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More of Troi's medical therapy.

She lifted the delicate balloon-shaped glass and drained the last of the brandy. She felt pleasantly disassociated, floating, drifting away from her troubles. She stretched and twitched her tail, feeling a warm langour creeping over her limbs. She sighed and flicked her claws slowly down her chest, dragging them lightly over the soft fur and arching her back. Her channel-jumping grew slower as she purred, dropping the glass to roll on the soft carpet and running her palm over a row of hardening nipples. She groaned, tail lashing, and flicked the topmost with a claw tip, then drew in her breath sharply and wriggled lower in her chair. Soon her hoarse, rhythmic breathing nearly drowned the music; the muted screen sat, unregarded, on a Salariki channel as she stroked both hands down her nipples and began to rub her thighs. She stretched out her legs, knocking the control to the floor, and ran the rough pads of her fingers up her thighs, higher, stroking, teasing, finding the center of pleasure and caressing it as her thunderous purr filled the room. The action on the screen paused; she tilted her head back, trembling on the edge, looking for release. She imaged Kimtok's rough, pointed tongue; she stroked harder. She focused on the image of the kneeling Salariki at the port that night and hung, aching, body writhing for release. She stared at the screen, the taut young Salariki pair moving with luxurious ease. Still she throbbed on the edge of fulfillment. She tossed her head, growling, quivering with frustrated desire. She grabbed the control and flicked the channels three, four times - and paused on an image of an ursoid Gruth pleasuring a human male, kneeling before him and bobbing her head down the length of his pulsing shaft.

She came like a thunderbolt.

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She was avoiding him. He was sure of it. She normally arrived a little after the main rush, choosing to avoid the crush of the morning crowd. But for the past three days she'd come right at the peak, at a time when he couldn't do more than scramble up passcards as quickly as they were requested. She wouldn't meet his eyes, either; twice she'd deliberately engaged someone in conversation in the lobby and walked with them to the desk, manufacturing an excuse to avoid looking at or speaking to him. She looked flustered and nervous, and skittered away as soon as she'd jerked the card from his hand as if trying to avoid any contact with his skin.

He couldn't decide if it was a good sign or a bad sign. She was fighting it, he was sure. But was her agitation a sign that she was starting to cave in? He hesitated a day in indecision, trying to decide if another push would bring capitulation or disaster. At last he slid the disk into her mailbox without note or comment.

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The com unit buzzed.

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