"Minya, No: I Just Can't."

"Minya, no: I just can't," My Mistress begins forlornly and I cannot help but feel for her.

"I am sorry Mistress, I mean Captain, I apologize. I will go back to my quarters now." I say, and turn to go but the captain takes my hand before I can leave.

"Minya, understand, you're not doing anything wrong, but there's a cultural conflict. As captain, I can't compromise my position by being in a relationship with a member of the crew, and even though you are not enlisted in Starfleet you are a member of the crew for now."

I smile at her. Though it fills my eyes it doesn't reach the inside of me, I put on a pleasant face because that is what my Mistresses needs from me, but in truth I feel rejected and useless.

"Your dedication to your duty is admirable, if my previous master had been as careful none of us would be here right now." I tell her, pulling the words she needs to hear from her own subconscious.

"Thank you Minya, I'm glad you understand," my Mistresses says, but I don't, not really; though I nod at her as I depart.

It is some five minutes later, as I ride the turbolift back tward my quarters, crying the tears inside myself that are never shed from my eyes unless that is what the customer wants me to do, feeling on each deck I pass the pain and aches of people denying themselves their most basic needs, when a young woman in yellow Ensigns uniform gets into the turbolift. She is red haired, green eyed, and has more muscles than most of the women on the ship, clearly Someone who needs to be active and athletic. I feel the fire of the Czinzeng burning within her, lust radiates off her like light from a sun, but I can do nothing. I must be requested, I cannot be the one to make the offering, that is the Masters duty...

But then, a miracle occurs!

"So, um, Minya is it?" The ensign asks.

"Yes, Ensign...?" I say, scarce dareing to hope, though I sense already what she plans...

"Lance-corporal, actually, Lance-corporal Mary McKay, ranking NCO of the last five surviving members of the ship's marine detachment," She shakes my hand with a firm grip. "Anyways, um, I was wondering, your not technically part of Starfleet right?"

"No," I tell her, knowing what I want her to say next, and knowing that I can do nothing to promote her asking The Question...

"Okay, and they say you're the last surviving person from some kind of Brothel Ship, right?" Lance-corporal McKay asks.

"Yes," I tell her, feeling her need like an inferno, and knowing she's dancing around asking The Question...

"So were you a sex-therapist?" She asks.

"I am a whore," I tell her, knowing instinctively that I must be completely honest with this woman....