The Polywater Incident
Copyright© 2025 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 1
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - James sat in Ten Forward, listening as Crusher and Troi lamented the polywater incident and how no one had fucked either of them. He sighed, gutted that he’d missed out—his job so lowly he hadn’t even realized it was happening. Had he known, he would’ve fucked them both and married Troi. Q, eavesdropping, materialized to make James’s wish cum true. Not edited by Steven, he's busy working on the New World!
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged NonConsensual Reluctant Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Celebrity Workplace Science Fiction Aliens DoOver Time Travel Magic MaleDom Spanking Orgy Swinging Black Female White Male White Female Oriental Female Anal Sex Oral Sex Tit-Fucking
James sat alone in Ten Forward, the lounge humming with low chatter and the clink of glasses. Starlight streaked across the viewport in silver ribbons as the ship punched through warp. He nursed a synthale, its faint bitterness sharp on his tongue, while Counselor Deanna Troi and Dr. Beverly Crusher leaned close at the next table, voices drifting over the ambient hum. The air carried the faint tang of replicated citrus, engine ion, and warm bodies. Soft jazz curled from hidden speakers, a saxophone’s lazy moan underscoring the women’s laughter. The overhead lights cast a golden glow across Crusher’s red hair, strands catching like molten copper, while Troi’s dark curls framed her face in loose waves. Their uniforms hugged curves James had catalogued in idle fantasies for years.
“I saw Data the other day,” Troi said, “and I got thinking about Tasha.”
“How she got fucked by Data?”
Troi laughed. “No. I was sad.”
“Oh, I understand. It’s been a few years since her death.”
Troi nodded. “I think we’re coming up on the twentieth anniversary.”
“God, has it been that long?”
“I remember that incident you were referring to,” Troi grinned, gaze drifting to the stars zipping past. James followed her look; he’d been balls-deep in a Jefferies tube at the time, elbow-deep in plasma conduits, sweat stinging his eyes, the hiss of coolant masking the shipwide frenzy. Only later, when the corridors fell silent and the captain’s clipped voice ordered decontamination, did the stories spill out: crew tangled in storage bays, uniforms half-shed, moans echoing off bulkheads, the air thick with musk and desperation. He’d grimaced at the scale of it. God, the women he would’ve fucked: the lithe ensign from stellar cartography with freckled shoulders and a constellation of beauty marks across her collarbone; Lieutenant Rowan, whose laugh could melt duranium and whose hips swayed like a metronome in the turbolift; even Crusher herself, and that hot red minge between her legs, trimmed or wild, he didn’t care. He loved redhead pussy, and he twitched.
“I always wondered what it would be like to be fucked by Data,” Troi admitted. James twitched again; he knew she was a horny cunt. But dayum, he grinned, he didn’t know she was that horny. Mind you, Worf obliterated her pussy with that hot Klingon cock: James wondered if it was ridged like his forehead, thick veins pulsing, stretching her until she screamed in Klingon.
“Says the woman who got ravaged by Worf—twice?”
Troi flushed and grinned. “My pussy was sore for days.”
The doctor laughed. “I know. I’m the one who cleaned up the wounds on your tits, remember.”
“Yeah, fond times.”
“Now you’ve settled with Riker.”
“Truth be told,” Troi admitted, “if anyone had come to me that night, I was so fucking horny I would’ve shagged them.”
“Fuck,” James whispered. The two women remained oblivious, as always. Their perfume mingled: Troi’s floral Betazoid spice, Crusher’s crisp antiseptic warmth. His cock strained against his uniform pants, a pulse matching the warp core’s distant thrum.
“I imagine being fucked by Data would be like having your cunt attached to a piston,” Crusher said with a grin. “The only orgasm I’ve had in the last twenty fucking years was a goddamn Irish ghost.”
Troi chuckled, nodding. “You came so hard you squirted.”
“Yeah,” Crusher sighed. “I still visit him every now and then. He’s good with his tongue.”
“Fuck,” James uttered. “Had I known that.” He pictured her on the holodeck, legs spread on a misty Irish moor, spectral hands pinning her wrists as an ethereal tongue lapped at her clit until she arched, red hair fanned across grass, juices glistening.
“I was on the table fingering myself most of the time that night,” Beverly sighed wistfully. James saw it: her in Sickbay after hours, lab coat open, fingers slick, circling her swollen nub under the sterile lights.
“And I heard Alyssa got wet too.”
“Yeah,” the doctor flushed. “I’ve seen her twat a few times. I’d tongue that.” Ogawa’s dark hair in a bun, uniform unzipped, small breasts rising with each breath, her neat black bush damp with arousal.
The two giggled. James’s hand drifted to his crotch, pressing discreetly.
“I’d have fucked them all,” James muttered, slumping down in the seat, defeated by his own mental inadequacies.
“That so?” Q materialized opposite him, clad in a red command uniform, legs crossed, fingers steepled, smirk razor-sharp.
James blinked. “Q?”
Troi snapped around. “W-what, Q?”
Q flicked his wrist. “Relax, Counselor. You two keep reminiscing. This is between me and the grease monkey.” The women’s eyes glazed, conversation resuming as if uninterrupted.
James leaned in. “You heard everything?”
“Every filthy syllable.” Q conjured a glowing martini, sipped it. “Twenty years fixing plasma leaks, and you missed the one day the Enterprise turned into Caligula’s yacht. Tragic.”
“I was on Deck 42. No one told me.”
“No one tells the help.” Q’s eyes twinkled. “But you, James Smith—serial number 47-Beta-9—you wished you’d been there. Troi’s empathic pussy. Crusher’s ginger snatch. Maybe a Klingon bride for spice.”
James flushed. “Get out of my head.”
“Too late.” Q leaned closer. “Polywater’s like booze—everyone wakes up full of regrets, same as after a night at Risa. I’m in a generous mood. One year before the outbreak. Ten hours of chaos. Just don’t bore me.”
“Do it.”
Q flicked his fingers and the world went white.
James groaned in his quarters—same cramped, gray-walled box he’d occupied for twenty years aboard the Enterprise. Same flickering console, same narrow bunk, same faint hum of the warp core bleeding through the bulkhead. Unless you knew someone or fucked someone, you stayed buried in the same shit job. He’d pissed off the wrong lieutenant commander back in ‘67; now he was a ghost in the Jefferies tubes, invisible to promotions and promotions alike.
He exhaled through his teeth and began.
First: the job. He knew every conduit, every plasma relay, every maintenance crawlspace like the veins in his own cock. Efficiency became his weapon. He’d finish a full shift’s diagnostics in two hours, log it, then vanish. No one checked—his role was low-maintenance, low-priority, low-fucking-everything. Even during red alerts, when the saucer separated and the ship screamed toward battle, not a soul hailed him. No “James, report.” No “Is engineering clear?” Just the cold hiss of doors sealing behind fleeing officers. The cunts.
Which meant, even back then, in his original timeline, he’d always had to be on the fucking ball. A ruptured coolant line sliced his forearm to the bone once; he clamped it with a tourniquet made from his own belt, dragged himself through three decks, and stumbled into Sickbay dripping crimson. Crusher glanced up, hyposprayed a dermal regenerator, and sent him out with a curt “Next.” No follow-up, no concern, no record beyond a line in the log. Another time, a feedback surge fried his left hand—nerves screaming, skin blistered black. He cauterized it himself with a plasma torch, wrapped it in synthflesh, and was back in the tube before the shift alarm reset. No one noticed the limp, the tremor, the way he favored his right arm for weeks. Self-reliance wasn’t a virtue; it was survival.
That neglect became his runway.
Evenings, he hit the gym. He struck up a conversation with Data in the corridor outside the holodeck—casual, calculated. Commander, I’m looking to optimize physique. Human dietary parameters for hypertrophy and fat loss? The android’s yellow eyes brightened with curiosity. Within minutes, Data recited macros, micronutrients, caloric surplus, progressive overload schematics. He even drafted a twelve-week program: compound lifts, high-intensity intervals, forced reps. James accepted without hesitation.
Six months became a crucible. He slept in snatches—four hours after shift, eight after training. The rest: iron. Bench presses until the bar bent. Squats until his quads burned like thrusters. Pull-ups until his lats split the seams of his uniform. Protein shakes thick as cum, gulped between sets. Mirrors in the gym reflected a stranger: shoulders broader, waist carved, veins mapping his forearms like star charts. He grew hard, dense, deliberate.
Troi was next. He scheduled weekly counseling sessions—”stress management,” he claimed. She sat opposite him, legs crossed, dark eyes probing. He fed her curated vulnerability: childhood isolation, fear of irrelevance, the ache of being unseen. Each session, he spoke plainly, kept his hands on his knees, voice steady. He repeated his name, rank, section, shift times. He asked her to log his face, his voice pattern, his scent. By week eight, she greeted him with a nod of recognition. By week twelve, she called him “James” without checking the padd.
This was great.
He wanted it so that when he turned up at the door with his dick out, she wouldn’t question it—just accept it, drag him in, ride his brains out on the chair. If it went wrong, as shit tended to do in his life, he could just claim infection and all sins would be forgiven. Starfleet’s official line: no fault, no memory, no consequences.
The day finally came. He’d been counting down on the holographic calendar, the glowing digits burning into his retinas every night. He knew the exact timeline: contamination at 0800, first symptoms at 0830, full-blown orgy by 0900. The cure wouldn’t circulate for ten hours. Ten hours of unchecked, ship-wide lust. He medicated himself with the antidote he’d synthesized in a forgotten lab alcove—clear, odorless, effective. Then he waited. The watch on his wrist ticked down like a bomb. He paced his quarters, boots thudding on the deck plates, sweat beading despite the climate control. Fuck it. He hit the gym.
He pounded the mat for an hour, muscles screaming, sweat soaking his tank. Push-ups until his chest burned. Pull-ups until his lats tore. He showered fast, uniform clinging to his new frame, cock already half-hard with anticipation. Then he ran—corridors blurring, turbolift doors hissing open, heart slamming against ribs. He reached Troi’s office and buzzed hard, repeatedly, until the door slid aside with a soft chime.
She studied him. Her uniform top stretched tight, nipples stiff as diamonds, dark peaks tenting the blue fabric. A flush rode high on her cheeks, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. The air between them crackled with empathic heat.
“Councilor.”
“James,” she flashed an aroused smile, voice husky, and he moved into her arms. His mouth attacked hers—hungry, desperate, teeth clashing. She groaned, hands roaming his back, nails digging through the uniform. He remembered her words from that future conversation: if anyone had come to me that night, I was so fucking horny I would’ve shagged them.
His right hand shoved up her top, gripping and kneading her firm tit—god, her tits were perfect, heavy, warm, nipple a hard bead against his palm. His left hand plunged into her trousers, past the waistband, fingers sliding through slick heat. She was drenched—hot, wet, oh god, tight pussy already squelching around his fingers as he pushed two inside. Her walls clenched, pulsing, slick coating his knuckles. She bucked against his hand, breath hitching, hips rolling in desperate circles.
He spun her, slammed her back against the desk. Padds clattered to the floor. Her legs spread wide, boots scraping the carpet. He yanked her trousers down, fabric ripping slightly at the seam. Her scent hit him—musky, sweet, Betazoid desire—and his cock throbbed, straining against his zipper. She clawed at his belt, frantic, moaning his name like a prayer.
He freed himself—thick, rigid, veins pulsing—and lined up. One thrust and he was buried to the hilt, her cunt gripping him like a vice, wet heat swallowing every inch. She cried out, back arching, tits bouncing under the stretched fabric. He pulled back, slammed in again, the desk creaking under the force. Her legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
James had her pinned on the desk, ass hanging over the edge, legs splayed wide. His cock pistoned in and out of her soaked cunt, slick walls gripping him with every thrust. The desk rocked in a brutal staccato, metal legs screeching across the carpet. Her tits bounced under the bunched-up uniform, nipples diamond-hard.
“Fuck, you’re a horny cunt,” she gasped, head thrown back.
“Yes, fuck me—I’m so fucking wet.”
“Oh god,” he growled, slamming deeper. He’d spent the last week researching stimulants in a forgotten lab alcove—compounds to delay climax, boost stamina, keep him rock-hard for hours. He pulled out with a wet pop, dropped to his knees, and jammed his tongue into her dripping pussy. She bucked, fingers twisting in his hair, thighs clamping his head as he lapped her clit in relentless circles. Ten minutes of her hips grinding against his face, juices coating his chin, then he stood and rammed back in—another twenty of merciless pounding. Sweat poured off him, muscles gleaming, the year of iron paying off in every brutal stroke.
He grinned mid-thrust, spotting Q lounging in the corner, arms folded, shit-eating smirk plastered across his face.
“You owe me a tenner,” Q called. Another Q popped into existence beside him, crisp ten-dollar bill pinched between two fingers.
“Still got four more to go,” the second Q shot back.
Troi moaned louder, a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the bulkheads. Both Qs turned, eyebrows raised, as James’ cock squelched deep into her dripping heat, the desk groaning under the onslaught.
When he was finally, finally done, she lay sprawled across the desk, legs drooping over the edge, thighs trembling. Thick ropes of cum oozed from her gaping pussy, pooling on the polished surface, dripping in slow, viscous strands to the carpet. Her chest heaved, nipples still rigid, skin flushed crimson from collarbone to navel. He leaned down, kissed her hard, tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting himself mixed with her sweetness.
She moaned, eyes fluttering open, pupils blown wide.
“I’ve got to go.”
“W-where?”
“Beverly Crusher,” he whispered, breath hot against her ear. “I’m going to tongue-fuck that red-hot minge. When you get your energy back, meet me in the infirmary. I’m going to fuck you anally.”
“Oh god.”
She groaned, one thigh spasming violently. He slapped her tit, the flesh rippling under his palm, then yanked his uniform back on. He shot the Qs an amused glance, grinned, and bolted out—eight hours left.
The corridor was pandemonium: bodies slick with sweat, uniforms shredded or gone entirely. Tits bounced, cocks flapped, moans layered over the ship’s alarms. Someone had a crewman bent over a console, hips slamming; another pair rutted against a bulkhead, grunts echoing. James laughed, adrenaline spiking.