Operation - Stimulate!

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Red alert! Captain's feeling frisky again.
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Note: This is a parody. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or fictional is really almost nonexistent.

Captian's Log, Stardate 3947.8. Received new orders from Starfleet HQ. We're being sent to the Nether Regions to investigate the disappearance of the U.S.S. New Orleans. It will take us two days to get there at warp factor 9, but I'm keeping busy with various activities around the ship. Yeoman Rand wanted to try out some positions in the Zondrian "Advanced Fornication Manual", and so I gave her some help with that, then I let Nurse Chapel practice her handjob skills on my "joystick of love", if you know what I mean. All in all, a pretty normal day. Besides, I'm not really needed on the bridge. Sulu and Scotty can fly this tub plenty well enough without getting me involved in any tedious details. Which is the way I like it. Oh, just got a whistle from Uhura. I almost forgot we had a date tonight down in the warp core. Should be hot. So, this is the Captain saying, over and out.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3948.2. Fucking Spock fucking fucked up my whole fucking day again. Fuck! He was scanning shit with his goddamn scanner when he spotted an emergency message beacon off our starboard bow. Once again, I find myself wondering if I can arrange a little "accident" for our Vulcan friend. Or, at least, I've got to find a way of fucking up his scanner so he doesn't keep detecting shit with it. Because, every time he scans something, it always means trouble. Not to mention, I had a lunch date with that cute little ensign down in the Phaser Room, and now that's all shot to hell. (And, when I say "lunch date", I don't mean I was planning to eat sandwiches and potato salad.) Oh, well, anyway, we beamed the stupid beacon on board and Scotty popped her hood and pulled out a reel of tape. When Spock played it on his multilizer, all we could hear was a lot of static, and occasionally someone yelling "Help...oh my God...no...don't...oh God...damn...wow...no one's ever...". I couldn't make shit sense out of it myself, but Spock used his vast mental powers and figured out that someone was in some sort of trouble someplace in the galaxy. Yeah, great Spock, could you please be even more vague? Of course, I didn't say this out loud. Last time I burned him in front of a bunch of other people, he mind-melded Bones and got him to declare I'd been split in half by the transporter again. I was strapped down in Sickbay for a week, until Bones got so soused on juleps one night the hypno-whatever got washed out of his system. I swear, one of these goddamn days, I'm going to pay Spock's green-blooded ass back, hardcore.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3948.14. Hey, guess what? Things worked out pretty good today, after all. After that time-wasting shit about the message beacon, I hopped on over to the Lounge to get a drink and ran into Lt. Waverley, who was just getting off her shift. She's a Lab technician, I think...or, something else, maybe, who knows. There are like 400 people on this boat, and I have a hard enough time remembering that Chekhov is supposed to be some sort of a co-pilot...or, I guess he's the pilot and Sulu's the other one. Fuck, see what I mean, though? Of course, I have an excuse for getting those two mixed up, since they look so much alike. I should make them wear different-colored shirts. Anyway, back to Lt. Waverley. It's Lt. Sunny Waverley, actually, and boy does she live up to her name! She's got an all-over tan that would give an Andorian a goddamn heart attack in all three hearts (Andorians fucking love human women, and Starfleet ships them porn and femdroids in exchange for that hard cider they make out of zanga root and trondak sperm). She got the tan during shore leave on Omicron Alpha 60, which has a double sun and 40,000 miles of nude beaches. I wish I'd met her back then, because I would've enjoyed rubbing lotion into her ass, for sure. But, that was during the week Spock had me tied down in Sickbay. The pointy-dicked bastard. But, whatever, I know her now, and that's what counts. And, when I say I "know" her, I mean, I fucked her brains out in Spock's meditation chamber while he was up on the bridge. I hope he likes all the dried spunk on his IDIC bedsheets. Take that, you bowl-cut-hairdo-wearing son of a bitch!

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3949.4. Had to go see Bones for some more ointment. That Vegan cock polyp I caught off an Orion slave girl is acting up again. Fortunately, the ointment works pretty good, and by noon I was ready for my date with Marla MacAdams, who is some sort of xeno-whatsit down in Research. Oh, but, I should mention, the only thing about this new medicine Bones invented, it makes your hair fall out in front, which kind of sucks. However, he's got this other medicine that'll fix that right up. He made it from the fuzz gland of a mugatu, and last time I tried it, I got a nice puffy pompadour that looked totally natural. It only lasted a couple of months, though, was the only drawback. Well, okay, the other drawback was, this stuff, while it's in your system, you can't get wood, no matter how hard you try. So I've got Bones spending all his time working on that problem, 'cause I can't use it otherwise. He better figure it out, or else, I'll space his ass, P.D.Q. (Just kidding, Bones and I go way back. When I was on my first deep space assignment, he was an intern, and we used to go to this one real wild whorehouse on out on Rigel 14, where they had eight-armed Bandu women and five-assed Yolarians, not to mention, a Gorgatch who could make you come for days on end.)

Anyway, MacAdams said our date was "spectacular". Me, I'm not so sure. I felt like, if I'm going to eat a cunt for an hour, it seems like I should get sucked at least that long. As it was, she did me for about 20 minutes, then claimed she was getting a cramp. I had to finish myself off, for the love of christ! God, Starfleet really needs to screen cadets better. I'd transfer her off the ship, but we're now 70 parsecs away from the nearest Starbase, and, besides, we have to go and "investigate" about this vanished ship. Fuck it, I say, the thing's probably just gone AWOL. But, anyway, it's my job, I guess. We'll be at the Quivering Nebula in about half a day, so I better put on my dress velours.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3949.9. So, I'm on the bridge, and Spock's got his face stuck down the front of that scanner thing on his desk, and I'm sort of watching the screen and also him, out of the corner of my eye, and I'm crossing my fingers he doesn't find anything worth telling me about. But, goddamn if that bastard didn't tense up and look over my way and cock his fucking eyebrow like he does, saying, "I'm reading an unknown vessel at our port bow, Captain". I wanted to say, "Well, fuck me, Spock, an 'unknown' vessel, huh? Hot bloody dog." Instead, though, I bit my tongue, which hurt some, but also kept me from getting rooked again by the mind-controlling asshole. I spun my chair around and told Uhura to hail the other ship, and she winked and said, "Whatever you say, honey." Bless her lovely thighs, Uhura always knows how to make me feel better. (Remind me sometime to tell you about that night we spent together on the pseudo-Greek planet...jesus, that girl can moan!)

When we got an answer back from Spock's blip, it sounded like a woman saying, "Hello?" Uhura said "hello" back, and things went downhill from there. All we heard for the next few minutes was static, which made Spock switch his cocked eyebrows back and forth about 20 times, which was extremely more annoying than usual. Then, this kind of orange light filled the bridge and a pretty nice-looking blue-skinned broad sort of shimmered into existence next to the viewscreen. She had real big tits and a see-through mini-skirt, which, in my experience, is usually a good look on alien dames. I stood up to sort of welcome her aboard and everything, but Spock, he started to gasp and twitch like he had something stuck up his ass deeper than normal. Turns out, the alien, she had this gadget strapped to her wrist, I guess maybe some kind of kidnap beam or something. Anyway, whatever it was, she touched it kind of quick and Spock just popped out of the air and into nothingness.

I immediately felt better about life, the universe, and everything, and was about to thank the alien chick from the bottom of my heart, but, before I could get a word out, she zapped all the rest of us with some kind of sleep ray. The last thing I remember before I hit the deck was watching her as she vanished in a blink of purple light. After that, nothing. I only woke up about 9 hours later, and man, was I hungry. But, when I went looking for some grub, I made a highly disturbing discovery. The crew kept asking me, when were we going to go rescue Spock? Well, fuck and damn, I thought, people actually want that s.o.b. back? I understood their concern a little better after a while, though. It appears Spock owes a lot of people a lot of money, on account of how he's always borrowing Fedcreds to buy more gadgets for the Lab. I was wondering how he came by that multilizer he's got. Not to mention, the vibrascope and the electroteaser. That junk's for damn sure not Starfleet issue. Fucking nerd.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3949.17. Sulu tells me he's got a trace on the "unknown vessel". Followed its ion trail or something, who knows. Anyway, so now we're in hot pursuit, although I'll be goddamned if I ever tell Spock we burned rubber trying to reach him. But, it'll be a few hours before we catch up, so I'm going to go get a massage from that dental assistant from Theta Zeta 9. And, when I say "massage", I mean, I'm going to fuck her until she gushes honey all over Spock's waterbed. What the hell, right? He's not using it.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.1. We're in orbit around a Class J ice planet deep inside the Nebula, which is itself deep inside the Nether Regions. The whole place is quieter than hell, according to Uhura. Chekhov somehow got his hands on a tricorder, and says he's detecting signs of life, but no civilization or anything. It does kind of look like there's a wreck of some sort down there, which could possibly be the lost ship we're supposed to find. Or it could just be some trash. Anyhow, Sulu swears this is where that damn alien ship ended up. So, I guess we're beaming down, maybe to kick some ass, or whatever. Better take about 10 redshirts. Oh, and yeah, Bones, too, and Uhura, since she can help us figure out that weird kind of English that aliens usually talk.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.7. Damn, it's cold as a motherfucker on this frozen-ass planet. My balls are going to be blue for sure. Fortunately, Nurse Chapel's good at making you nice and warm down there, so I'll go see her quick as we're back upstairs. The only problem is, it might be a while, because that wreck we beamed down near, it's definitely the New Orleans. Fuck it all. Oh, and christ, Chekhov's waving at me to come look at his goddamn tricorder. It's beeping or something. Jesus, though, I've got icicles on my dick!

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.8. That Chekhov, he thinks walking around with a tricorder hanging around his neck makes him look cool. But, of course, it instead makes him look like a freakin' dweeb. I try to tell my crew, "People, you can't take this shit too seriously, okay? Let's just relax and have some fun." But, do they listen? Hell no. Bunch of idiots. Anyway, all Chekhov was getting on his tricorder was a record-breaking wind-chill factor. That's why he was so bloody happy. Meanwhile, what he should have been doing was, he should have been keeping a goddamn eye open. Like, as it happens, those "signs of life" he was getting from before, they turned out to be natives, who were these kind of tall blue caveman types. So, they got the drop on Chekhov and me, while he was busy showing off his coldness-meter. And, wouldn't you know it, my goddamn phaser hadn't been recharged in weeks. Yeoman Rand will definitely get a spanking for that. Anyway, now we're prisoners, trapped in a cave, surrounded by huge grumpy humanoids. Which, I can sort of tell why they might be disgruntled. None of them has a pecker much bigger than a pistachio.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.10. The leader of the cavemen is called Kra'ang, or some bullshit like that. I know this because, pretty soon after I got thrown in the cooler with Chekhov, everybody else was rounded up and thrown in here with us, except for the redshirts, who Kra'ang said were goners, which didn't surprise me much. Uhura got to work trying to figure out the alien English, and she told me all about how I should make a choking sound in the middle of any "k" word, and how a lot of pointy gestures wouldn't be a bad idea, either. So I got the leader's attention by standing up and pointing at my chest, saying, "Kur'urk, Kur'urk." Then I pointed at the caveman, and he said, "Kra'ang, Kra'ang." So, after that, things went pretty smooth.

Kra'ang says they call their planet Dildona 8. But, he also says that there are other people who live here who call it Kl'toria 6. I asked about these "other people", but Kra'ang wasn't exactly full of helpfulness on this issue. Fuck it, I thought, the others would pretty much have to be like that blue-skinned dame who beamed onto my ship. So, I pointed at Uhura and said, "The ones who say Kl'toria, are they like her? With tits and stuff? You know what I'm saying? Boobs? Hooters?" I kind of pulled out my shirt to show him what I meant.

Kra'ang looked afraid when I mentioned the possibility of people with bumps on their chests. After some more talk, I began to get the big picture. It actually kind of looks like these guys are whipped, and whipped bad. I don't know how it works, exactly, but all the people on the planet are apparently divided up into two groups, all the men in one, and all the women in the other. So the next thing we've got to do is, we've got to find out where the women live. Because then maybe we'd get some goddamn answers about what happened to the wrecked Starfleet ship. And, yeah, okay, we'd also possibly find Spock. Of course, Bones and Chekhov and Uhura and I are currently surrounded by a bunch of ornery, underhung cavemen, so that might be a problem. We'll see. Over and out.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.12. Right after I made my last entry, this cave we're trapped in, it started to move. Like, downward, the way an elevator does. Weird, huh? Yeah, it freaked us out at first, especially since the little-dicked natives set to hollering and wailing with fear and whatnot. But, hold on...the cave's stopped. Basement floor, folks. And, there's a door...and it's opening...and

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.13. Sorry about that last bit. Uhura was frightened a little, I guess, and she jumped on me and wouldn't let go, and I couldn't talk into my communicator anymore. She's off now, though, got dragged away by a blue-skinned lady in a glittery thong and plexiglass bra. And now, me and the other guys, we're in a kind of fancy lounge in some sort of futuristic underground city. Or, I should say, more futuristic than the 23rd century, which is where we are these days. We've been sitting around a while, waiting for someone to tell us what's going on. Which, okay, the door just whooshed open, and here comes that broad who zapped Spock, and

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.15. I was interrupted again. The leader of the Klitorians, this dame who calls herself Annalinga, she took my communicator, so now I have to keep my log on some cocktail napkins Bones found in his pocket. We've been given the grand tour, though, so that's something. Even though, afterwards, they locked us up again, and said we'd be "used" on the next Orgy Day. Good as that sounds, we're going to be free by then, believe me.

Anywhow, this place is the City of Voolva, and it's been down here about 9 million years. It turns out, there was a sex war way back when the Ice Age started, and the men lost and all got kicked out onto the surface. The sucky part was, living so long in the cold, they evolved really tiny pricks, so they can't pleasure the Klitorians anymore. That's why the women send out pirate ships to kidnap passing vessels. Those poor fuckers on the New Orleans, that's what happened to them. They got shanghai'd into being sex slaves. Unfortunately, they're all goners now, from being fucked to death. Anyway, we also know what happened to Spock...and, I swear, it fucking pisses me off. In fact, I'm so mad, I can't even talk about it anymore. I'm going to go think up a plan about how to fix this goddamn mess. That's the kind of thing I'm real good at.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3951.1. So, here's the thing: they've got Spock hooked up to some kind of big machine down in Voolva HQ. Apparently, it was Annalinga's idea to go out and find a supposedly "perfect" specimen, to use as a model for a new type of sexbot. She's some sort of Klitorian scientist, this Annalinga dame. Although, to look at her, you'd peg her as maybe a pole dancer. She's got the body for it, for sure. Goes around all the time in peek-a-boo tops and skirts made of cellophane. Hotter than hell. But, a little too serious about stuff.

Anyway, it's crazy they think Spock's perfect. I mean, they don't even realize that motherfucker doesn't get laid but once every 7 years. And even then, last time he tried it, his girlfriend left him for some other pointy-eared freak with a bigger wang. Or, whatever it is Vulcan's have down in their pants. God knows I don't know.

So, obviously, there's been a big mistake. I think what happened was, Annalinga, she got confused or something, and kidnaped the wrong guy. So, we just have to correct this situation, and set Spock free. I've got a speech ready, and a couple of riddles, in case I need to fuck up their master computer. So, here we go.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate 3950.2. Well, that was easy. We finally jimmied open the door to the lounge, then crept down the halls until we made it to HQ, where I used my karate kick and Chekhov used his below-the-belt-biting move to knock out the guards. When we reached Spock, he was basically crying his eyes out, desperate to get loose from that sexbot factory. He kept blubbering, "No!...must remain pure...girls are icky...save me." Bones took him back up to the ship, where I hope he'll sedate the hell out of him for about 6 weeks.

So, now it's up to me to save these Klitorians from a fate worse than death. If they had xeroxed Spock, they'd have wasted a lot of time and energy on a bunch of useless limp-dicked androids that wouldn't have given them any satisfaction at all. With the old Kirk-meister, they can have sexbots that'll give them orgasms until the cows come home. Well, except for the fact that they don't have cows here. But, you know what I mean. Anyway, now I'm going to do my solemn duty and get in that fucking machine, and make an army of real men the Klitorians can enjoy hopping on for the next few thousand years.

***

Captain's Log, Stardate unknown. Anybody out there? Hello? Hey! I've been stuck in this goddamn thing for hours...or maybe days. Annalinga? Hey, Annalinga! Aren't you done with me yet? It's dark in here...shouldn't there be lights and noises and stuff? Hello!?!

***

Acting Captain's Log, Stardate 3951.8. Spock here. The Enterprise is now docked at Starbase 40. I have just received the Medal of Valor from Starfleet Command. Everyone mourns the loss of the Captain, of course. However, I am about to go into pon'far, so things are looking up for me. I'm sure we'll have quite an enjoyable journey back to Omicron Alpha 60.

Especially since I actually find girls quite non-icky. Especially Lt. Waverley. I believe the correct term is, "Hubba-hubba."

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