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The Trickster's Box, Part 2
🕑 Added 2021-06-17 23:48:29 +0000 UTCWarning: The following story is a Star Trek fanfic with heavy AB/DL elements. May include: original characters, sexual situations, messy diapers, mind control, humiliation, painfully unscientific technobabble, weight gain, personality alteration, light surgical alteration, and a conspicuous absence of male crew-members. Reader discretion advised.
Part 2
When Tamar woke, she was on a bed in sickbay. The last thing she remembered was opening the access hatch on the primary shield generator. Obviously, she had been struck by an electrical arc, as there were quite a few visible on her way to main engineering. Her uniform still had a burn mark on one side where the arc had struck her, although the skin underneath felt only a little tender. Judging by the fact that normal lighting was on in sickbay, she ascertained that the issue with the shields had been corrected.
“Aww, excellent! You're awake! How do you feel?” asked a smiling blonde-haired human in a green medical uniform. Tamar arched an eyebrow.
“I am in no pain. Pardon me, I do not recognize you. Where is Dr. Nixila?” asked the engineer.
“I'm afraid your usual physician is currently recovering from surgery. I am your vessel's Emergency Medical Hologram.” said the woman.
“I see. I observe that there are insufficient beds here for all injured patients. If I am cleared to do so, I believe it would be reasonable for me to continue my recovery in my own quarters.” said Tamar. She had learn to avoid saying the word “logical”, as she often found that humans reacted poorly to it. Not that she was talking to an actual human, of course.
The imitation human nodded. “You should be well enough to walk now, although you should wait until tomorrow to return to your usual duties. Give me a call if you need anything.”
Tamar assisted the hologram in carrying another wounded cremate to the now-vacated bed. She didn't feel injured. If anything, she found herself feeling more energetic than usual. She did notice, however, that the back of her uniform had been cut open, and that the skin on the back of her neck felt tender.
“Why has my uniform been opened? That isn't usually necessary for dermal regeneration.” she asked the hologram.
“You suffered a fall and damaged your spine. Don't worry, it was simple to repair.” said the hologram in the sort of voice that humans often found reassuring.
Tamar was reticent to move through the ship with a damaged uniform, but other than change her outfit in sickbay she saw no alternative. She left and headed toward her private quarters. Although tempted to return to her duties, she was not willing to contradict the ship's medical officer, even if it was an artificial, temporary one. She was pleased that there were few crew-members wandering the halls as she headed down to the residential deck. Tamar's quarters were somewhat larger than she required. Vulcans have much less use for personal effects than humans, but her room was the standard size for a Lieutenant. Naturally there was a lot of empty space. She was overdue for usual midday meditation session, so she sat down and assumed her usual position, facing the large window. She preferred her usual view, that of a vast field of stars, over the current lightning-streaked fluorocarbon clouds, but one cannot always have what one prefers.
As she breathed deeply and attempted to center herself, she began to feel an unaccustomed sensation of hunger. Her appetite was usually of minor concern to her, given that food replicators were so widely available, but now she found that her mind refused to relax and re-center because of the gnawing sensations from her stomach. For a while, she refused to interrupt her meditation, as she had been trained from her youth to focus her mind in spite of distracting physical sensations. But as she sat, her hunger continued to intensify. At length, she decided that her reluctance to interrupt herself had become stubbornness rather than focus, and she decided to eat first. Possibly her hunger was a lingering effect of her injury.
She stood and approached her private replicator. “Computer. Point three kilos Terran seaweed in light brine.”
This was a somewhat extravagant meal option by her standards. As Vulcan lacks oceans, terran seaweed is considered an exotic delicacy among vulcans. Still, given its high nutritional content, it was an acceptable alternative to her usual fare. And she was hungry.
Instead, what materialized on the replicator pad was something that even most humans would consider a bit much. A glass gravy boat, piled high with five scoops of ice-cream in various colors, decorated with several chocolate chip cookies, vanilla wafers, and oreos. A large silver spoon was sticking out the side. It was even drizzled in chocolate sauce and sprinkled with sliced almonds.
“Computer. This is not what I ordered. Explain discrepancy.” she ordered.
“Enjoy your meal.” was the Computer's monotone reply.
“Computer. Recycle.” she ordered.
“Enjoy your meal.” repeated the computer.
Tamar paused and took a deep breath. She felt the emotions of frustration and anger attempt to intrude on the carefully-cultivated serenity of her consciousness. Clearly, the main computer had not escaped its contact with the alien artifact completely unscathed. Tamar looked at the decadent dessert it had produced. She was loath to consume something so nutritionally deficient, particularly if it had been produced by a malfunctioning replicator, but her hunger had only continued to grow in intensity. Reasoning that it would be inexcusably wasteful to allow so many calories to rot unused, and given that converting it back into the constituent matter of which it was made was not an option, she decided to amend her usual meal habits just this once. She took the ridiculous dessert and sat down at her empty desk, where she usually took her meals. Taking the spoon, she scooped up a blob of chocolate-laced raspberry ice cream and reluctantly brought it to her lips.
She had not been at all prepared for the taste. The intense sweetness paired with the shocking cold was genuinely overwhelming to someone so unaccustomed to it. She found herself mashing the frozen dessert around in her mouth trying to warm it up, which only exacerbated the incredible sweetness. She had not anticipated the pleasure that the ice-cream gave her. Even after swallowing, she breathed heavily in and out, partially to warm her mouth but partially from the intense pleasure.
She kept eating. Conscious thought faded under the assault of the rich, sweet taste. Her hunger was barely mollified as she inhaled spoonful after spoonful. She became dimly aware that her sensual pleasure was not purely gastronomical, but sexual as well. Her vagina glowed with approval as she continued to eat. Finally, she sat the spoon down, amazed and more than a little ashamed. The boat was empty. She had devoured ever bit. Even more shocking, she found that she was still hungry.
She brought the empty dish back to the replicator. “Computer. Recycle.”
This time, the dish dutifully vanished into swirling light. Why hadn't that worked a moment ago? Tamar's hunger did not abate. After eating more in one sitting than she ever had before, she still felt like she was starving.
“Computer. Plomeek soup.” she ordered.
Once again, what materialized was not her order. Instead, the swirling lights resolved into a large cylindrical container topped with a yellow nipple. A baby's bottle, although so large that it could only be intended for an adult. For some reason, something about the object seemed menacing to her.
“Computer. Recycle.”
“Enjoy your meal.”
Tamar stood back from the replicator. This made no sense. Why was the computer selectively refusing to use the recycle function, and replacing the food she selected with seemingly random substitutes? She decided that she had had enough. The holographic doctor had told her not to return to duty, but repairing her own replicator was hardly equivalent to a duty shift. She opened the access panel. Perhaps one of her human crewmates had jumbled the isolinear chips as a joke.
At least, she tried to. When she touched the mechanism that opened the access panel, her hand suddenly froze in place. She pulled back, and tried again, but the same thing happened again. Her fingers simply locked in place and refused to move forward.
Fear was now lurking at the edge of her mind. She recognized that something was deeply wrong. Her stomach growled. This situation had reached the level of a possible security breach. She tapped her com-badge, intending to speak to Commander Basu, who was in charge of what little security was deemed necessary for a mission of this kind.
Only, she couldn't. Her hand stopped mere inches from her com badge. Her elbow and fingers locked in place. It was as though a force field had been erected around her com-badge.
She turned and ran to the door. Her feet stopped abruptly. The same effect was in place around the door. She could not leave. She could not call for help. She was trapped.
In response, she returned to her usual place on the floor and attempted to meditate. There was nothing to be done here except get her thoughts and feelings under control. Whatever was happening, she decided that she would face it with the formidable power of logic and self-discipline.
Despite her hunger, this time she did manage to reach the hidden place in her mind in which she was shielded from all external emotions and sensations. She considered her position objectively. Whatever was happening, it was affecting both the ship's computer and her own body. What sequence of events could make that possible? There was only one that tied these disparate events together. The alien artifact had affected or outright subverted the ship's main computer. From there, it had seized control of the EMH program. It had then planted some kind of device in her upper spine, which is how it was affecting her feelings and actions. The horror that she had been operated upon without her consent was visible to her, but in this tranquil state, it could not dominate her mind. It was merely another feeling that she could use or discard as she saw fit.
The question was: Why? What motivation could be directing these actions? They seemed random, but they were too well planned and coordinated for that to truly be the case. Some alien mind or program had wanted her to be trapped here, in her quarters. And it had wanted her to eat a rather silly-looking Terran dessert. And now it wanted her to...
Her mouth was suddenly a desert. Her tongue was sandpaper. Was the artifact trying to poison her? That seemed improbable, given that it could easily have done so in sickbay while she was unconscious. What could the reason be, then?
She stood. Her position was not being improved by her resistance. Any chance she had of combating this menace would come from understanding what it wanted, and dragging her feet would not achieve that. Determined, she grabbed the ridiculous baby bottle from the replicator pad. She attempted to unscrew the cap, but found her fingers again refused to complete that operation. Interesting. Whatever was causing this was particular in the way it wanted her to drink. She stuck the rubber nipple in her mouth and began to suck.
Shame arose in her, but she dismissed it. It would not do her any good here. Once again, her mouth was filled with pure, liquid delight. Whatever she was swallowing, it was delicious. Her vagina once again signaled its approval. Her disciplined mindset melted away in an avalanche of pure joy. No thought or worry penetrated her mind until she had sucked down the last drop.
She stood for a moment, contemplating. Her hunger and thirst had been replaced by a feeling of deep satisfaction. She decided that someone was attempting to condition her. She was being confined, punished for resistance, and rewarded for obedience. Who could say how many others on the ship were experiencing similar situations. Without Vulcan self-control, they would have even less chance of resisting than she did. It was essential that she escape and alert the captain.
As though in response to her thoughts, she felt another unwelcome sensation. A feeling of rasping discomfort began to spread over her skin. It reminded her of a sunburn or the biting of some swarm of insects. Her attempts to ignore the feeling only made it more intense. She headed toward her restroom, tearing off her uniform jacket and shirt as she went.
When she arrived in front of the mirror, she saw that her skin was perfectly clear and smooth, as per usual. Her legs and pelvis were still itching terribly, but the sensation had vanished from her torso the second she had removed her uniform. Seeing no alternative, she stripped down the nude and the awful sensation stopped immediately.
Now she was naked, and she knew that someone or something had desired her to be naked. Even worse, she felt her sex pulse with pleasure at her nudity. Vulcans did not consider nudity to be shameful, as a rule, merely impractical in most circumstances. Still, she felt her cheeks burn involuntarily at being forced to strip.
She grabbed her discarded uniform from the floor and carried it back to the replicator.
“Computer. Clean and Repair.”
Instead of being recycled and converted into a new uniform, as usual, she watched her engineering uniform dissolve and reform into something entirely different. A neatly folded square of white cloth appeared on the pad.
“Computer. Identify object on replicator pad."
“Object is: Uniform of Lieutenant Tamar.” replied the computer.
Tamar felt her teeth grit together, and immediately stopped. As unwelcome as this situation was, as much as she wished it to be over, nothing this computer could do to her would be as shameful as allowing her emotions to get the better of her. This was a temporary situation, a solvable problem, as she refused to allow it to conquer her sense of self. She grabbed the folded cloth off the replicator pad and opened it up.
She was now holding a large, white t-shirt. On the front was an image of a cartoon cupcake, with pink frosting and a single candle sticking out at an angle. The cupcake had eyes and a mouth. The mouth was held open in a silent wail, and the eyes were gushing two streams of tears. In English, the shirt was inscribed with three words in pink, block lettering: “Big, Fat Crybaby”.
Even worse, the shirt had not been the only thing in the replicator. Underneath it had been another white square, this one coated in glossy plastic backing.
Tamar threw the shirt back in replicator and backed away in horror. Her fear and shame were no longer on the edge of anything. They were charging around her brain like two restless dogs, scratching at the door to be let out. She would never wear that, she decided. That could never exist within the range of possibilities. A woman who could wear such a thing could never have any kinship with her. It was impossible.
Her bladder was full. It happened as quickly as a light switch being flipped. Suddenly, she was in desperate need to urinate. She ran back to the bathroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, naked and with deeply blushing cheeks. She approached the waste receptacle, but once again her feet would not allow her to go near it.
She snarled in frustration, which only made her more angry. She was trapped in what Vulcan masters called a D'har Spiral, feeling angry at herself for being angry at herself, ad infinitum. Her bladder continued to fill, straining like a balloon under pressure, becoming increasingly painful. Unable to reach the waste receptacle, she opted to simply urinate in a corner of the restroom. Even peeing in the corner, like a lion in a cage, would be more dignified than what awaited her on the replicator pad. But even that dignity was to be denied. She strained herself to urinate, but once again her muscles were turned against her. As the pain intensified, she cursed in Vulcan under her breath. It was useless. What was to be was to be. Shaking her head, she returned to the replicator. Tears ran down her cheeks as she pulled on her new uniform: A t-shirt with terrible writing declaring her to be big, fat crybaby, and a thick, disposable baby diaper sized just for her. She sobbed softly as she secured the tapes and felt her bladder release into the waiting padding, totally beyond her control. As she peed uncontrollably, her legs bent, and she felt a powerful orgasm blast through her body.
Without any command at all, the replicator materialized a platter of glazed doughnuts, and she felt her guts once again churn hungrily, as though she weren't already as full as she had ever been in her life. The computer spoke to her in the same old dispassionate monotone.
“Enjoy your meal. Crybaby.”
