>Summary: The Doctor finds someone else on Voyager who doesn't have a
>name.
>
>
>
>
>Sandrine's was quiet. Tom Paris played yet another game of pool
>against Gaunt Gary while Ricky watched. Sandrine polished glasses
>behind the bar. In a shadowy corner the Doctor sat alone at a table
>for two. The holographic gigolo, finding no flesh and blood crew
>members to hit on, slid onto the chair opposite the Doctor. "How
>goes it, mon ami?" he enquired.
>
>The Doctor didn't answer.
>
>"Ah, you wish to be alone. I will go then." He pushed his chair back.
>
>"Don't. Stay. I'd like to ask you something," said the Doctor
>suddenly and waited for the gigolo to get comfortable again. "You
>interact with many of the crew on a personal level. How do you cope
>in those... intimate situations without having a name?"
>
>"It is different for me. They don't need or want my name to call out
>in the throes of passion. A generic deity or group of deities is
>often all they use."
>
>The Doctor raised his eyebrows.
>
>"You know – gods, spirits, prophets, or the singular God, Jesus,
>Kahless. Usually it's not even that; just plain `Fuck!' or `Oh,
>yeah!' is more common. Maybe it's just the basic instructions -
>more, harder, softer, ooh just there. They're not looking for a
>relationship. I'm a just a gigolo, a nameless fuck. An outlet for
>their lust, or way to relieve some stress." He snorted. "I know when
>they are lonely, or whether they've had a row, by the other names
>they let slip, and by how they use me."
>
>"You're a cynic then. But how do you feel about that? Do you ever
>wish it were a little moreÂ…personal?"
>
>"I'm not programmed for that. I have no feelings one way or the
>other. I have access to a database of conversational topics should I
>be required to carry on a conversation, but my main function is to
>provide sexual satisfaction, and I do." The gigolo examined the
>Doctor's features. "Forget this conversation. Your name, or lack of
>one is not important, and neither is mine. I know what you want.
>Come."
>
>"But, I'm a hologram, like you. I don't want -,"
>
>"Yes. You do. Come," he repeated and stood.
>
>The Doctor hesitated. "But you're a gigolo. By definition you have
>sex with women, for money."
>
>"Mr Paris, he has altered my programming. I can have sex with
>anyone, any species," he paused and added significantly, "holograms.
>I am the best; half French, half Daliwakan. You're a doctor, you
>know what that means. Come." Sensing the Doctor was close to
>capitulation he intensified his French accent and held out his
>hand. "Come for no other reason than I want you. You would be the
>first that I would choose for myself."
>
> It was a good reason.
>
>The gigolo's room was on the first floor. It was old-fashioned,
>furnished with a wash stand of polished oak in one corner. The four-
>poster bed was oak as well, its linens clean and fresh-smelling. The
>afternoon light streamed in through window, softened by the net
>curtains. The EMH headed straight over to the window. He twitched
>the curtains and peered out onto the street. Human and aliens
>hurried about their business. He turned back to the gigolo and
>waited.
>
>"A kiss is a good place to start, no?" The gigolo grasped the
>Doctor's hands and pulled him close.
>
>The Doctor licked his lips, but an understanding laugh sounded next
>to his ear. "There is no rush, my friend," and then his hands were
>raised he felt warm lips on the back of his fingers. They were
>softer than they looked, touching several fingers at once to start
>with, one hand and then the other, and then they were pressed
>against each finger in turn. He badly wished for a pulse when his
>hands were turned up and the same warmth touched his wrists and then
>his palms.
>
>"It is the sense of touch that is so important, kinesthetics too,
>and yours no doubt would be exceptional," murmured the gigolo into
>the Doctor's hands, and then licked across his wrist, tracing the
>realistic veins until he reached the cuff he'd pushed back as far as
>it would go. "Don't analyze, just feel," he instructed and gently
>nipped just beneath the Doc's little finger.
>
>As the gigolo nuzzled his neck, the Doctor found some things to do
>with his hands, sliding the jacket from the other hologram's slim
>shoulders. As the gigolo shrugged himself free, the Doctor frowned.
>
>"What is it, mon brave?" The gigolo mostly stuck to French
>endearments. He tried unsuccessfully to smooth the Doctor's frown
>with his fingers.
>
>"My uniform is part of my matrix. I can undress you, but you can't
>undress me."
>
>"So make the alterations. Tell the computer what you wish to wear.
>She will oblige."
>
>The Doctor found it difficult to concentrate as the gigolo kissed
>his way along his jaw and around his ear. He shivered as a paroxysm
>of desire shot through him when a wet tongue thrust delicately into
>his ear. He managed to request an outfit similar to the gigolo's own
>and then not one to stay passive he threaded his hands into the
>gigolo's hair and took some control of their kiss. There was no need
>to breathe, and yet the sensation of breath was there when
>appropriate, as was the rise and fall of holographic chests.
>
>Smoothly, the gigolo bared the Doctor's chest; he was not programmed
>to fumble. The jacket and shirt fell to the floor and his own shirt
>joined them. His skin was a natural light olive shade. His chest was
>hairless, his nasal ridge echoed along the length of his breast bone
>and his nipples were neither too big nor too small. His shape was
>average, his build a little narrower than the Doctor's although they
>were practically of a height. His fingers stroked the Doctor's
>chest, testing for human-like reactions. He was relieved when he
>found them to be there. While he knew he was more than capable of
>making love to only the doctor's head and hands should they have
>proved the only places his matrix had sensations, he was pleased for
>the doctor's sake he could do so much more.
>
>As if to compensate for the Doctor's balding head, his chest hair
>had been programmed quite thick and still dark. The Doctor never
>knew if that had been in Lewis Zimmerman's original template or
>whether Tom Paris, Harry Kim or B'Elanna Torres, the three who most
>often worked on his matrix, had added it on some whim of their own.
>In any case, it was irrelevant as the gigolo's fingers played with
>it as he nuzzled into the Doctor's throat. His own fingers wandered
>over the gigolo's torso. He mentally counted ribs, traced muscles.
>He murmured something about the lateral spinothalamic tract and then
>squawked in pain when his left nipple was bitten rather sharply.
>
>"I do not think that was a Latin endearment, my friend. I was right;
>you do need this. You are supposed to be making love, not conducting
>a medical examination. Forget yourself for the next while. No
>anatomy, no physiology. Just feel." The gigolo had deftly removed
>the rest of the Doctor's clothes while he spoke, and now settled him
>onto the bed on his stomach. He dealt with the remainder of his own
>clothing equally expediently and chose a pleasntly scented massage
>oil from his collection.
>
>
>
>"You need to turn over now," the gigolo instructed some time later,
>when the Doctor's back had been thoroughly massaged from the soles
>of his feet to the top of his skull.
>
>"Mmm," the doctor agreed and stayed where he was.
>
>The gigolo laughed softly and nudged him until he moved. This time
>he started with the Doctor's hands, but instead of re-oiling his
>hands and commencing with firm strokes to the palm and thumb pads,
>he lifted the first hand to his mouth and proceeded to once more
>worship it with his lips and his teeth and his tongue before briefly
>massaging it with the oil. He made his way up the forearm and into
>the crook of the Doctor's elbow, following a similar pattern. He
>spent only a little time in the Doctor's armpit. The lack of scent
>unexpectedly jarred with the expectations of his own programming and
>for the other side, he made sure he massaged some of the oil in
>first. The faint smell of almonds worked perfectly and together they
>found the area to be quite an erogenous zone.
>
>He made sure he used enough oil lower down on the doctor's body. All
>of the normal humanoid physiological reactions were there too,
>complete to the small amount of fluid that he was pleased had been
>programmed with a realistic flavor when he finally took the Doctor's
>cock in his mouth. He briefly wondered whether he should mention to
>the Doctor about getting a musky body odor added to his matrix, but
>the doctor's groan of pleasure reminded him to attend to what he was
>doing, and the gigolo set about using all of his best tricks to
>arouse the Doctor to maximum. They were both pleased when he found
>the Doctor's holographic prostate, and then with none of the
>physical restraints that his apparent age may have caused, the
>gigolo lifted the Doctor's legs over his shoulders and entered him.
>
>"Is this where I cry out to the deities?" Not needing oxygen meant
>there was no hamper to clear speech. The Doctor grinned in response
>when the gigolo laughed and lost his perfect rhythm for a
>moment. "Maybe we do need those deities after all."
>
>"Perhaps," and the gigolo promptly cried out, first in Daliwakan and
>then French.
>
>"Oh, fuck, yes, more," put in the Doctor.
>
>"No, no! With emotion, like the opera, yes? Here -," and he wrapped
>one hand around the Doctor's cock and fisted it in time with his
>thrusts.
>
>"Oh, fuck! Yeah! That's it – like that!" The rest degenerated into
>indecipherable moans.
>
>The gigolo smiled and, reading the Doctor as easily as any of his
>flesh and blood partners, intensified his efforts until the Doctor
>orgasmed first then he allowed himself to follow on quickly.
>
>
>
>The Doctor stood, once more attired in his uniform. The gigolo had
>put on everything except his jacket. "So, mon ami, you did not need
>my name, I did not need yours, but know that I meant it when I said
>you were not `just another nameless fuck' for me. What's in a name?
>That which we would call a roseÂ…"
>
>"By any other name would smell as sweet," finished the Doctor and he
>made a noise of agreement, and he left, with one section of his
>matrix still contemplating Leonardo, Louis and Lewis.
>
>
>END