickly, stretching them out to the sides, and then bring them in just as quickly, hoping to sandwich your head in between the soles of my boots!


We get close, so close, far TOO close!! But can you truly be too close to yourself?? A question for philosophers and hologrammers for many eons to come. But right here, the only reason is the one of rubber, leather, and steel smacking into stubborn skulls and bodies. My left claw twisting and mauling your crotch, landing a good number of blows to the back of your head. I twist my nails wickedly and it just feels WRONG. I’m grimacing feeling that I’m doing this to myself, but come on Mish!! There is no time to be squea-Mish or subtle now. Then *BAM BAM!! Two blows slam on my head, and my eyes cross.

I blink hard, looking at my own reflection in the mirror, seeing it separate into two, but why am I smiling? Oh right… that’s not me…. *BAM BAM*!!!! The blows smack on the sides of my head, and my body flinches. My left hand clutching tighter on your pussy, and part reflex, part vengeance, I draggggg my nails upwards, stretching and shredding the cotton, and dragging my nails up the sensitive labia and puffed out clit, hearing ripping sounds, and my body begins to fall backwards. But my right hand, won’t be outdone… I mean… my left got your pussy good, so my right, just pulls back and swings forwards, driving the boot as powerfully as I can into your nose and mouth, a final parting gift….

And I PLOP back to my back and ass, moaning in pain, clutching my head….


My eyes starting to water as you claw and rip into my pussy, jamming bits of torn fabric from my panties into me, gouging at my labia, a fucking sadistic smirk on my —your—pretty face. It’s that smirk that fuels the rage that ignites my booted hands into the sides of your head—soles and heels slamming into your temples and ears, and now, it’s me who smiles as I toy with the phrase Sand-Mish as an apt representation of what I am doing to your skull. I feel your body flinch upon impact, and readily expect you to simply drop to the deck, writhing in pain. But you’re a tough bitch—I should know!— and instead of dropping, you dig your nails into me deeper, and then slowly drag them upward, tearing through what’s left of my panties and cutting into my now-exposed sex. Another cry of agony explodes from my lips, and although I start to feel you fall back a bit, I bring my arms up and ready them to slam into your head once again. As I collapse my arms inward, this time aiming a little lower, hoping to leave impressions, literally, of StarFleet’s Delta shield on your cheeks, you let off one final jab, your own booted hand plowing into my face, knocking my head back as the boot’s sole smashes into my mouth. Instantly, I know you’ve split my lip, as I feel the heat on my mouth and with one lick, can taste the coppery liquid oozing out. You fall back on to the deck, as do I, dazed and in pretty bad shape, hardly able to move my legs without sending shards of pain throughout my body, emanating from my crotch.


Like two gladiators in ancient times, when they were called boxers in the 20th century, dealing one last double-KO blow to each other, we fire the boots like pistons. Yours smashing into my temples and ears, sending me back, and me straight into the tied-up prettiest lips on the USS Enterprise, turning them into 2nd prettiest lips, after my own of course, and sending you flat back to the deck. We lay there, moaning, twitching, our knees bumping and rubbing, our legs bent painfully beneath us. The buzzing in my ears continuing, and I can feel some warm stickiness on my upper ears, where the boot nicked their shells to drip some blood down mixing it in my hair. 

I blink, shaking my head, trying to get up, my abs still hurting from the boot plow to them, I shake my right arm and let the boot drop to the floor, pushing myself on my elbows, breathing hard, and staring at you, seeing you twitching, starting to rise, and I quickly slide down, not wanting you to see it coming. My fingers moving, feeling for your ankles, and I find them to my sides, wrapping my fingers quickly around them tightly, holding them in place, tensing my right leg, I fire it down, sending my heel drumming between your thighs, and straight into your naked and clawed up pussy!


Splayed out momentarily, the lower half of my body on fire, the upper half throbbing, I lift my head a bit, seeing my evil doppelganger splayed out similarly within arm’s reach, but neither of us moving other than a groan and a tenuous twitch. I hear the unmistakable sound of a boot hitting the floor, and that means you’re moving, so I start to as well. I am practically naked at this point, simple shreds hanging from my hips, only my bra somewhat still doing its job, although even that it a bit tattered and quite stretched. As I tighten my abs and start to sit up, I already know you’ve beaten me to it, as I feel your wrists grab my ankles, clamping down tightly. Fearing you’re going to stand and then flip me over to my stomach, I try to kick out, but the beating you gave my calves with that boot has taken a toll—my legs barely respond to my will, and at best I flail a bit in your grips. But standing is not your intent, it seems, as you stay low, pulling my legs apart slightly. I feel your own leg slip between mine, and I become wide-eyed instantly, pushing all of my pain aside as best I can. Trying to roll over, bring my hands down to block/protect my kitty, but I’m not fast enough! Your bare sole powers up the tunnel formed by my legs and plows into me—bending me at the waist as a guttural moan oozes from my mouth. My stomach feels as if it will evacuate its contents, and my hands finally complete the journey south, cupping and protecting my crotch, although friends, the horse is already out of the barn.


“Ensign Michelle…. Be vigilant… Be remorseless… Be swift….. Be stealthy….. If your cover is blown, a split second is all that is going to separate victory from defeat….” The words of Intelligence Officer Sulu ring in my mind. He warned me about all this, and I know that his wisdom will come in handy when I decide to just go as low as I can (figuratively and literally!!!) Pistoning my right leg powerfully into your pussy, and I can feel the little ‘squish’ that you would get from crushing a grape under your foot… A gush of moisture bursting out against my foot, partially grossing me out, but majorly amusing me, as it feels that you did get even more moist than before. 

You scream and flail, flapping and clutching your wounded peach. And I quickly roll to my left, and start to scamper quickly towards your head. Watching you rocking and sobbing, knowing that the brief moment of blindness taking your senses from the aftershock of this vicious blow would last only few moments before you know where I am. I position myself above your head, just inches, and I roll up to my butt, sliding my legs outwards, and grabbing at your hair, giving it a strong PULL up, sliding your head just over my own crotch, letting you feel my equally damp pussy against the back of your neck…

My left leg curling over your left shoulder, and back, pressing my toned calf muscle against your throat, and my right leg, curling at the knee, locking my left ankle just behind it, and I tighten my body, dropping back, and tensing my legs, trying to knock you out! 


Holding onto my wounded and torn kitty, crunched up in an almost-nude ball, rocking and trying not to sob, the pain searing throughout my body, I know I am at my most vulnerable right now. All I can focus on is trying to put this agony behind me and focus on you. Hell, I don’t even know where you are, which is hugely dangerous! Opening my eyes, I glance over to where you should be—or at least where I last recall seeing you, as we were both lying in proximity. But of course,—nothing, and you are not touching any part of my body yet. My pussy still throbbing but not quite as aflame as it was moments ago, I slowly start to lift my head, and then stop suddenly! A presence…one that I have not felt in many….FUCK!!

You grab a handful of my hair from behind, jerking my head up sharply! I feel my head being pulled and placed …in your lap? nope—oh, fuck. On your crotch. I can feel the sticky, viscous puddle on the back of my neck. My hands leave my wounded kitty and fly up as your smooth leg curls over my shoulder, your calf up against my throat. My fingers grab your shin at the same moment your right leg drapes over your left ankle, bending so as to lock it in place, and then I feel the vise start to close—your legs tightening around my neck…that calf muscle, alternately flexing, and with each flex, my airflow drops to almost nothing. Your body drops back—wise, as my next move was to raise my hands and grab at your face or breasts or hair… and you squeeze even more, your whole body tightening, muscles tensing, and I know I have little time left. I paw at your shins, try to rock my head, maybe so I can lift it and slam it back into your kitty—but your hold around my head and neck is way too tight, and there is no room for movement. My hands slide over your knees to your outer thighs, and I try and play your game—nails digging into to your thigh, drilling down grabbing and tearing ribbons of flesh under my nails as I rake your muscled thighs. My left hand slides over, closer to my neck and the softer, silkier skin of you inner thigh, and I do the same—tearing into it like a spoon into a fresh bowl of pudding, pinching and clawing, desperate to do what I can to escape this slow suffocation. As you increase the pressure, I start to cough and gag, working hard to suck in air, kicking my feet on the deck futilely…

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I flop to my back. Grimacing, and tightening my leg. I see your flying fists, and they do look strange without one of them wedged inside boot like a handpuppet or wielding one like a gavel. No, your hands fly up, and I grit on my teeth, tucking my chin in, laying on my back, and lifting my thighs up in the air, to bring your own neck up a bit, and expose it more to the choke hold. My right leg locked around the left ankle, holding it into place, my right hand moving down and grabbing my left foot, PULLLINNNGG harder, putting some upper body strength into the vice. 

Holding your hair with my left hand still, claws dug into your scalp and tightening, scratching it roughly, pouring all my power in to subdue you. “SHHHHH!!! Stop fighting!! Just… fucking… STOP FIGHTING!!!” I scream hysterically… Unable to keep the calm needed to make my words as soothing and terrifying as I see in movies when someone has the other in such a terminal grip. My wet crotch rubbing against your neck, or is it your neck that’s rubbing mine. I just gyrate my hip a bit. A little bit of arousal easily identifiable on the front of my panties, giving the phrase; ‘Go fuck yourself’ another depth and meaning!

But we’re not fucking, sadly… Or happily… or whatever… No, and you’re not even done, your claws pushing into my thighs, and like freaking ice cream scoops you rake and peel my skin under the beds of your nails; “AAHHHHHHIIIIEEEE!!! FUUUUCCKKK!!” I scream, my head arched back, the red bloody furrows forming on my creamy thighs. Tears rolling from my eyes, but I grunt, rocking my body right and left, shaking you and trying to empty the last bit of air from your lungs, then I quickly ROLL to the left, sending us both flopping over, tummies and chests down, and now putting the weight of my hips and my pelvis on the back of your neck, tugging tighter, trying to wrest every bit of power out of you… “COME ON!!! FUCKING COME ONNNN!!”

My left hand giving your hair angry, controlled yanks, pulling your neck more and more against my pussy, my thighs flexing more, grinding harder into your neck, feeling a sudden surge through my body and I CUMMMMMM hard…. The front of my panties absorbing the first gush, before the second hits it and starts to seep through, dripping over your neck, running down with your sweat and tears, and filling your nostrils…. I wonder if I *smell* the same as you do in this universe…

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Normally, your screams of writhing pain as I continue to carve into your legs and thighs would be enough to give me a little boost, a little extra something to maybe power out of a hold or apply a little more pressure to a choke. But your cries don’t do that this time—your clamp on my throat so tight and unyielding, that I barely even register your howls of pain—it’s all I can do to gouge, gouge at you and drill my nails as deep as I can into you, leaving bloody trails and furrows all over your legs. Amidst your screams (where the FUCK are those stupid red-shirts when you need them—are they fucking deaf?!) you begin rocking your body side to side, shaking my head and neck, like a tube of toothpaste, squeeeezing the air out of me as much as you can.

I am long past the point of being able to scream or yell—a gurgled murmur about the best I can do. I feel your hip move to the side with a bit more force, and then—–UUUUNGH—you roll us over to the left, my body flopping from back to stomach, chest pressed to the deck, your grip on my throat even more intense now, as your body weight presses down on me. I try to lift my head again, jamming it back into your sex, feeling—-ewwwww—you’re having quite a party back there at my expense! Pushing my head back into you, my neck rubbing against your own wet, throbbing pussy—may not have been the smartest thing, as I feel you start to push back, grinding into my neck as you continue to choke me out—clearly that’s what’s happening, I cannot see how I will not pass out or die between your thighs unless some miraculous escape plan develops in my brain in the next 30 seconds or so. More pulses of your powerful legs around my neck, soft gurgles and muffled coughs heard in return, yet you SCREAM at me, “COME ON! FUCKING COME ON!!” Are you ordering me to pass out? Or are you—OW! FUCK!! Your hands tightens in my hair, pulling my head back further, jamming it into your crotch, rubbing it from side to side, your own hips gyrating slowly, subtly, in small circles against my neck. I feel you move with more intensity—groans escaping you lips—and it’s not groans of pain from my nails—you’re—you’re getting off on me! Talk about auto-eroticism!

My hands drop from your thighs as your muscles tense with even greater force—partially to finish me off, partially, well, to finish YOU off, it feels like. I know my body, er, your body—I know how it responds, and what it feels like when it’s ready to release. And Fake-Mish is just about there! My hands flail across the deck, my field of vision narrowed now since you flipped me over to my stomach, truly, no air coming in at the point, and my left hand feebly paws at your legs as my right sweeps the deck, feeling small shreds of what used to be my panties, and, the edge of one of our boots. Too little, too late. I don’t have the strength to use it as a weapon now, but I clutch it nonetheless.

Your hips continue to writhe above me, up and down, pressing your crotch into my neck. I wait—like I have a choice?—trying to time it, knowing I have but mere seconds left. I feel you tense even more, an upward move of your hips, bringing my head with you, of course, trapped in your thighs…..so hot, your wet pussy grinding into me, the wave of pleasure building in you, every nerve at its peak right at this very second, waiting, building for one…massive…explosion………BOOM! And there it is—I feel you gush, body freezing in place for a moment, hips held high, my head off the deck, the warm juices flowing down the back of my neck, dropping onto my cheeks, over my lips. Disgusted, yet—intrigued by an experience few will ever have–I simply let you cover me with you—our—nectar, using the juices as a lubricant, turning my head slightly to the side, still trapped in your thighs, still being choked to death, and I eye the door. And to the right of the door, the little blue square with the red buttons. 6, maybe 7 feet away. Lifting my hand, holding the boot by its top, mustering whatever I have left, which is almost nil, I toss the boot—like a frisbee—using my wrist, hoping like hell it hits the little box. And then, as what feels like the last of your juices trickles down upon my face, I close my eyes, my body becoming flaccid, and going limp in your hold.

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Rolled down on our chests, faces, and tummies, I keep on it, choking, and well…. Something *ELSE* takes place… Something sinister, something PRIMAL…. I can’t even believe it, but I guess….. This is technically NOT sex.. I’m touching *myself* using *myself*…. And that’s totally acceptable!! I grunt, and moan, the pain from my clawed and bleeding thighs just driving this to the NEXT level…. And finally, there is… release… and calm… I moan, collapsing over you, breathing hard… and staring…. And all that is left is the stiffness of muscle, staring upside down at you, through the little valley of my perky C’s gripped in the clutches of my bra…. 

I lick my lips sensuously and deliciously… Enjoying this…. domination… Complete and utter destruction of my evil doppelganger…. Step one of the plan… working… I see your arm coming up with the boot… And I blink, staring… Are you going to hit me with it, fine, another bruise will be ok… But then…. I see your arm retracting and you fling the boot… and…. *thunk*…. it hits the floor…. two feet away from us…. And I just laugh…. Tightening more, more,, and then your body goes limp and you are knocked out…

I keep the grip for few moments…. Then… I roll us over, and release your neck… Breathing hard… Blinking… I know I stopped early… But… I know I couldn’t do it… There is something INHERENTLY wrong about killing myself… Wouldn’t that be suicide?? And I’m sure not going to live the rest of my life thinking of that…. I turn my head around, trying to figure out a way through this dilemma… And I smile, my eyes falling on the transporter… Licking my lips.. I get up, and grabbing your wrists, I drag you to one of the transporter pads… laying your body on it…

I move slowly towards the console… A wide smile on my face… Well, if I beam you out to an atmosphere-less planet or moon, or even into the Plasma coils… That won’t be me killing you… At least I won’t see where you went to, and I won’t have to deal with evidence…. I smile and tap on the keys, entering the codes and then. A red light flashes, and the Computer’s voice comes on; “ERROR — ERROR …. Incorrect code….” — I freeze for a moment, blinking… Shit.. My fingers must be shaking… I take in a deep breath, re-entering the coordinates, then the code and I hit initiate….

“ERROR — ERROR ….. Incorrect code…” — WTF!!! I madly enter the code for a third time, and; “ERROR — ERROR …. Unauthorized access…. Locking down, reporting to Security personnel…” — FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKK!! I gasp and rush around to the transporter, grabbing your feet and I start to drag you away towards the console and just as I’m there… I hear the door open, and I release your ankles, and freeze, turning slowly, only to hear a voice going; 

“OH MY!!!!!!”

I spin and stare at a VERY familiar face…. Intelligence Officer Sulu… or whoever his doppelganger happens to be… But instead of his stern, dead look and very familiar scar… There is a silly, boy’ish ear-to-ear smile… As he gazes at me…. And then it hits me… FUCK!! I’m in my bra and panties… And I also notice how that I’m positioned precisely behind the console, hiding my bruised and bloodied lower body from him.. And all he can see is my messed up hair and sweaty face… I cross my arms over my chest, gasping… And he goes on; “Well well well. What do we have here??”

I stutter… Gasping and saying; “Uh!! I was … I was doing my work out sir!! I’m sorry!!” He smiles, and turns his face a bit, as two red shirts arrive… Seeing the sight, but they relax upon seeing him; “Sorry guys I was doing some work out and I must have hit the console….” — “Three times?? One of the red shirts inquire coldly… And I try to act cute and blush… Their eyes moving around the room, and I hope they don’t make notice of the TWO coiled uniforms… But I guess in this universe, the sight of a half-naked, uncomfortable woman seems to make the men even more so!!

They turn and leave, and Sulu says; “For future reference, Ensign, the transporter room is not a gym. We have a special facility for that…” — “Yes sir!!” I respond, and he turns leaving.. and I gasp, almost collapsing… Looking down, at the unconscious mess at my feet…. Realizing that I’m probably in much deeper SHIT than I thought…. That was FAR too close….

The End.

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