Chapter 2: Aftermath

James stepped into Ten Forward, the low hum of conversation dipping the moment he crossed the threshold. Guinan was behind the bar, polishing a glass with deliberate calm, but the second her dark eyes met his, a flush crept up her neck. She didn’t look away. Neither did he. The memory hung between them like smoke: him pinning her against the bulkhead during the polywater frenzy, fully sober, fully aware, ripping her dress open while the rest of the ship lost its collective mind.

He’d taken her hard, no intoxication to blame, and she’d let him because she thought he was just another victim of the contagion. Everyone else on board was infected too; no one was coming to help. If she’d fought harder or screamed louder, the only response would have been more men, crazed and dripping with the same madness, piling on until they ran a train through her. At least with James she had a chance to keep it to one. At least he was somewhat controllable.

He walked over slowly. She set the glass down, fingers tightening around the cloth.

“Guinan.”

“James,” she said, voice low, guarded, studying him like he might lunge again.

He shifted his weight, throat dry. “I’m sorry about what happened. I uh...”

A faint, sad smile touched her lips. “I’m black James. Do you think this is the force time a white man has forced me?”

The words hit like a slap. He hadn’t thought of it that way. Centuries of history compressed into one quiet sentence. Shame burned hotter than lust ever had.

“I hadn’t thought of that. May I?”

He gestured to the stool across from her. She hesitated, then gave the smallest nod. He sat. This time there was the bar between them, this time half the room was watching, this time he wasn’t going to pretend he’d been out of his head.

And if all went impossibly, miraculously well; if the guilt and the centuries and the raw memory of how bone-dry she’d been when he raped her ever dissolved; she might actually let him fuck her again, willingly this time. He remembered the brutal friction, the way her body had resisted him, no slickness at all, like she hadn’t been touched in decades, centuries, maybe longer. Had it been a thousand years since anyone had made her wet? Two thousand? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d forced himself into a desert and pretended it was paradise.

“Yes,” her voice was small.

He sighed. “What happened, I’m sorry.”

She sighed, nodding. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Still,” he twitched. “I’ll get a transfer today. Tomorrow we’re docking at a station. I’ll travel to the other side of the galaxy. You’ll never hear from me again.”

He pushed off the stool, shoulders hunched, and trudged to the darkest corner table. He dropped into the chair, folded forward, and buried his face in his arms.

Guinan stayed behind the bar. The room hummed on, oblivious. Then her cunt clenched so hard she nearly whimpered. Heat flooded her, thick and sudden, soaking straight through her panties and the heavy fabric of her dress. She gripped the counter, thighs trembling.

She hated him. Hated the memory of being shoved against the bulkhead, dress ripped open, legs forced apart while he drove into her dry, aching body. Rape. Plain and simple.

Yet her body remembered something else: the iron grip on her wrists, the filthy growl in her ear (my beautiful black bitch, these fat tits are mine), the way he’d mauled her breasts until they bruised. Her nipples stabbed against her bra now, desperate. Slick dripped down her thighs for the first time in centuries.

A helpless moan escaped. No one noticed.

Fuck it.

She moved like a predator, silent, skirt swishing as she crossed the floor. She stopped in front of his slumped form, shoved his knees apart with hers, and dropped.

Her full weight landed in his lap. The hard bulge of his cock vanished instantly between the plush cleft of her ass, swallowed by the thick fabric of her long dress and the soft, greedy press of her cheeks.

His head jerked up. “Guinan—?”

That was when the room noticed. Conversation died. Heads turned. Someone’s glass slipped and shattered.

James flushed crimson, hands hovering, afraid to touch. Guinan didn’t give him a choice. She rolled her hips once, slow and filthy, letting the ridge of his trapped cock drag along the seam of her ass and grind against her soaked cunt through layers of cloth.

His choked groan vibrated straight into her spine.

His hands finally clamped onto her breasts, kneading hard, reclaiming what he’d once stolen. She arched back against him, riding the bulge trapped between her cheeks like it already belonged to her.

“I need it, James,” she rasped, voice low enough only he could hear. “You’re going to pay me back.” She ground down harder. “I’m going to take back from you what you took from me.”

“I’ll—” he choked, hips jerking helplessly under her weight, “—hnn, give it willingly. Fuck, I’ve lusted after you since I joined.”

She smiled, sharp and feral, rocking slow and deliberate while the entire lounge stared. Yes, he’d raped her. Yes, some ancient, ravenous part of her had loved it. But tonight she was the one in control, the one using him, the one making him tremble beneath her.

He stood up, as he did lifting her up with him.

“Hnn,” she gripped the edge of the table, her heavy breasts hung low, as he slid his hands up her body. She smiled, widly and cocked a dark eyebrow as he kneaded her tit.

He blinked and saw Q chuckling in the corner of the bar, amused, and saw on the ancient beings face, ‘Guinan, really?’

James shrugged, pushing into her, she groaned, as he ground hard, and with his face grinned, ‘what can I say, she’s wet black pussy.’

Q laughed and continued to watch the show, cigar smoke wafting, as James started thrusting her hard, her tits bouncing in her top.