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fantastical, loomed in the greyness. Had Suka not been so focused on the chase, she might have wondered about their purpose, but only one imperative drove her. The beam of light swished around, sometimes coming close, but she was light-footed enough to keep her footsteps near-silent.
    She heard Commander Paul curse.
    “ Suka ! This isn’t going to help you. Come here now.”
    Her fingers closed around a metal ring in the wall. It might be the latch of some kind of portal. Feverishly she tried to turn it without making a noise. The light gained on her, advancing with Paul’s footsteps, closer and closer.
    Damn , she thought. I don’t have time to be subtle . She gave the ring a wrench and a door began to slide open. Now Paul would know where she was—as evidenced by his quickening pace and sudden, nearby roar of, “ Suka !”
    Come on, door, open, open , quickly . But the grinding of the gears was infernally slow, and Suka was halfway through trying to insert her slim figure into the narrow opening when Paul’s hand landed on her elbow, closing around it like an iron band. Fuck. So much for that plan.
    Not that it had been much of a plan. More an anti-plan, a reaction against Paul’s unacceptable plan for her.
    “You’ve broken one rule too many, Ensign—” Paul was barking, when suddenly his torch caught the edge of something and he was silenced, flashing the beam slowly around the new chamber.
    “The punishment suite,” quavered Suka . “It must be.”
    “Yes.” Paul, forgetful of his wrath, used the communicator to light the room more fully, zapping the wall-mounted brackets until a flickering glow illuminated the scene.
    Suka’s legs buckled and she was momentarily grateful for Paul’s firm, if uncomfortable, hold on her elbow. This was incredible . She was reminded of an illustration in one of the anthropological texts she had studied for her dissertation. ‘ Figure Two: Typical BDSM “Dungeon Club”.’ She had looked at that picture over and over, imagining herself restrained in some of the equipment, at the mercy of a heartless man or men, or maybe even a woman like the one in ‘Figure Three: A Professional Dominatrix.’
    “It’s like a dream,” she said softly, “all of this.”
    Paul jerked to attention, reminded of her company. He narrowed his eyes, frowning down at her.
    “Your worst nightmare?”
    “No. Leaving here. Leaving here without you is my worst nightmare.”
    “One you don’t have much choice about,” said Paul robustly, but Suka could see he was struggling to maintain his resolve.
    “We always have a choice,” she said. “Commander. Please don’t send me back.”
    “I have to.” There it was, palpable regret, almost anguish.
    Suka knew she had to build on this, drive home her advantage. She bumped her hip against his and raised entreating eyes.
    “Another punishment? Please? I know I deserve one. Anything you want. Just don’t send me away.”
    “ Suka —”
    “Give me what I deserve, Commander. Make me take my punishment. Please discipline me as you see fit.”
    He groaned, trying to push her away, but the bulge of his crotch signalled her imminent victory and she pursued it relentlessly.
    She used her free hand to push the waistband of her trousers downwards, bringing her bottom, cooled now but still tender, out into the frigid air of the punishment chamber.
    “Use the whip, Sir,” she suggested feverishly. “I need it. I need to feel your dominance over me, or I’ll never learn, will I, Sir? Teach me the lesson. Make it a hard one, one I’ll never forget.” She rubbed her hand over the receding welts, pinching her flesh, moving in to press against the imprisoned erection.
    Paul’s hand smacked down hard on the rudely-exposed backside, and Suka’s cry was only partly of pain. Jubilation fizzed through her. He could not resist this opportunity. She had bought time, time to convince him this was no momentary aberration but a shared emotional experience