From netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!netnews Wed Mar 13 19:56:16 1996 Xref: netcom.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica:1183 alt.fan.q:5132 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!netnews From: thegiff@ix.netcom.com(Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica,alt.fan.q Subject: NEW: "His Beloved Pet" Prologue (1/1) (TNG, P/Q, BDSM) Date: 14 Mar 1996 02:50:54 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 245 Message-ID: <4i81ie$mni@cloner3.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ont-ca3-14.ix.netcom.com X-NETCOM-Date: Wed Mar 13 6:50:54 PM PST 1996 Brace yourselves everyone; this is a collaberation between both Ruth *and* Atara. We had a busy holiday season, what with kids, overtime, visiting sisters, grading, revising articles, and our gifts to one another ("Seven attachments and two speeds? All for me . . .?"), but somehow we managed to start this TrekSmut. The fact that it's taken over two months to *finish* is a reflection on our busy . . . um . . . life. Those of you who have read our other stories shouldn't make any assumptions as to which of us wrote what (you'd be surprised); however, Ruth *is* solely responsible for the somewhat over-the-top Epilogue, if you don't like it, don't blame Atara. Being the pop culture junkies that we are, there are many quotes buried in this story. They are from such varied sources as Ruth's dad, a Star Wars character, Patrick Stewart (more than once, both from an iterview, and in a role that is not JLP), a "toy" catalogue, more than one rock band (including Atara's mandatory buried U2 quote), a totally private joke that Ruth got in a letter from Mercutio, and a few other odds and ends. Just some advanced Easter eggs for y'all, but remember, this is an exhibition, not a competition--no wagering please. The events in this story take place directly after "All Good Things..." Because we're screwing with timelines and such, assume that this is an alternate timeline that separates from canon after "All Good Things..." The events of "Generations," the subsequent posting of Worf to DS9, and Q's sudden fascination in a certain female (therefore *acceptable* as an object of his affections) starship Captain do not occur in this universe (hey, what's one more alternate universe amoung friends?). In fact, you have to discount "Death Wish" entirely when you read this, because we were halfway through the story when that episode aired, and our version of the Continuum does not match with current canon. The marks ***///*** indicate a dream. Any references to Captain Picard and Captain Janeway having had a fling are from Ruth's story "Forfeit; or The Captain's Game" but you certainly don't have to have read it to read this one (if you want to, it's archived). The story is split up into six parts; a prologue which has one section, Part One which has four sections, Part Two which has three sections, Part Three which has two sections, Part Four which has five sections, and an Epilogue which has one section. It will be archived in one complete chunk, but if you can't get it from there, write to Ruth and ask . . . nicely. This package contains the following: 1) Several characters and one starship owned by Paramount- Viacom, Inc. 2) A lot of sex (kinky sex at that) which should not be read by children (it’s the law), members of congress (shouldn’t you people be balancing the budget?) and the straitlaced or homophobic (get over it). Some settling of contents may occur. Enjoy, and do let us know what you think. Ruth Gifford (thegiff@ix.netcom.com) *** Hi, Atara here. With uncharacteristic modesty, Ruth is crediting this story to both of us equally, but after much arm-twisting, I talked her into letting me add a bit of clarification to this intro. In the interests of fairness, it should be noted that this is, essentially, Ruth's story. It was her idea, and she planned, plotted, and structured it, and wrote most of it as well. I wrote some bits and pieces here and there (and Ruth is correct that you might be surprised to know who wrote what :-) ), and I made some suggestions, but I want to give credit where credit is due. Umm . . . do enjoy, but be warned--it's not for the faint of heart. Atara Stein (ataras@covina.lightside.com) /*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/ His Beloved Pet; or A Dangerous Liaison by Ruth Gifford and Atara Stein (c) 1996 Prologue The multicolored swirls of light would have been impossible for the human eye to tell apart, if any human were present to observe them. One of their own kind would note that one swirl seemed more energetic, and resonated in a somewhat more purple band than the other. Their actual communication would have been incomprehensible to the human ear, but to one another they were perfectly clear. They hovered in the cold vacuum of space, which didn't seem to affect them in the least, and they were looking down at a starship. To be more concise, they were looking *through* the large, but unbelievably primitive (at least to them) ship to watch a poker game. "I suppose I should offer my congratulations," one swirl (the less purple of the two) said to the other. "He did much better than I expected, better than any of us expected." "Thank you so much," the energetic swirl said sarcastically. "*I* expected him to succeed, you know." "Yes, I'm sure you did." The first swirl's tone was mockingly soothing. "Honestly, I don't know why you bothered to help him." "I like to watch him scramble to keep up with me." "Yes, but now he *trusts* you, the fool." The swirl rippled with laughter. Deliberately using a human image it continued, its tone still mocking. "Imagine the great rebel angel, trusted by a Human of such fine moral character." The laughter resumed. "Yes, he does." The purple swirl tried to hide how much the trust of the Human in question bothered it. "If you knew anything about him, you'd know what an amazing leap of faith it is for him to trust me." "Well, it's probably the only leap he's capable of." The swirl waited to see if its companion would take the bait. "What do you mean by that? He's surprisingly capable, for such a limited creature." "Yes but how capable are *you*? Are you capable of getting him to really trust you?" the first swirl teased. "What do you mean? Of course I am!" "Trusting you to help him solve a puzzle is one thing. But these Humans of yours have different levels of trust. Could he call you 'friend'? Could you get him to trust you even further than that?" The second swirl shimmered with irritation. "You're truly tiresome when you're being obscure. What are you getting at?" "I imagine that even you would have a hard time truly breaking through his barriers." "I doubt it." "So confident, so arrogant . . ." * . . . so like *him*,* the calm swirl thought privately. "All right then, seduce him." "What??!!" The first swirl glowed smugly. "I knew you would balk." 'I'm *not* balking," its energetic companion replied, stung by the accusation. "What kind of seduction are you talking about?" "The only kind that matters to *him*. A physical seduction, can you lure him into--what's their phrase? . . . making love to you? And not just once, mind you; that would be too easy." "That is the most ridiculous notion I've ever heard." "What a pity that you won't take my challenge." The second swirl finally saw the doors of the trap, just as they closed with it inside. *Oh merde!* it thought, borrowing a phrase from the human in question. *I can't back down from this . . . but *sex* with him?* Heaving the mental equivalent of a sigh, it answered its companion's challenge. "Of course I can do it." "You haven't heard my conditions yet." The purple swirl glared at the other. "Well . . .?" "You have to do this as "yourself," or at least the self he knows as you; no disguising yourself as that doctor of his, or some other human woman. And no using your powers to *make* him want you." "Well, of course, *that* would be too easy. May I assume I can read his mind? And *when* he does give in, the gloves come off?" "Fair enough. If you can seduce him using only your telepathic abilities, then you'll have earned the right to do whatever you can with your fine captain afterward. So will you do it?" *Why does Q always get me into these situations? I have to do it, if word gets around that I turned down a challenge *this* easy, I'll be the laughing stock of the Continuum.* The purple swirl spoke to its more mellow companion. "Yes of course I will. Not without reservations, of course." "I *knew* it! You actually have feelings for your . . . project. You *care* about your pet." Angrily the purple swirl replied, "I do *not*!" The calm swirl shifted up the spectrum, preparing to depart. "Take as much time as you need, Q." "You're so gracious, Q." As the other swirl vanished, the remaining Q shimmered into its Human form, a big, handsome man with arresting dark eyes, and distinguished silver-touched black hair. He made a rude Human gesture at his departing friend, and then looked back at the starship. It was, of course, the USS Enterprise NCC-1701D, and its Captain was Jean-Luc Picard, the subject of Q's new dare. "Sorry, Jean-Luc," Q muttered to himself, "but I *won't* be laughed at, and anyway, you should know better than to trust *moi* so much." *************************************************************** "Go on take everything, take everything I want you to Go on take everything, take everything I dare you to I told you from the start Just how this would end When I get what I want Well I never want it again" "Violet" Hole -- ****************** Ruth Gifford "Update all information and pod into cosmos." Instructional label on a Fed Ex package (really) From netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!netnews Wed Mar 13 19:56:20 1996 Xref: netcom.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica:1184 alt.fan.q:5133 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!netnews From: thegiff@ix.netcom.com(Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica,alt.fan.q Subject: NEW: "His Beloved Pet" Part One (1/4) (TNG, P/Q, BDSM) Date: 14 Mar 1996 02:54:12 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 458 Message-ID: <4i81ok$pjm@cloner4.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ont-ca3-14.ix.netcom.com X-NETCOM-Date: Wed Mar 13 6:54:12 PM PST 1996 His Beloved Pet: Part One (1/4) "Tea, Earl Grey, hot." As Jean-Luc Picard took the newly materialized cup of tea out of the replicator, he was surprised to find that his hands were shaking. He managed to get to the sofa without spilling any tea, but it took some effort. He ordered the computer to dim the lights, trying to preserve the illusion of normalcy. As he sat on the sofa, staring at the steam rising from his cup, he began an all too familiar routine. After any crisis, he had a habit of playing the events back, trying to figure out how he could have better handled the situation. To his dismay he realized that he'd really made a mess of things this time. *What was wrong with me? I've dealt with more complicated temporal anomalies before; I've thought my way out of almost impossible situations; so why was I so dense?* He sighed. *And this isn't the first time I've been stupid around Q. I'm stupid around Q almost every time I encounter him. Why?* He couldn't help remembering the prior visit he had paid to his past, the time Q had returned him to his days as a green ensign. *I *know* better than to try to change history, and even if I didn't, it's against Starfleet regulations. Why on Earth did I think that I could make things different? Why?* He turned that problem over in his mind, and like all the other times came back to Q. Q . . . whom he had dismissed for so long as simply an omnipotent and annoying prankster, a dangerous pest who was nothing but trouble, and large-scale trouble at that. Well, there was clearly more to Q than that--that much was obvious. Q's last two visits had *not* been games. And it was undeniable that Q was . . . somehow . . . on his side. And without Q's help on these two occasions he, Jean-Luc Picard, would not only have been an utter failure, but would no longer be around to reflect on what an utter failure he had been. He sighed and sipped his cooling tea, not sure if what had just happened to him had *really* happened, or if it was some monumental illusion created by Q and his mysterious colleagues. On the other hand, did it really matter? If Q had the ability to create an illusion on that large a scale, then he clearly had the ability to manipulate time and space to an unimaginable extent. Why not admit it? Picard had had several encounters with the closest equivalent to a god that he had ever encountered, and he had had the unmitigated stupidity to try to kick that god off his ship. It wasn't surprising Q had no compunction about exposing the Enterprise to the Borg that time--compared to himself, humans were no more advanced than a species of amusing and occasionally clever animals. What was it Data had said? That Q regarded him as a master would a beloved pet? If so, from Q's perspective, Picard ordering him off the ship would be something like Data's pet cat trying to take over the Enterprise. *How have I managed to fool myself all these years? Why do I seem to think that I have *any* control over what happens to me when Q is around? My God, I might as well try . . .* His train of thought abruptly switched tracks. "My God . . ." he repeated, aloud this time. He laughed slightly, a laugh devoid of any humor. "What an appropriate phrase . . ." He buried his head in his hands as he tried to deny the unavoidable. In his mind, he heard that mocking voice again, "Welcome to the afterlife, Jean-Luc. You're dead, and I'm God." He had laughed at Q, arrogantly denying his adversary's words, assuming that Q was just joking. What if Q *hadn't* been joking? The evidence of this most recent encounter pointed to a simple truth: Q was a god. Picard shuddered as the enormity of it all washed over him. He hadn't simply been fighting to solve a riddle and save *Humanity*; the fate of the entire Alpha Quadrant had rested on his shoulders. He thought of *all* the lives; Humans, Vulcans, Andorians, all the races of the Federation, and so many others whose histories would simply never have been if not for his actions. He'd faced a test, a test set up by a race of . . . gods, and he'd been failing until Q stepped in and started dropping hints. He remembered Q's scorn, "The anomaly . . . my crew . . . my ship; I suppose you're worried about your fish too." *I deserved that,* Picard thought. *And my thank- you...he took it well, but now it seems so . . . trivial. But how do you thank a god for helping you accomplish the impossible?* Slowly he raised his head from his hands. Taking his cup to the waste slot, he then tidied up a little and headed into his bedroom. He dimmed the lights, even the soft blue running lights. *I will *not* kneel,* he thought. Instead he simply turned and looked out the window, as dazzled as always by the majestic panorama of the stars. "I don't know who or what you really are . . . but . . . thank you . . . Q." His voice shook slightly, but oddly enough, he didn't feel all that foolish. "I know I disappoint you, but for some reason you keep helping me and . . . well . . . I'm truly grateful." It wasn't enough, but it was sincere, and it was more than he'd said in the courtroom. As he climbed into bed, he decided to leave all the lights off, and so he drifted off to sleep looking at the stars. *Well,* thought Q. He was leaning back against the Enterprise’s primary hull, lounging near Picard's dark window. *This will make things a great deal easier for me.* He easily pushed aside his other reaction to Picard’s surprisingly heartfelt gratitude, ignoring the faint feeling of mingled unease and gratification. He thought of appearing right then, as if in answer to Jean-Luc’s . . . prayers, but thought better of it. He was busy planning his approach, when his own image appeared in Picard’s dreaming mind. *All without encouragement--this is getting better and better.* He settled down to share the dream with the dreamer. ***///*** It was the courtroom again. There he was, standing on the platform trying to look self-assured while Q loomed over him. Like lines from a well rehearsed script, the words he had said came out of his mouth. "Well, I sincerely hope that this is the last time I find myself here." Now Q would say, "You just *don't* get it, do you?" "Too little too late, Picard," Q said. Picard stared at him. This wasn't the way it had been. "For once you're right, and it won't do you any good. This *is* the last time you'll find yourself here." He stood, extending an arm and pointing at Picard. "Prisoner, hear your sentence. For the crimes of stupidity and ineptitude, I find you . . . guilty." The word struck Picard like a physical blow, and he took an involuntary step backwards. And he was suddenly in what could only be described as a dungeon. He was naked, standing in front of Q, who was dressed completely in black leather and was regarding him with utter contempt. "Judge and jailer too," remarked Q casually; "it's important to be well-rounded, don't you think?" Picard was frozen and speechless, his arms hanging limply by his sides. Q's tone suddenly shifted. "And you, you miserable specimen of a pathetic race, I was foolish enough to have some faith in you, some hope that you might be able to . . . I don't know . . . *learn* something, grow, evolve. You've disappointed me, Jean-Luc, and I *don't* like being disappointed!" Picard felt his chin being firmly grasped in one of Q's large hands, and then a harsh slap exploded across his cheek in a blinding, shattering crystalline burst of clarity. In one searing flash, he saw himself through Q's eyes--hopelessly weak, inept, stupid, and foolish, trying to prove a superiority and an ability he wasn't remotely close to attaining. When Q released his chin, he dropped to his hands and knees, his muscles too shaky to hold his body erect. "Very nice," said the mocking voice above him. "That position seems to suit you much better. Now let's see if you're good for anything else, since you're obviously incapable of any *intellectual* activity." Q did not touch his victim, but Picard felt a tempest of hard stinging slaps assaulting his entire body. They battered his buttocks, his thighs, his calves, the bottoms of his feet, his back, his shoulders, his arms. His penis was grasped and pulled by an invisible fiery hand, while his anus felt as though it was being stretched, filled, and burned by a red-hot phallus. He was frozen, paralyzed, too overwhelmed to move or make a sound. His eyes were fixed on Q's boots immediately in front of his face, which still throbbed from being struck, and he felt himself spiraling away into darkness. As he was about to pass out, the assault suddenly ceased, and Picard collapsed into a whimpering, shivering heap on the stone floor. As he lay there he felt a curious sensation around his neck, wrists, and ankles, and Q hauled him to a standing position by a leather collar that had materialized around his neck. Just at that moment a mirror materialized in front of him. "Look at yourself," demanded the irate entity. "Look at yourself and see what you *really* are, good for nothing but to be a mere pet, and not a very interesting one at that." Picard could not bear to look in the mirror, but Q yanked back on the collar, and he was forced to regard his reflection, a trembling, pitiful shadow of a man, wearing nothing but black leather cuffs and a collar, with the red imprint of Q's hand still visible on his cheek. Even more overwhelming was the sight of Q, looming behind him as he had so often in the past. The hand holding the collar shifted, and Picard stared in horrified fascination at the sight of that hand gripping the black leather. A sob rose in his throat, but in a flash his tormentor had disappeared, and he was spread-eagled against the dungeon wall, fastened to rings in the wall by his cuffs and collar, his feet resting on the cold floor. He felt a stinging, pinching sensation on his nipples, as if they were gripped by invisible clamps, and both his erect cock and his anus were burning and throbbing as before, while he felt the rough texture of the wall pressing into his raw, brutalized behind. Because his head was immobilized, he was forced to look straight ahead at the mirror strategically placed in front of him, to see himself with no masks, no defenses, without the psychic armor of his uniform, without the authority of his position. He tried to close his eyes, but they were firmly held open by the same supernatural force that was violating the most sensitive and private parts of his body. He couldn't avoid looking at himself, completely vulnerable, completely exposed, and tears began rolling out of his eyes. "Q, . . . please . . .stop . . . this," he gasped between sobs. "I . . . admit . . . it . . . I've . . . failed . . . you, . . . failed . . . myself . . . I'm . . . sorry." "SORRY?" echoed a booming, resounding voice. "THAT'S HARDLY ADEQUATE, JEAN-LUC. YOU HAVEN'T BEGUN TO REALIZE JUST HOW INSIGNIFICANT YOU ARE." If Picard had thought he was overwhelmed before, the sensations he had been experiencing were nothing compared to what happened next. Somehow, he was still manacled to the dungeon wall, spread-eagled, but simultaneously floating in the void of space. He felt even smaller than he had earlier, small and terribly aware of how much he depended on Q. Here, in the vast, empty, dark, all he was, all he knew, everything that made up his own image of himself, was gone. If he failed Q now . . . anything could happen. His emotions felt raw and ragged; shame, fear, a terrifying eagerness to please, an even more terrifying arousal, were all linked and knotted like threads inside his head. Hating the sound of his own voice, he whispered, "please . . . " without even knowing what it was that he was asking for. It didn't matter, because there was no answer. The terrible physical assault diminished slightly, his nipples were still painfully clamped, but although his anus was still stretched open and full, the thrusting had stopped. The attention being paid to his penis vanished except for a tightness at the base. ***///*** "Well, well, well," murmured Q, as he languidly reclined against the curve of the saucer section. "*This* is going to be like taking candy from a baby. Rather disappointing really, no challenge at all." He felt a slight concern for Picard, then brushed it away. "After all this is *his* imagination, not mine. I must say, he has a rather *vivid* imagination for a man who appears so repressed. I like the cock ring . . . truly a classic accessory." ***///*** Picard was drifting out of the darkness toward a great source of heat and light. His position was rotated slowly until he found himself dangerously close to an angry red star. A stream of light poured from the star into a nearby cloud of blue light; he could see a pinprick of blackness at the center of the blue cloud, and knew that he was looking at a black hole. He lost some of his fear as he marveled at the beauty of the scene, but that fear rapidly returned when a voice began reverberating from all around him. The voice wasn't merely audible, it was tangible as well, pulsing through every nerve like fire. "WHO ARE YOU?" It was impossible not to answer; the voice demanded obedience. He knew that his own voice (that same voice he was secretly so proud of) sounded terribly small and lost. "Jean-Luc Picard." "Six" the voice, Q's voice said. Before Picard could begin to figure out what his captor meant by that, Q spoke again. "WHAT ARE YOU?" Still trying to cling to some foolish notion of normal behavior, which wasn't easy in his current situation, Picard hesitantly replied, "Captain of the Enterprise?" "WRONG AGAIN. That's another six." There was a pause, during which Picard had time to reflect anew on just how vulnerable he was. The feeling of the dungeon wall behind him vanished, although he was still securely bound to . . . something. "WHY ARE YOU HERE?" Picard gave up. "I . . . don't . . . know..." "YES YOU DO!" There was another pause, and then the voice said, "that's eighteen altogether." Picard felt his insides knotting and twisting, and his breath grew ragged. He heard a sharp hissing whistle behind him, and then, with a crack like thunder, the first blow landed across his back--a searing slash of shrieking blue flame. He screamed, twisting helplessly in his bonds, trying at all costs to avoid the next blow. He couldn't, of course, the next landed, and the next . . . each blow in its turn, slicing down his back and ass like gouges from some great iron clawed bird. When it was over he hung, sobbing, his throat aching from the screaming. The scene abruptly shifted; he was in the swirling heart of a nebula, but the ribbons of purple and indigo gasses that surrounded him failed to catch his attention. "Who are you?" This time the voice was soft, a hissing softness from right behind him. In a way the softness was even more terrifying than the earlier voice, because he found himself straining desperately, hanging on each word as if his very life depended on answering the question. For all he knew, it did. Knowing that he was probably wrong, but clinging to his fading sense of identity, Picard replied, "Jean-Luc." "Wrong," Q murmured. He did not, however, mention a number, and Picard wondered what his punishment would be this time. "What are you?" "Your prisoner," Picard replied, hoping it was what Q wanted to hear. There was an amused chuckle in his ear. "Still wrong, but you're getting closer." Then, as Picard had known he would, the entity asked, "why are you here?" Picard felt a tiny surge of rebellion. "Because I can't . . . *leave*." Q didn't bother tell him he was wrong. Instead there was silence, a thick, cloying silence. Picard felt a slight touch along the inside of his elbow. It intensified, penetrating his skin and coiling around the sensitive nerve endings. It hurt and yet it didn't hurt; the nerve seemed to be directly wired to his penis, which had remained erect all through the earlier beating. Now it throbbed in time to the touch, and Picard began to moan, pleading wordlessly for release. Oddly enough, the excruciating touch stopped. He had a second to feel relief, and then it happened again, this time at the back of his neck. One by one, all of his nerves were set alight, the backs of his calves, the soles of his feet, the palms of his hands, his wrists, on and on, nerve by nerve. By the time the touch reached his nipples, Picard was struggling again. When every nerve in his aching nipples blossomed into fire, he began to scream. Even after the torment ceased, he continued screaming until that strong, large hand gripped his chin again. Once more there was a slap to his face, and once more there was that sudden burst of clarity. Picard *knew* the answers. "LOOK AT ME!" Again the scene had shifted; Picard was drifting near a vibrant yellow/white star. He could feel the heat and the solar wind against his abused body, and he realized that he was no longer bound in the spread-eagled position. Instead, he was on his knees, his ankle cuffs were locked together, and he was sitting on his heels, knees spread. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and there was a heavy chain hanging from his collar. He looked up slowly, looking past Q's boots, to his belt, from which hung a braided leather whip, and a heavy silver ring. He kept looking up, feeling smaller and more humiliated by the second. When he finally met Q's darkly glowing eyes, he was trembling, and his hands were clenched together in desperation. Amid all this fear, helplessness, and humiliation, he surprised himself by thinking, *this is where I belong.* Q looked down at him silently, and Picard struggled to keep his eyes open. Finally the god asked the first question. "Who are you?" "johnny," he replied, knowing that Q knew the story behind the nickname that Picard had first heard as a sneering insult from an upperclassman at the Academy. He had stubbornly accepted it while silently hating it, but now he *was* johnny, no full name, no capital J, no title of rank. Q nodded gravely, and Picard cautiously let out the breath he'd been holding. One down. "What are you?" "Your pet." This one hurt, but it was supposed to hurt, and Picard welcomed the humiliation. "Why are you here?" "To . . . amuse you . . . to try to . . . to please . . . you . . ." Picard managed to stammer out the words. " . . . to . . . to serve . . . You . . ." Q said nothing, but he reached his hand down to his belt and removed the ring. He snapped his fingers and Picard felt his wrist cuffs separate. He kept his hands behind his back, and Q nodded approvingly. "Hand me your chain." Hands shaking, Picard obeyed. Q took the end of the chain; there was a flash of bright light, and the ring was joined to the last link. Another flash and the ring was locked to a stone pillar which had suddenly materialized in front of Picard. Q was now behind Picard, and his voice suddenly lashed out. "I wanted to see if you were good for anything . . . knees and elbows!" His ankle cuffs separated and Picard went down, resting his weight on his elbows and his head on his hands. Instinctively, he shifted his knees wider, and Q chuckled. "So eager for it, pet?" The question demanded some kind of response, and Picard lifted his head to nod, somehow knowing that he was not allowed to speak. "No johnny, you *can't* talk. You can moan, you can gasp, you can cry and scream, but there's only one word you have the right to say. If you're not sure, keep silent, because I've only accepted your...service conditionally. Disappoint me again and . . . " Picard responded by lowering his head once again, and arching his hips. Q was not gentle. Picard had not expected him to be, and would probably have been disappointed if he had been. There was lubrication from somewhere, but Q thrust all the way in with the first thrust. It was hot and it hurt, and Picard wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He had wanted this forever, needed this wonderful, agonizing, bittersweet pain. He hesitantly moved, and Q's hands cruelly gripped his hips, pulling him into the hard driving rhythm. Picard *was* moaning, gasping, crying and screaming, and he wanted to ask for even more, but he knew that wasn't the word. Letting his entire body speak for him he begged without words, giving over all physical control to Q. With each savage, pulsing thrust, the light from the nearby star grew brighter, the heat grew more intense, the solar winds whipped around him with greater force. Q was relentless, and the heat and the motion and the fucking built up and then built higher. Picard was blinded by the brightness--the brightness of the star before him, the brightness of the god behind him, the brightness of his own need to give everything he was to his . . "Master!" he cried out. The word pushed them both over the edge. Picard felt more than heard Q's roar. It washed over him and his own ragged cry of ecstasy was but a pale echo. The star before his eyes grew even brighter and then, it exploded. Picard could see colors that he didn't even have names for; he could feel each gas particle strike him, and felt the shock wave rushing toward them. Q's hand grabbed his collar, and the god spoke once more. "Say it again, pet." That voice again rolled over and through him, caressing, stinging, burning each word into Picard's brain. He would give anything to remain in this place, to continue this feeling of absolute certainty. He was small, helpless, and fit only for this service, and yet there was pride, pride in his humiliation, pride that he *could* serve. It had hurt, emotionally, and physically, and he had broken under the assault, but still there was some strength in the surrender. Knowing that Q would hear all of this in his voice, he whispered the word again, "Master," and then once more, "Master . . ." ***///*** *************************************************************** ********** "I feel happy, and I also feel bad I've never been here before, but somehow I think I have But I'm getting used to it I've never been lost like this I've never been lost like this But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else" "Lost Like This" Boingo -- ****************** Ruth Gifford "Update all information and pod into cosmos." Instructional label on a Fed Ex package (really) From netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!news Wed Mar 13 19:56:23 1996 Xref: netcom.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica:1185 alt.fan.q:5134 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!news From: thegiff@ix.netcom.com(Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica,alt.fan.q Subject: NEW: "His Beloved Pet" Part One (2/4) (TNG, P/Q, BDSM) Date: 14 Mar 1996 02:56:39 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 501 Message-ID: <4i81t7$1u6@dfw-ixnews5.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ont-ca3-14.ix.netcom.com X-NETCOM-Date: Wed Mar 13 8:56:39 PM CST 1996 His Beloved Pet Part One (2/4) ***///*** ". . . Master," Picard was whispering as he . . . woke up. He was trembling, shaking even, and his pajamas were drenched in sweat. And not just sweat, he realized, more terrified than he had been in a very long time. For a long while he simply lay in his bed, unable to think or to stop the shaking. When he had finally calmed enough to do anything, he got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. Avoiding the mirror, he stripped hastily and stepped into his shower, hitting the controls that allowed the hot water to pound over him. He remained there for a long time, his mind wrapped in the comfortable thick cotton of numb shock. When he was done and had dried himself; he looked in the mirror and felt more than naked--something was missing. His hand rose of its own volition to touch his neck, and then his cheek. When he realized that he was looking for a collar, trying to feel the imprint of a hand on his face, his knees shook, and he braced himself on the counter, closing his eyes in a feeble attempt to hide from himself. How he managed to get back into the bedroom, he didn't know, but soon he was sitting cross-legged in his bed, trying to think. *Fear . . . it has to be fear . . . that's the only answer . . . Q . . he terrifies me . . . I know its all right to be afraid . . . but I'm the Captain . . . I can't show it . . . have to hide the fear . . . but . . . I can't hide it forever . . . and so this . . . * He sighed. *It's not like I didn't know this about myself . . I've wanted to be dominated . . . hurt even . . .by someone . . that I could . . . surrender to . . . I've wanted to . . . find someone . . . who would somehow *know* . . . who could *take* from me . . . all I could give . . . I've never been able to . . . ask for it . . . but now this . . . my putting Q in that role . . . it was inevitable . . . I'm surprised that it took this long for me to have a dream like this about him . . .* He buried his head in his hands. *Why do I think Q would . . . want *me*? . . . do I really want give away that much of myself . . . that much of my control . . . to be that small? . . . to be told *that* brutally that all I am is . . . a pet?* The other word that applied, the one thing that Q hadn't called him in the dream, burned his mind. Angry, confused, afraid, and lonely, he brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. *I have to be The Captain again soon . . . Oh God . . . what's wrong with me? How can I command when I'm . . . so . . . such an imbecile? . . . why does anyone take me seriously . . . when all I am is . . . is an 'obtuse piece of flotsam?'* "Well, perhaps that was a bit . . . harsh, Mon Capitaine." Picard shrank back involuntarily, hating himself for doing so. The memories of his dream were all too vivid in his mind, and he fought down an urge to prostrate himself before his godlike tormentor. He was certainly unable to muster his usual arrogant defiance of Q, and continued to huddle in his bed, fearing to move or expose himself further in any way. Q sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance from Picard. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle, retaining only a tinge of its usual mocking tone. "Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc," he purred soothingly, "don't you think you're being a tad hard on yourself? After all, you did much better on our little test than anyone could reasonably expect. For a limited human you acquitted yourself rather well, I think." "I . . . don't . . . know . . . what . . . to . . . say," stammered Picard. "You . . . helped . . . me, . . . and . . . I . . . don't . . deserve . . . your . . . concern." He paused, unable to control the shaking in his voice and also unable to repress the question that was battering him from inside: "Are . . . you . . . going . . . to . . . hurt . . . me?" "*Hurt* you?" asked Q. "Now where would you get such an idea?" Q, of course, knew perfectly well, and he was still astonished at the depth of perversity the Captain had revealed in his dream. *What *is* it with these humans anyway?* he thought to himself. *They go scurrying around pathetically trying to attain power and position, and when they have it, all they want to do is find someone to dominate them. It's truly remarkable they've gotten this far.* Q continued aloud, "You've clearly gotten *entirely* the wrong impression of me, Captain. You know so little about me; I'm not nearly the monster you imagine." Q had to be careful here; despite the fact that he was trying to seduce Picard merely to fulfill a dare, and despite the emotional damage he was vaguely aware that he would cause, Q was unwilling to lie outright. He operated in a realm of half-truths and subtle shadings of possible interpretations of the words he spoke, but he did not like to issue an absolute lie. It just seemed so crude . . . so *gauche*. To manipulate his victims without lying outright just seemed so much more skillful. Still, this reassuring mode he was in was beginning to feel rather cloying; Humans were just *so* pathetic. "You can still count on your hands the number of encounters you've had with me, Jean-Luc. Do you think it might be possible that there might be other sides of myself that you haven't seen? Did it ever occur to you that I'm *not* out to get you?" He looked at his hands, trying to convey a slight amount of uncertainty. "You've sparked my curiosity, and I've been trying to get to know you better. Maybe I'm just not very good at it." At this, he looked up, and reaching out his hand, he carefully traced a line with one finger along Picard's jaw. "And for a human," he added lightly, "you're not bad looking." Picard was beginning to relax ever so slightly as Q spoke to him. As Q reached toward him, he flinched, but Q pretended not to notice, and the gentleness of his touch was such a relief to Picard he could have wept. Because he was still fighting the pull of the dream, he said nothing, afraid that *that* word would come out of his mouth. Q’s hand remained gentle on his jaw, and in spite of his fear, Picard could feel the heat radiating from that touch. He was still too nervous and frightened to relax, however, and the muscles in his shoulders and back were tensing up. He shifted slightly, and Q instantly pulled his hand away. "I’m sorry," said the entity. This was actually harder than expected. Q wasn’t any good at acting hesitant, or, even worse, shy. But Picard had to come to him willingly, and that was that. *Maybe I should have brought roses.* "No . . . it’s my back . . ." *Hold the roses, I believe I‘ve just been handed a line. Saying ‘Are you trying to seduce me, Captain Picard?’ wouldn’t be a good idea, but is he *really* that stupid?* He raised his hand, fingers ready to snap. "I could take care of it . . . no wait . . would offering a backrub be out of line?" "A backrub?" Picard couldn't help his surprise from coloring his voice. What did Q know about backrubs? "I wasn't trying to . . . I didn't mean . . ." "Oh I know," Q replied loftily. "But I've had experience with back pain. Not to mention the fact that I once spent half a year as a Mathifi; the backrub is an art on Mathif. Of course it would be; they have four arms and very long backs." He paused. "I don't have to actually *touch* you." Picard felt a pair of hands at his neck. They were slippery with warm oil and in spite of his wariness he couldn't help relaxing a little. A pair of strong thumbs found just the right spots at the base of his skull, and he felt the tension begin to flow out of him. There was something in the oil, not only did it feel like it had been heated, it also stayed warm against his skin as Q moved to his shoulders. "Try lying down," Q suggested. "It'll feel better that way." The hands stopped and Q turned slightly to give him some privacy as he got comfortable. As soon as Picard was lying on his stomach, with the sheet covering his lower half, the invisible hands were back. He remained somewhat tense as they rubbed and pulled, pushed and prodded at his aching muscles, but as Q found a particularly nasty spot in the small of his back, he let out a soft sigh. He couldn't help it, the feeling was wonderful, and the gentle eroticism of the massage began to affect him. *Keep taking the bait, little fishy,* Q thought. *Some challenge *this* turned out to be.* He regretted the thought almost instantly, for Picard's alarm chose that moment to go off. "Merde!" Picard mumbled. He waited for his back to tense up again, but some force was gently keeping him relaxed. *Forced relaxation, how very odd.* "Off," he said aloud, and the alarm became silent. "What are you doing to my back?" He rolled over and then sat up, keeping himself covered with the sheet. "Oh . . . sorry," Q said. "I could feel you start to tense up." He sighed, making what was really a sigh of boredom sound apologetic. "I . . . was trying to help. It's not something I do very often." *And *that's* no lie,* he thought. He expected Picard to make some sort of dry remark along the lines of "Well maybe you should try it more often," but the Captain simply sighed. *I liked him better when he didn't think that I'm God,* Q thought. He was not given to self analysis, and it didn't occur to him that his last thought was in any way significant. He was simply irritated, and since his irritation couldn't possibly be *his* fault, it had to be Picard's. "Look, I know you have to go to work, but you're really wound up." *In more ways than one, my fine captain. Just because you've got that sheet over your lap, don't think I don't know about that erection of yours.* "I can . . . sort of screen you off, so that Troi will just think you're preoccupied. After all it's been a tough week at the office." He smiled somewhat conspiratorially. *Why is he doing this? Is he actually interested in *me*?* Picard set the problem aside for future mulling, and smiled hesitantly at Q. "I think I could use a little screening. I have an awful lot to think about." He didn't feel any different, but Q nodded. "There! Now, your nosy Ship's Counselor will just think that you're thinking about your trip to the past and me." "Which is true in a way," Picard said. He realized that he still had to work at trusting Q; the automatic trust that he would have for a friend was just not there. He wanted to ask, almost did ask, if Q had been reading his mind. It was a question that Picard had wanted to ask many times. The thought of Q knowing everything there was to know about him still made him extremely nervous. There were parts of himself that he didn't like, or that (like last night's dream) downright frightened him. So he shrugged the question off; deciding that it didn't really make a difference. Either Q was or he wasn't, and there was little Picard could do about it. *Hummph!,* Q thought. *You're so . . . irritating Jean-Luc, such a typical Human. 'Oh I can't handle *that* , so I won't ask the question.'* The alarm sounded again, and Picard frowned. Q snapped his fingers as Picard said, "off." Then he looked at Q in surprise. "What? Oh . . . thank you." Picard suddenly felt as though he'd had about ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, a decent breakfast, and a long shower. He was dressed in a crisp clean uniform. "I can be a useful entity to have around." *Yech! The depths to which I'll go to avoid being laughed at by Q. 'I can be a useful entity to have around.' Q, who writes your dialog?* Picard stood up, tugging his uniform tunic down. "Well, Q," he said, a little more assuredly. "You certainly are an entity of many talents--I never figured you for a masseur." *Oh, now that we have our uniform on, we can be The Captain again. I'm looking forward to seeing you on your knees and begging for it, *johnny*, it might *just* make this worth it. Still I have to give you points for poise, and for offering me the chance for a return engagement.* "If you like, I can give you a demonstration of more of my talents this evening--in the massage department, of course." When Picard nodded hesitantly, Q smiled his typical sardonic smile. "Naturally, I have only *honorable* intentions." His voce had its accustomed edge, and to Q's surprise, Picard fell into his usual dry response. "Why do I doubt that?" He then walked out the door, leaving Q thinking, *another point to you, mon Capitaine. Pity you're still going to lose.* *** At the end of his shift, Picard approached his quarters a little warily. His easy acceptance of Q's offer in the morning didn't make a lot of sense now. *Oh Johnny,* he thought. *You should know better than to think when you've got an erection.* He had thought about Q for most of the day. Some of those thoughts had been serious, but he had to admit that most of them had been sexual. Not that, in this case, the thoughts about sex weren't serious, not at all. Picard had given up on trying to figure out *why* Q wanted him. That the entity apparently *did* was enough for right now. The true question before him was did *he* want Q? He hadn't really come up with an answer yet. There were just too many uncertainties. His better judgment was telling him "no," while his curiosity and his vanity (after all, being pursued by a god was nothing if not flattering) were definitely piqued. As the doors to his quarters hissed open, Picard hesitated before walking in. Q was waiting, leaning on a massage table, his arms folded and with a slight smirk on his face. Even without his powers he could detect Picard's hesitancy, and he immediately walked around behind Picard, running his hands slowly up and down the Captain's arms while speaking with his lips immediately next to Picard's ear in a voice that was somehow soothing and menacing at the same time. "Come on, Jean-Luc, you know you want it; you've wanted it for a long time." Picard stiffened, but did not move or reply, while Q's insistent and large hands kept travelling up and down his arms. "Don't worry, I won't rape you, Johnny; that's not my style. All you have to say is 'Stop,' and I'll stop." Here Q's hands moved up to Picard's neck, his thumbs expertly massaging it in slow circles. "But you don't want me to stop, now do you? You know, you seem rather tense," he continued, as his fingers began lightly rubbing Picard's shoulders. "I can give you a massage you'll never forget." **That* I believe,* thought Picard to himself. As soon as Q had approached him, his mind began working frantically. He knew somehow that letting himself be seduced by Q was a bad idea, and he should should just ask Q to leave--permanently. But as Q's hands stroked his arms, and that irresistably compelling voice insinuated itself around all his nerve endings, he couldn't bring himself to say 'Stop.' Still, something was nagging at the back of his mind as Q told him "you know you want it." Something he couldn't put his finger on, some thought that was trying to break through to his conscious mind. There was something he needed to know, a question he needed to have answered, but he couldn't articulate it, and it was bothering him like a pesky fly that kept buzzing around his head. This bout of soul-seeking was rapidly being superceded by something that was even more compelling to his attention--a soon-to-be-evident-and-embarrassing stirring in his groin. Lying down on the massage table was starting to seem pretty appealing if only to conceal his growing erection. It should be obvious to anyone that Picard wasn't thinking too clearly at the moment. He knew vaguely that Q would be aware of every nuance of his physiological condition, but somehow there seemed to be safety in lying on his stomach. He was mentally exhausted, having been racking his brains all day with the question of what to do about Q's obviously dishonorable intentions, and the image of feeling a pair of strong, capable hands working the tension out of his body was irresistably appealing. A massage couldn't hurt. After that, well, he'd deal with that when it came up (so to speak). "A massage sounds wonderful," he said to Q in a strained voice. Q was all too aware of both Picard's nervousness and growing arousal. He had guessed right for this evening's approach; Jean-Luc did want to be menaced a little. *No surprise really, after that appalling dream,* Q thought. *I should probably back off a little now, though. I don't want to scare my little prize too much.* He moved back away from Picard. "Go ahead and get comfortable. I promised you a massage, after all. If that's all you want..." He let his voice trail off, making it clear that the ball was in Picard's court now. Picard was still bothered by that nagging feeling, that missing question, but the fact that Q had backed down somewhat reassured him. Q turned slightly, giving him privacy to undress as he had this morning. That helped too, and Picard carefully stripped out of his uniform. When he reached his briefs, he hesitated; to get completely naked seemed to be an admission that Q was right, that he did want it. Then again, he was a grown man, and his own hesitancy was annoying him. He slipped out of his briefs, and settled himself face down on the table. Q moved over and casually tossed a towel over Picard's rear and then looked down at the Captain. "Relax, Jean-Luc. I can't do anything to your back if you're all tensed up." Picard forced himself to relax and managed to smile slightly at Q. The entity's casual manner made him feel a lot better, as did Q's choice of clothing. For once, he wasn't in a Captain's uniform, having opted instead for a pair of simple black pants and a short sleeved dark purple shirt. *Dark colors suit him,* Picard thought. It was a mistake, the vision of Q in the black leather of his dream flashed through his mind and he tensed up again. Just then a pair of large hands began rubbing his shoulders lightly. The hands were once more covered in warm oil, and they seemed to radiate their own heat. It *was* soothing and Picard felt himself relaxing again. The hands moved to the base of his skull, and Q's thumbs began to push firmly at the tense knot of muscles there. "Good thing you don't have much in the way of hair; it would only get it the way," the entity remarked lightly. "Hair is a bloody nuisance," Picard replied, grateful for a neutral topic. "I've always wondered why you let yourself go bald." Q had moved lower now and was starting in on Picard's shoulders. He seemed to be able to find every single tense or sore spot, and the heat and the pressure felt incredible. Picard began to relax more, getting caught up in the feeling of Q's slick hot fingers sliding over and pressing into his muscles. "Q, the last thing I want to have to do is worry about hair." *Ha! That JAG captain of yours told you that you looked better without it. You're as vain about your looks as I am, Captain.* Aloud he said, "true, I suppose. Heavy is the burden that rests on these shoulders." He emphasized his point by moving both hands to Picard's right shoulder, and began to exert more pressure. "Now you're mocking me," Picard said. His dry delivery was hampered somewhat by the muffled, "mmmm," that he couldn't keep from escaping. It just felt so good to lie here and let go. "Well, yes I am. I'm sorry Jean-Luc, but being the Captain of a starship seems a little trivial to me. Of course I've never done it, so what do I know?" He worked on the shoulder in silence for a little while and then asked casually. "Why do you do it? I've only known you for seven years, but it seems to me that those have been a hard seven years< for a Human." Oddly enough, Q was genuinely curious about Picard's answer. In a way, of course, he had known Picard all his life. Once Picard had become the focal point of Q's "project," the entity had gone back and examined the Captain's past with a fine toothed comb. He knew things about Picard that Picard had long forgotten, but it would be interesting to hear what Jean-Luc chose to say. He moved over to the left shoulder and began to work on it. "Come on," he teased gently. "If you can't talk to your masseur, who *can* you talk to?" *Who indeed?* Picard thought. This *was* Q after all, and although it hadn't come up, Picard knew that in some way, Q was either studying Humanity, or was responsible for its development. That wasn't the most comforting thought, but right now, with the relaxation Q was providing beginning to wash over him, Picard decided that he could try to explain himself. "I do it because I *have* to," he said after a moment. "Not because Starfleet put me here, or because the Federation depends on me, but because *I* have to--*need* to do it. I quite literally cannot imagine myself doing anything else with my life. Ohhh . . ." Q was working on his upper arms now, and Picard was beginning to feel boneless. "You're right, the past few years have been very hard, but . . ." He struggled to find the right way to explain. "What we, Starfleet I mean, do is important . . . it *matters*." He paused, moaning as Q's fingers dug into the nerves above his elbow. "God, that feels good." He tried to recollect his train of thought. "I know it seems trivial to you, but that's the best way I can describe it. Ahhh . . ." Q had finished with his arms, but instead of going right back to Picard's back, he slid his hands slowly back up Picard's biceps. The sensation was powerfully erotic, and Picard caught his breath, once more becoming aware of his growing arousal. He shifted slightly to adjust his position, and tried to remember just what he'd been saying. "So command itself isn't all of it, then?" Q asked, his fingers now working steadily against the middle of Picard's back. That was the biggest difference, Picard realized, between *this* massage and any other he'd ever received. Q never stopped, not to shake his hands, or to get more oil; there was just this steady relentless strength. The odd combination of impersonal casualness, and the occasional erotic touch was slowly wearing down Picard's resistance. "Well . . . I suppose command is part of it. I'm . . .well . . . " He paused, aware that his face was hot. "I'm *good* at it. By Human standards, I mean," he added with a faint touch of sarcasm. He moaned and actually arched his back a little under Q's hands. His skin's sensitivity was increasing; he could feel the faint burn of whatever was in the oil, and each of Q's fingers as the entity fanned them outward from his spine. "Oh . . this is . . . wonderful..." "Thank you," Q replied. He fell silent again, letting his hands work their way slowly down Picard's spine. It was helpful of Picard to be both sensual and controlled. The Captain's iron control of himself meant that when he *did* allow his libido off its leash, the results usually tended to overwhelm him. *How lucky for moi.* "Captain at 28, " Q finally said aloud. "That had to have been rough." "There wasn't anyone else. When Captain Wantanabe died, we were under attack; I just did what any first officer would do." He fell silent as Q's hands moved on to work at his lower back for a while. What would happen next, and what was he going to do about it? Oh...he was going to relax again; Q had moved on to his feet. "Mmmm . . .that's perfect . . ." "For a man who just told me how good a commander he is, that remark smacks of false modesty," Q said, somewhat astringently. He had never understood the cultural bias that led Humans to downplay their accomplishments. "Well . . . I suppose . . . mmm . . . but I was so damn scared . . ahhh . . ." Q's hands dug into Picard's calves. The Captain was getting less and less self-conscious about talking through his sighs of pleasure. This was so wonderful, and so unlike his dream, that he was losing his fear of whatever it was that was going to happen when this incredible massage was over. " . . . if I hadn't taken . . . ohh . . . command, I would have . . . just panicked . . . mmm . . ." "Ah," Q said lightly. "Fear as a motivation." "Mmm hmmm," Picard sighed. "It's one of our . . . stronger motivations . . . mmm . . . *you* know that . . . ohhh . . ." *That and your damned sex drive,* Q thought. Picard had given up on talking, and was moaning rather steadily now, as Q combined strong pressure to the backs of his thighs with a light stroking of the sensitive skin on the insides of those thighs. Judging the moment to be right, Q thought the towel out of the way. His timing was perfect; Picard didn't tense up at all as Q's fingers began to dig into his buttocks. Instead, he sighed and seemed to relax even more. *Not too bad,* thought Q looking down. *At least I didn't lie when I said he's good looking . . . for a Human.* He lightly slapped Picard on each buttock and declared, "There! Now tell me that was the best massage you ever had." *************************************************************** *** "And time goes round and back again Only your name in my head And thoughts will pass Sleep well tonight I know your demons And . . . delight" "Aqua" Claire Voyant -- ****************** Ruth Gifford "Update all information and pod into cosmos." Instructional label on a Fed Ex package (really) From netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!news Wed Mar 13 19:56:27 1996 Xref: netcom.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica:1186 alt.fan.q:5135 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!news From: thegiff@ix.netcom.com(Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica,alt.fan.q Subject: NEW: "His Beloved Pet" Part One (3/4) (TNG, P/Q, BDSM) Date: 14 Mar 1996 02:59:38 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 456 Message-ID: <4i822q$216@dfw-ixnews5.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ont-ca3-14.ix.netcom.com X-NETCOM-Date: Wed Mar 13 8:59:38 PM CST 1996 His Beloved Pet Part One (3/4) "No question about it," murmured Picard. His muscles felt like jelly, and the thought of getting up seemed quite beyond his capabilities, but there was a growing tension coiling in the pit of his stomach. "You're not getting up, Captain. Is there something else you want?" demanded the entity. "I . . . well . . . Q . . . I don't . . . I'm not . . . " Picard trailed off miserably. "You seem to have misplaced your usual verbal facility, mon Capitaine. I know what you want; you know what you want--is it so hard to admit?" Picard remained silent, his mind whirling with the activity of trying to figure out what to do. "I'll make it easy for you, Johnny, since words seem to be failing you. All you have to tell me is 'Stop!'. As long as you don't, I'll assume I have carte blanche to do whatever I like with this manly physique of yours." Picard buried his face in his arms. All he had to say was 'Stop,' but the word was not coming to his lips. Q's hands returned to his ass. They were covered in oil again, and instead of massaging him, they were sliding around and circling in an undeniably tantalizing manner. Once more he felt a familiar stirring beneath him and pressed himself deeper into the massage table. Q slid his thumbs between Picard's cheeks, spreading them, then slipped an oiled exploratory figure inside. "Aaaahh . . . " moaned Picard. "That didn't sound like the word 'Stop' to me," observed Q, beginning to slide his finger in and out of Picard's ass. Picard uttered something that sounded roughly like "Ergggh . . ohhh . . . ergggh . . . ." "What was that?" asked Q. "I didn't quite catch what you were saying." If Q had kept quiet (which was not very likely, and true to form he didn't), Picard might have been able to surrender himself to the sensations that were coursing through him. Q's finger in his ass was radiating heat, which spread throughout his groin, and somehow at the same time he felt an inexplicable tingling in his nipples, and part of him just wanted it to go on and on, to let himself be fucked no matter how. But Q's light mockery wound Picard's acute self-consciousness up to a nagging pitch. *I'm lying on a table, naked, with Q's finger in my . . . Ohmigod! . . . My God, what *have* I done?* Picard's body went rigid, the tension radiating out from that tight coil expanding in the middle of his stomach. "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, " sighed Q, while withdrawing his finger, "you're putting a perfectly good massage to waste. Perhaps a slight change of scene would help?" Q lazily flicked his wrist, and he and his companion instantly reappeared on Picard's bed, in much the same position. Q was now kneeling on the bed next to Picard, and he was resting a warm oily hand on Picard's rear. *Oh God . . . oh God . . . what do I do? Stop . . . I've got to open my mouth and say . . .* "Mmph . . ." "What?" Q looked down at his victim. The back of Picard's neck was red, and his shoulders were rigid. Q could feel Picard's conflicting emotions, need, a greedy painful need, struggling with the terror of letting go. Q wanted to just *think* the man into letting go, but he couldn't of course. Picard hadn't said 'Stop' yet, although he was close. *I've got to get him relaxed again, dammit.* He moved his hand to stroke Picard's hip, a gentle comforting caress. "Is it that I appear male? Is that it Jean-Luc?" With his knowledge of Picard's past, Q knew full well that the Captain had never made love to another man. Q was also skirting the truth here; he *wasn't* male, or female for that matter. However, he was stuck; he had to seduce Picard in *this* form. "Oh for God's sake, Q," Picard snapped, his verbal facility returning somewhat. "What the hell do you think I am, a homophobe?" He was actually quite insulted by Q's suggestion. *An idiot more likely,* Q thought. *You're going to go through with it now just to prove that you're enlightened. Well that, and because you really *want* it.* "No, Johnny," he said, working to keep his voice gentle. "But what is it?" *Try to sound a little hurt, here,* he thought. It wasn't difficult, he *was* hurt, or rather, he was insulted. This idiot had a *Q* in his bed and he was balking? That Picard had plenty of reasons not to trust the Q in his bed was beside the point; the man *should* have been pathetically grateful to be so lucky. "You want this, don't you?" *He's reaching out,* Picard thought. *And I'm rejecting him . . but . . . why should I trust . . .?* The thought was cut off by the sensation of Q's breath on the back of his neck. The tip of his tongue lightly brushed across the sensitive skin there and Picard's already strong need jolted up another notch. "It doesn't have to be like *this*," Q whispered softly. "Would *you* like to be on top?" "Uhh . . . no . . . I wouldn't . . . know . . . " *. . . what to do,* he finished off silently. *Gotcha!* Q thought about turning Picard over; something a little more familiar might make things easier. But then he remembered Picard's dream. *Well, I'm not going to hurt him, at least not yet, but he wants that illusion of surrender, of giving in to someone who is far more powerful than he is. Well Johnny, my boy, that would be me.* For some reason it didn't occur to Q that Picard's need to be dominated, or at least controlled, dovetailed perfectly with Q's own need to dominate. He had conveniently pushed aside the realization that Picard's willingness to surrender had been what had caught his attention in the first place. "Well, don't say I didn't offer," he said aloud, while tracing one finger down Picard's spine. Picard shivered slightly, then gasped when the finger made its way inside him, circling and moving in and out in slow teasing strokes. "Never had much of a fetish for virgin territory," Q remarked, "but I can see the appeal. I like the idea of initiating the great Jean-Luc Picard into the joys of being *fucked*," he concluded with particularly mocking emphasis. Picard groaned but didn't move. He wanted this, all right, wanted it in the worst way. At the same time, he felt a perverse need to assert himself, despite his awareness of the futility of such an attempt. As Q continued probing, the entity continued chatting, "This is all very enjoyable, Johnny, but if you want the full treatment, you're going to have to tell me. I want to hear it, and in your own words . . ." Picard exploded, "If I tell you I want it, will you get on with it and SHUT UP?! If so, then YES, I want it!" "Very well then," said Q evenly, then with a sharp slap to Picard's behind with his free hand, he snapped, "On your knees, boy!" Picard surprised himself with the haste with which he complied. How long had it been since someone had given an order to *him*? There was something perversely liberating in giving himself up to Q's control, although he had no idea that he hadn't yet begun to explore even the margins of that sense of liberation. As soon as Picard got up on his knees, Q began probing more seriously, remaining thankfully quiet, while Picard moaned and trembled beneath him. After Picard became more or less accustomed to the sensation of a long finger purposefully fucking him, he felt the finger withdraw. As was inevitable, he tensed up momentarily, but caught his breath and forced himself to relax as he felt the tip of Q's cock press against him. It was well-lubricated, and Q pushed in slowly, knowing he could save the terror tactics for a future time. Such precautions notwithstanding, it hurt considerably, as Picard felt the narrow opening stretching and burning around its invader. He felt exposed and vulnerable in a way no previous sexual experience had prepared him for. His own erection pressed insistently against his belly, and he became aware of a spreading, tingling, aching warmth that radiated from his ass through his groin, into his stomach, and down to his toes, producing a notable weakening in the knees along the way. His fingers bunched into fists around the sheet, and he groaned, a long drawn-out groan of mingled pain and pleasure. Q had stopped, letting Picard become used to the sensation of being filled, but now he began to slowly move. "Ohhh . . . " Picard breathed out softly. He was still tensed against the pain, but after a moment or two, during which Q continued his slow deliberate movements, Picard began to relax. He shifted his knees slightly, spreading his legs wider and allowing Q to press further inside him. He could feel the warmth in his fingertips now, and in the pit of his stomach, a warmth that smoldered, and yet refused to burst into flame. The pain was almost gone, and he began to move slightly, trying to urge Q to pick up the pace. *Oh ho!* Q thought. *That didn't take long. You *like* this don't you, my fine captain?* Q had indulged in Human sex a great number of times, figuring that since "his" race seemed spend so much of their time pre-occupied with it, he had better try to understand it. He found most of it enjoyable, as long as it didn't hurt. When it did, he simply blocked the pain, and faked his way through the rest of the experience. While, he had never *really* experienced what Picard was experiencing right now, he had been on top many times. Q liked being on top (no real surprise, of course), and he had never had to fake his way through *this* particular act. And so while, a part of his consciousness was involved in monitoring Picard's responses, another part was truly enjoying the heat and the tightness that surrounded his cock. And this was Jean-Luc Picard, the Captain who had defied him, who had mocked him, who had tried to dismiss him . . . *And now look at you, moaning and gasping, wanting more, while I fuck you in the ass. I should have done this *years* ago.* *This is driving me insane,* Picard thought. It felt so *good* now, but it wasn't enough to take him over the edge. He liked a certain amount of build up, but this was getting to be too much. If Q had insisted that he lie on his stomach, at least he would have been able to press his aching cock against the bed, but in this position there was no relief for his ever-increasing need. His fists began to clench and unclench around the sheet, and he was biting his lip, trying to keep from . . . asking for more. *I'm going to have to ask,* he realized. Even though this wasn't at all like he'd imagined (or dreamed, or expected) it would be, he was still acutely aware of who was behind him. For some reason Q was being gentle, and while Picard greatly appreciated that gentleness, he knew that it was double edged. By his very concern, Q was forcing Picard to participate more thoroughly in what was happening. *He's not Human,* Picard suddenly thought. *He could stay like this all night.* "Q . . ?" he breathed. Q stopped moving, and Picard groaned. "What Johnny?" Q, of course, had perfect control over his voice, and it was a good thing too. If he started laughing at Picard now, this would be over immediately. But he was laughing silently, laughing in triumph. Not only had he managed to seduce Picard according to the parameters of his dare with Q, but he was also enjoying himself immensely. And now Picard was going to beg. This was perfect; it felt wonderful. "Ohhh . . . I . . ." *need more,* was what Picard meant to say. But he couldn't do it, he couldn't let that wall down far enough. He felt himself begin to tense up again. In a desperate, almost angry gesture, he pushed back against Q hard. Mercifully, Q took the hint and, grabbing Picard's hips, began to move again. "Oh God!," Picard yelled. The wall that he hadn't been able to let down crumbled before Q's driving rhythm, and Picard began to beg. "Oh . . . yes . . . please . . . oh . . . God . . . fuck me . . . please . . ." As he got closer and closer to release, a quick thought flashed across his mind. *This is *Q*; I'm on my knees and elbows, and Q is fucking me!* He let go, with loud wailing cry. He was dimly aware of a few last hard thrusts and a loud groan from his partner, but almost every fiber of his being was concentrated on the orgasm that rushed through him. It coiled around his nerves, and when it was over, he collapsed in a heap, not minding that he was shivering, and covered with sweat and semen. *Oh God . . . what's happened to me?* For a long moment, Picard remained still, not knowing what to say or do. When he felt Q gently slip out of him, he shivered again, and bit his lip. He realized that he was close to tears, and in spite of everything, he didn’t feel ready to share that vulnerability with Q yet. Q snapped his fingers, causing Picard to jump slightly, but all that had happened was that he was cleaned off. "Thank you," he said softly, not sure just what he was thanking Q for. *Wonderful,* Q thought. *Now I have to deal with post-coital depression. Idiot, you just had one of the best orgasms of your life, and here you are, agonizing over the whole thing.* Q actually knew that he was being a little unfair, but Picard’s moral dilemma bored him. *I’ve got to do *something* to ensure a return engagement.* Aloud he said, "Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?" "No, it’s just . . ." Picard’s voice trailed off. "I don’t really know what to say," he admitted. Q sighed. "Johnny," he began. Picard felt a return of that need to assert himself. "I *hate* that." "What?" "Being called ‘Johnny.’ I hated it at the Academy, and I really hate it now." He rolled over and sat up. Q was sitting cross- legged on the bed, looking at him curiously. Picard shrugged. "It was originally an insult, you know. One that I had to put up with because I was a freshman." "I actually do know that. I’m sorry, Jean-Luc, I can’t help it, it’s just the way we . . . the Q I mean . . . interact." Picard looked at him, distracted from the situation by his curiosity. "We tend to dig at one another all the time. Being a Q is a constant struggle for dominance." *There, think about that for a while, *Johnny*. Will you take the bait, or do I have to be more overt?* Picard looked aside. He still hadn’t had time to process the dream he’d had last night, and he still couldn’t help wondering if Q’s extremely timely arrival had had anything to do with that dream. "Q . . .," he began. Q looked at him, a ghost of a smile playing around his lips. "Q . . . what made you decide to show up now?" "You thanked me," Q replied. This was rather awkward; he wasn't going to tell the truth here and ruin the dare, but he really didn't want to lie to Picard either. "In the courtroom?" "Well of course," Q replied. "Did you do it somewhere else that I wasn't aware of?" Without thinking about it, Picard settled back into the same position Q had found him in, knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. "Well . . . yes," he admitted, his voice small. "Jean-Luc, what *is* your problem? I'll admit that I'm not the most well behaved entity around, but you act like you expect me to physically injure you." "No, it's not that . . . it's just that I had this . . . dream right before you showed up . . ." "Ah, a nightmare about me. How touching." Picard actually smiled faintly at the sarcastic remark. Some things about Q would never change, and he suddenly realized that he didn't want them to. "Not exactly . . ." He started to say. *No I just can't tell him.* "I can't explain," he finished off lamely. "Look Q . . . I'm sorry . . . this has been . . . incredibly hard for me . . . I think I need some time to think." He said the last in a rush, afraid that Q would take offense, but the entity smiled wryly. "Once you've thought," he asked teasingly, "maybe I could give you another . . . massage?" Picard nodded, and Q surprised him by leaning forward and running an appreciative finger along his jaw. Picard couldn't help it, he leaned slightly into the caress, and then Q was gone. *Oh merde! What was I thinking? You weren't thinking, idiot! Oh God . . . it felt . . . incredible . . . that's putting it lightly . . it hurt . . . of course it did . . . you wanted it to hurt . . . but why? Oh back to that are we? (and why not; I always come back to that) So I'm a closet masochist . . . so the burdens of command make me want to find a strong lover to surrender to . . Come on Jean-Luc, you've agonized over this one for years. And now . . . what now? . . . you have (on the one hand) a lover who could give you all you want . . . who (if his past attitude is correct) would probably enjoy giving you what you want . . . then again (on the other hand) it's *Q* for God's sake! I can't believe that I was right here, on my knees letting Q . . . fuck me in the ass. Oh and did he ever! God that felt great . . . like I always wanted it to be . . .* Picard's thoughts chased themselves in circles for quite a long time without actually resolving anything. He really only had a few choices; he could tell Q "Stop" and have that be that, or he could see Q again and find out where this affair, or relationship, or whatever it was, was going. Of course if he chose to continue, there was the question of what to tell Q about himself. Picard had a nagging feeling that Q already knew some of it; for all he knew that could be the very reason Q had decided to change their relationship. When he thought about their past history in the light of what had just happened, Picard realized that Q was quite the dominant. *Maybe I never noticed before because I was afraid to notice . . . afraid that then I'd be where I am now.* He thought some more about his various encounters with Q. *There's that thing he does . . . appearing right behind me and menacing me . . . that time in the shuttle . . . and then when Vash was aboard . . .* He remembered being in his pajamas and having Q fully dressed (in uniform, which somehow made it worse, or better depending) standing behind him. At the time he hadn't even considered (or maybe he had tried not to consider) the sexual connotations of the situation, but now that he did, a shiver raced across his skin. *I *want* this . . . but is it a good idea? . . . can I really trust him that much? Oh come on, you've trusted him to help you save the Quadrant (and a good thing too, given the job I was doing up to that point) . . . you just trusted him enough to let him fuck you . . . but this is different . . . this isn't *just* sex . . . this is *me* . . . the me I don't know very well . . . the me that I hide so carefully, because I've been The Captain for more than half my life . . . the me I'm afraid of . . the me with something to prove . . . Maybe that me should just stay where he is . . . safely locked behind the walls of fantasy . . . after all, I'm old enough (and that's no lie) to know that bringing fantasies out into the light can be a bad idea . . . I can't believe it! I'm thinking of taking the safe, easy course. Just who was it who reminded me that taking serious risks were what made me who I am? Q of course. And now, here he is . . . a chance to take the big risk . . . but what if he's not serious . . . he seemed serious . . . he even sounded hurt when I hesitated . . . I've got to trust him . . . but what was that question? . . . the one I need to ask? . . . well, Johnny (I don't actually hate that from him . . . what would it sound like if he were *really* on top? . . . what would he call me? . . .) you have to decide . . . at least *part* of you wants to tell him everything . . .* He looked down, and shook his head; he was definitely interested in Q being "really on top." He sighed and moved down into the bed. *Got to get some sleep . . . this might make more sense in the morning . . .* As he went to pull the covers up, he smelled something odd. Turning, he looked at his bedside table to see a glass and a note. He picked up the note, reading: "Warm milk is disgusting, Jean-Luc, at least until you put brandy in it. Enjoy, and maybe it will help you sleep." The note was signed with an elaborate Gothic Q, and Picard couldn't help the fond smile that crossed his lips. He actually liked warm milk, but Q was right in that it *was* better with brandy. He drank the entire glass, dimmed the lights, and drifted quietly off to sleep. *** The next day passed in a blur of meetings, a surprise inspection of Engineering, and a long session with Riker as they planned an emergency drill. Picard was able to pay attention to everything without the activities of the night before getting in the way. He supposed that this was some by-product of Q's screen and he was extremely grateful. During his lunch (which he ate alone in the ready room) he mulled over his personal dilemma, but he realized that he had already decided not to say "Stop" to Q. Whether he would actually reveal his darker fantasies to his new lover . . . well he wasn't sure yet, but that he wanted the affair to continue was now a given. It had been too long since he'd taken any kind of emotional risk, and after all, there wouldn't be the problems that he'd had with Neela (he certainly wasn't Q's commanding officer) or Beverly (there were no lingering guilt feelings to work around with Q). He thought about Beverly for a while. The trip to his possible future had been a warning that his romantic notions of someday marrying her deserved rethinking. His memory of the future was blurred by the effects of the Irumodic Syndrome, but he knew that a deadly combination of changed ambitions, stubbornness (mostly on his part), and the fact that both he and Beverly had had too many years of independence, had finally killed their marriage. Knowing the pitfalls in advance might help, but now any relationship between them would start with the probability of failure hovering over their heads. The conversation he'd had with her after his little adventure had been incredibly difficult for both of them, and she had gently suggested that they take some time to think things over. Under the circumstances, he was glad that she had also suggested that they not eat breakfast together for a while; it would have been difficult (to say the least) to see her first thing this morning. *************************************************************** "The only comfort is the moving of the river You enter into me a lie upon your lips Offer what you can I'll take all I am given Only a fool's here to stay" "Ice" Sarah McLachlan -- ****************** Ruth Gifford "Update all information and pod into cosmos." Instructional label on a Fed Ex package (really) From netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!netnews Wed Mar 13 19:56:30 1996 Xref: netcom.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica:1187 alt.fan.q:5136 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!netnews From: thegiff@ix.netcom.com(Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica,alt.fan.q Subject: NEW: "His Beloved Pet" Part One (4/4) (TNG, P/Q, BDSM) Date: 14 Mar 1996 03:03:37 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 527 Message-ID: <4i82a9$721@ixnews2.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ont-ca3-14.ix.netcom.com X-NETCOM-Date: Wed Mar 13 7:03:37 PM PST 1996 His Beloved Pet Part One (4/4) Finally the day was over. He headed toward his quarters with that coiling knot of tension and anticipation in his stomach. When he walked through the doors and saw what was waiting for him, he began to laugh, the knot disappearing almost instantly. His table was covered with all the elements of a formal dinner; dazzling white linens, fine china, glistening sliver, and . . . "Roses?! Oh for God's sake Q!" he managed to get out around his laughter. The entity shrugged. He was dressed at the height of current fashion, and Picard wondered if Q ever looked bad in anything. He felt a change come over his own clothes and looked down to see that he was suddenly wearing clothing that reflected Q's attire. The colors were bolder than his usual off duty earth tones, but from what he could see, the deep blue suited him. Remembering shopping with a flamboyant Academy friend, he struck a pose. "Can I *do* this?" Q was startled into genuine laughter. He tended to forget (it was an easy enough thing to forget) that Picard had a sense of humor. Still laughing, he replied, "you look wonderful. It's quite wasted on your quarters, would you like to go somewhere else? Anywhere, Jean-Luc; L' Auberge d'Ill, Cianci's, TychoView maybe?" *He'll say no, of course. Must think of the ship, and all.* "Thank you Q, but I think I should stay here. I don't think I'd like to explain my absence to Will or the rest of the crew." He walked over to the table, and Q handed him a glass of wine. The brush of his fingers across Picard's made the Captain shiver slightly, a motion that he tried to disguise by taking a sip of the wine. "How . . .what . . .?" he stammered out, looking at the glass. "Hey," Q replied airily. "It's *me*. I grabbed a bottle from Robert's cellar. After all, a third of it does belong to you." He gestured to a chair and Picard sat down, still looking appreciatively at his glass. When Q snapped his fingers and an elegant selection of appetizers appeared on their plates, Picard shrugged and decided to relax. *You're *so* French,* Q thought. *Give you wine from your own estate, excellent food, and the possibility of wild sex later on, and you settle right down. Then again, I suppose that's so *Human*.* They ate in silence for a while, Picard feeling surprisingly at ease. He watched as Q effortlessly took over the duties of a host, making sure that Picard's glass was never empty, that the food appeared at the right time, all the little things that Picard had done countless times while trying to impress someone. "You know all about me, don't you?" Picard finally asked. "That depends on what you mean," Q replied. This was going to be a dangerous conversation, and Q found himself looking forward to the challenge. "You know that a third of the estate is mine, for example. You're obviously acquainted with my Starfleet record." "That's true. Does it bother you?" "A little." Picard ate a few bites of lamb, raising an appreciative eyebrow at the subtle hints of garlic and rosemary. "You know what I like to eat." 'That's easy," Q replied. He took a bite of his own lamb. He actually liked eating on occasion, provided he didn't have to bother with the rather repulsive details of actually *digesting* the food. "You have rather broad tastes when it comes to food. As long as I stayed away from gagh, I couldn't go wrong. As for the rest . . . It's all done with mirrors." He smiled as Picard sighed in exasperation. "Sorry Jean-Luc, I couldn't resist. I've researched you fairly closely." As Picard opened his mouth to speak, Q raised his hand. "Don't ask me more, I can't tell you. I know it bothers you, but even *I* have duties." *Not to bad, that. It makes me seem more *Human*, more honorable, and on top of it all, it's true.* "It bothers me because I . . . " Picard took a quick sip of wine. ". . . well, you know me. I like to have the advantage." *Now where the hell did that come from? It's certainly true, but why am I telling him that? And why do I feel so damn comfortable with him?* *Go ahead, hand me an opening large enough to fly the Enterprise through. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, you are so dense!* "Don't you ever get tired of having the advantage? I'm serious here, Jean-Luc. You always have the upper hand-- with your friends, your lovers,*most* of your adversaries--can't you let go?" *Tell him, open your mouth and tell him how much you want to let go. NO! I just *can't*!* Picard shrugged, trying to make light of the conversation. "Easier said than done." He drank more wine, noticing that his glass was full again. *Careful,* his brother's mocking voice rang in his memory. *You're not used to the real thing.* "I suppose," Q said. He looked at Picard, and the Captain looked away. Q was smiling at him, that familiar, mocking smile, and in spite of himself Picard felt himself responding to the implied challenge of that smile. "But sometimes don’t you need to just let someone else take care of things?" "Oh, delegating responsibility," Picard replied casually; "of course I can do *that*." "You’re being deliberately obtuse, Jean-Luc. *Don’t* insult me like that." Q reached out and grabbed Picard’s wrist, pinning it to the table. Picard froze as a powerful wave of need rushed over him. Forcing his face to calmness, he stared at Q as the entity continued. "Is this what you want, Johnny? I will go as far as you want me to, but you have to give me your consent." Picard continued to stare at him. "Tell me that you want it, Captain." Picard pulled his wrist away and lurched to his feet, turning to stare blindly out the window. This was it, and he couldn’t fool himself into thinking that he had no choice. Aware that his face was hot, he leaned his forehead against the window. When he finally spoke, his voice was a hushed whisper. "You have to understand, Q . . . this is so hard . . ." He clasped his hands behind his back, and squared his shoulders. "I *do* want it . . want you to . . . to control me, dammit!" The words were barely out of his mouth, when Q was right behind him. A pair of strong hands gripped his wrists, and Picard was instantly aroused. He twisted his wrists, trying to escape, but Q’s grip was impossible to break. "Struggle all you want, Johnny. Unless you tell me ‘Stop!’ I’ll do exactly what you want me to." "How do you know exactly what I want?" Now that Picard was in the situation he'd always wanted to be in, he once more needed to assert himself. Q laughed, a low menacing laugh. Pressing hard against Picard from behind, he leaned to whisper in Picard's ear. "I told you I researched you. I'm *very* thorough." Keeping Picard's wrists secure with one hand, he brought his other hand before Picard's face. "The things people read . . . they say *so* much about the person." With a small flash of light, he materialized a handful of isolinear chips. They could have been anything, but Picard knew what they were. He could feel his face grow hot. "Quite the collection you have, Johnny. Classics and moderns, fiction and non-fiction . . . It's a pity these aren't actual books; it would be instructive to see where they fell open, don't you think?" Then, more gently, "Want to tell me about it?" Picard winced, almost oblivious to the hand still holding his arms pinned behind his back. Well, he should have known that Q would have ferreted out his fascination with certain types of reading material, a fascination he had managed to keep concealed from almost everyone who knew him. Despite his embarrassment, he felt a curious easing of the tension in his chest; here was an opportunity for confession. Given what he had already revealed to Q, what did he have to lose? Picard began to speak in a low tone. "I'm not as devoid of self- knowledge as you think, Q. I've long ago reconciled myself to my . . . ah . . . predilection for that kind of reading. It used to bother me, of course; I wondered what was wrong with me that I was driven to read about domination and sadomasochism. It didn't seem appropriate for someone in my position. But I'm as human as the rest of my crew, rumors to the contrary notwithstanding," he added with a wry laugh. "What you said at dinner was right, and these stories offered me a kind of release . . . and I don't mean a merely physical one," he noted with a slight smile. "I have to be in control--not just in command of my ship and crew, but of my emotions as well. I can't lose my temper with an intransigent crew member or alien ship captain or planetary leader . . . unless I conclude that a properly timed display of temper would suit my purposes. I need to avoid showing fear or weakness. And my position makes romantic attachments difficult as well--my choices are crew members or long-distance relationships, both of which have their disadvantages. There is something very compelling in reading about people simply acting on their desires, no matter how extreme." "I can see why you'd like the idea of giving up control," remarked Q, while tracing patterns on Picard's back with his free hand. "Yes, usually," answered Picard, feeling increasingly comfortable. There certainly wasn't anyone on his crew he could discuss such matters with--he didn't imagine Beverly would approve of his fantasies--but there was something exhilarating about revealing himself to Q. "Sometimes I put myself in the place of the dominant," he continued. "I occasionally enjoyed the idea of simply having my way with someone, no holds barred, giving orders for my own satisfaction, not as part of my position. But, I will confess that . . I . . . more often imagined myself submitting my will, surrendering all control to another." He paused. "I haven't actually read any of those since my capture by the Cardassians." His voice trembled slightly. "I never found rape fantasies very appealing, and actually to be violated the way I was . . . ." Q, in a rare display of sympathy, squeezed Picard's shoulder, but did not release Picard's hands. "It was horrifying, unimaginably horrifying. My fantasy had always been one of willing surrender, an offering of myself to someone else's control. . . . But only as a fantasy; I was sure it was much too dangerous to attempt in real life. And yet, here I am . . " he trailed off, his attention shifting back to Q's hand effortlessly holding his wrists and Q's taller figure looming over him. Q felt a nagging unease at Picard's candor. But of course he *had* to take advantage of it; what Q wouldn't? In a voice that simultaneously stung and soothed, he murmured into Picard's ear, "For a Q, there is no distinction between fantasy and real life. Whatever I can imagine I can realize. *And* whatever *you* can imagine, I can also realize." "Real are the dreams of Gods," murmured Picard, "and smoothly pass / Their pleasures in a long, immortal dream." "Keats," noted Q, "a poet who had a fine understanding of the blending of pain and pleasure. Yes, you want to give up that control, Johnny; you want that fantasy to be made real. Well, today's your lucky day. Just remember, I won't force you--say 'Stop,' and I'll stop, no questions asked. I require only your absolute submission." Picard felt the impulse to yield even more strongly than before. That unarticulated question that had been nagging at him before flickered briefly in the back of his mind, but he dismissed it. He felt himself immeasurably strengthened by his confession, and he craned his neck around to look Q in the eye, saying firmly, "You have it. I want this. I'm putting myself in your hands." Q's lips parted slightly in surprise at Picard's forcefulness; he had thought he knew the captain inside out, but Picard was revealing a strength Q hadn't anticipated. *It's a pity it will backfire on him,* Q thought to himself; *he'll regret those words.* He actually had to make a small effort to muster his usual casual heartlessness. "Where you'll put yourself, Jean- Luc, is on your knees. I want to see if that mouth of yours is good for anything besides making speeches." Picard felt a tantalizing thrill of fear and arousal at Q's words. As Q released his wrists, while simultaneously whisking away Picard's clothes in a flash, Picard turned and knelt in front of his companion. Q was suddenly wearing an open, purple silk dressing gown. Picard felt his hands being held invisibly behind his back, while Q's long fingers grasped his head. "You can't imagine how much I enjoy seeing you like this, mon *Capitaine,*" said Q with a particularly mocking emphasis. "Make it good, Johnny." *How am I supposed to make it good?* thought Picard, somewhat desperately; *I've never done this before!* He knew better than to expect much in the way of help from Q. Still, he had been on the receiving end and remembered what he liked. *Slowly,* he thought, *do it slowly.* He leaned forward and began lightly circling the tip of Q's cock with his tongue. An odd thought flickered across the back of his mind. *God, I hope he's not going to compare me with Vash.* *Not likely,* Q thought to himself, reading Picard's thought effortlessly. *She knew what she was doing.* That was hardly fair, and even Q had to admit that what Picard was doing felt good. Besides, what he'd said a moment ago was still true, the sight of Picard on his knees like this was truly enjoyable, regardless of the rest of it. Picard seemed to be gaining a little confidence, and the movements of his tongue were growing bolder. Q moaned slightly in encouragement. *I must be doing something right,* Picard thought. He hesitated slightly, drawing a deep breath, and then slid his mouth down over Q's erection. After a little more hesitation, he figured out what he was doing . . . he hoped. Q's hands were still on his head and when those hands helped him find a rhythm, Picard began to feel a little better about the whole thing. This wasn't so bad, and the sheer eroticism of the act began to have its effect on him. Drawing Q's cock further into his mouth, he moaned slightly as he thought about where he was. *I'm on my knees, sucking Q's cock, with my hands pinned behind my back . . . God, I've wanted something like this for so long.* Q tightened his grip on Picard's head, surprised at how quickly Picard had figured out what to do. *He's actually not half bad for a beginner,* he thought. He silently encouraged Picard to pick up the pace and when the Captain did so, Q began to get closer to that edge. Picard could tell that Q was getting close, and as he continued sucking, he tried to caress Q's cock with his tongue. It was apparently successful; Q emitted a strangled groan, and pulled Picard's head down harder. Seconds later, he came, and Picard managed to stay with him, although he was more than a bit breathless when Q finally let go of his head and pulled away. Q casually tied the belt to his dressing gown, remarking, "Not too bad, Johnny, for a beginner. And I like to take the edge off. You, however, won't be coming for a *long* time. Now, stand up!" Picard got up as quickly as his knees would allow him and followed Q's pointing finger to two rings that had just materialized and were suspended from the ceiling. Understanding Q's unspoken command, Picard reached up and gripped one ring in each hand. Q issued another unspoken command by lightly slapping Picard's thigh, and Picard immediately spread his legs apart. "Verrry nice," commented Q. "Now, tell me, before I go any further, is this somewhat along the lines of what you want, mon Capitaine?" "Yes," whispered Picard. "That's 'Yes, Sir!'" snapped Q, delivering a sharp spank to each of Picard's buttocks. "Yes, Sir," answered Picard, with a slight wavering sigh in his voice. This was what he wanted, all right, but saying "Sir" to Q was not easy. Q smiled to himself. He had worried that this position might be too much, might be too painful a reminder, and had decided not to tie up his victim this first time. To fufill his dare he had to keep this up for a few weeks, and anyway, he was enjoying himself immensely. Q began circling around Picard like a vulture, not touching him, but affecting the exaggerated demeanor of someone who was trying to decide what to do next. "I'm going to hurt you, you know," he said in a thoughful tone; "that *is* what you want, isn't it?" "Yes, Sir," answered Picard, his voice still shaky. Reading material and fantasies notwithstanding, this was *real*, and he had no idea how much he could take. But he was providing ample evidence of his arousal--there was something about standing outstretched and exposed in front of Q that was utterly thrilling. It seemed fantastic, surreal; he couldn't believe he was actually holding onto these rings, displaying his naked body for Q, who was still restlessly pacing around him. "That's better," said Q; "now just remember, all you have to say is 'Stop.'" He moved in immediately behind Picard, in his trademark move, then whispered in his ear, "Now brace yourself, Johnny." Q whipped around in front of Picard, grasped one of the captain's nipples and gave it a sharp twist. Picard gasped, feeling an immediate burning and pinching sensation that did not go away when Q removed his fingers. His other nipple was similarly twisted into an invisible clamp, and then Q proceeded systematically to deliver one pinch after another, each time leaving another invisible clamp gripping Picard's flesh--along his upper arms in two rows, one underneath where the skin was at its most tender, along the backs and inner thighs, up along Picard's waist, along his shoulders, and covering every bit of the territory on his ass. Each spot was burning and throbbing, and Picard could feel each one sending a distinct and separate stream of painful nerve impulses to the brain. Q was returning to the front, and Picard swayed involuntarily. He raised his head and asked breathlessly, "Please . . . Q . . . I mean, Sir . . ." "What is it you want, Johnny?" "Please . . . bind . . . me . . . I . . . don't . . . know . . . if . . I . . . can . . . hold . . . on . . . " "My pleasure," responded the entity, genuinely pleased and surprised. In an instant, ropes had firmly tied themselves to each ring, wrapped around Picard's wrists several times, and tied their free ends to the rings again. Picard's ankles were similarly secured to small metallic loops that had appeared on the floor. "Feel better?" asked Q. Picard answered with a heartfelt "Yes, Sir!" As soon as he felt his wrists and ankles securely bound, a wave of warmth and relaxation had washed through his body, despite the continuous pain from the invisible clamps. It felt right to be bound like this for Q, and Picard felt a delicious conviction that now he could truly let go, give himself up to Q's ministrations completely. This was what he wanted, and he could be himself, that dark secret core of himself, in a way that he had never felt possible with anyone else. Q turned his attention to Picard's erect penis, pressing it between his thumb and forefinger, again leaving a row of invisible clamps. Although Picard gasped and swayed with the pain, he felt a deep calm form in his chest like a small pool, steadily spreading with each jolt of pain he received. His cock throbbed with need and desire and agony, his body burned and stung in countless places, and he was bound and helpless before the most powerful being he had ever encountered, and he felt a tranquillity and peacefulness unlike any he had ever experienced. The desire to come was countered by an equally strong hope that Q would draw this out as long as possible. "Look at me, Johnny!" snapped Q suddenly. He didn't understand Picard's sensations at all, and he felt himself growing angry. *You fool, Jean-Luc!* Q thought to himself, *relaxed are you? Well, I can put the fear of God in you!* "Look at me, boy! And hold on." Picard looked straight at the entity, and for a moment their eyes locked. Picard's eyes were clear and serene, and Q glanced away before flicking his wrist in a light airy motion. The invisible clamps twisted themselves off in backwards order, one after another, in a cascading series of excruciatingly painful, searing jolts. Picard howled as the torture began at his penis and kept howling at the piercing lightning bolt that shot through each nipple, and as his nerves danced with pain, he felt himself spiralling away into a dark abyss. He was no longer conscious of his room around him, and he was barely conscious of who he was. All that he was aware of was his body's sensations and Q's overwhelming presence. *Oh, why not let him have this?* thought Q to himself. *He'll pay for his gullibility later.* He began drawing his finger is looping, spiralling patterns around Picard's back, but the sensation it conveyed was that of a sharp pin, being trailed just along the surface of the skin. This time the residual feeling was a needle thin line of icy cold. Picard felt the sharp point trace circles on his buttocks, move up and down his inner thighs, travel from his neck down his spine, etch stinging lines of cold around his nipples, and trail along the underside of his still-erect cock. His sense of reality was intensified, with each sensation occupying almost his entire consciousness. Nothing existed but this whirling darkness in his head and these excruciatingly overwhelming physical sensations. Somehow each touch of Q's continued to reverberate, so that Picard's body was experiencing icy pinpricks and burning pinches all at the same time. Although Q had not taken him out of his room, he began to feel as though he was floating through space, legs and arms outstretched, his body permeable and translucent, each pinprick or pinch a star. He knew somehow that he was in his quarters, and Q was touching him, but at the same time, he felt as though he had merged and fused with the universe around him. He felt two explosions at his hips and realized that it was Q's hands gripping him hard. Q was then pushing inside him, stretching him, filling him, burning him, and each thrust sent a shuddering quivering warmth coursing through his entire body, from his anus down through his legs to his toes and up through his arms to his fingertips. An invisible hand grasped his cock, moving up and down it in long strokes, each one timed with a thrust from behind. Picard's ears were filled with a drawn out groaning wail, which he realized was his own voice. He still perceived himself as floating in space, and each thrust into his ass and stroke along his cock set off a cascade of exploding stars through his body. After an almost unendurable build up of pressure and pain, a burst of liquid flame shot through him, and he strained against his bonds in shuddering spasms that shook his entire body. As he gasped and panted and trembled and shivered, he only very slowly became aware of who and where he was. As he slowly opened his eyes, the stars outside his viewport seemed one with the stars inside his head, and as he felt his bonds being released and his body collapsing in a flash on his bed, he had to grip the sheets to convince himself of their physical reality. When Q spoke, it took Picard a moment to focus on the words. "I'm impressed; I really expected you to ask me to stop." For some reason Picard was annoyed. "Why," he asked somewhat breathlessly, " would I . . . want you to stop? That was the last thing I wanted." "Oh?" Q was waiting to see if Picard had any idea of what had just happened to him. "That was . . ." Picard rolled onto his back, lacing his fingers behind his neck. Looking through his window at the stars, he tried to explain. "I've never had that happen to me. I don't mean what you did," and he glanced at Q with a smile on his face, "obviously no one has ever done *that* to me, but I'm trying to describe how I felt." He sighed. "It was like I wasn't really here . . . I *knew* that you were hurting me . . . I *knew* that I was really here in my quarters . . . but it seemed like I was . . . out there . . ." He gestured at the window. "I know I sound like an idiot, but I can't find the words . . . I felt almost transparent . . . no not transparent, but permeable . . . part of the . . . universe I suppose . . ." He shook his head, annoyed with his inability to describe the sensation. "It all sounds so . . . stupid . . ." To Q it didn't sound stupid, not at all. *I had no idea that they could feel *that*,* he thought. For some reason that he couldn't quite put his finger on, he began to be a little uneasy about the whole dare with Q. *This is not going the way it should, and I don't like that.* Aloud, all he said was, "no, it doesn't sound stupid. You've just had a very intense experience, one you've never had before. I would be surprised if you *didn't* feel different." Picard opened his mouth to say something, but Q forestalled him. Lying down next to Picard, he said "Come here, Johnny." Picard moved over to rest in Q's arms. Feeling a deep sense of contentment and peace, he leaned his head against Q's shoulder. Exhausted from his experience, he was drifting off to sleep, when he heard Q speak again. "When you get off duty tomorrow, I want you to eat dinner and take a shower. Then I want you to wait for me, naked and on your knees in front of your desk." That thrill of fear and arousal rushed through Picard again. "Yes sir," he murmured. "Good boy. Now go to sleep, Johnny." *************************************************************** "You hurt me more than I ever could have imagined You made my world stand still And in that stillness There was a freedom I never felt before" "Plenty" Sarah McLachlan -- ****************** Ruth Gifford "Update all information and pod into cosmos." Instructional label on a Fed Ex package (really) From netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!news Wed Mar 13 19:56:33 1996 Xref: netcom.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica:1188 alt.fan.q:5137 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!news From: thegiff@ix.netcom.com(Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica,alt.fan.q Subject: NEW: "His Beloved Pet" Part Two (1/3) (TNG, P/Q, BDSM) Date: 14 Mar 1996 03:07:29 GMT Organization: Netcom Lines: 416 Message-ID: <4i82hh$pb3@dfw-ixnews6.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ont-ca3-14.ix.netcom.com X-NETCOM-Date: Wed Mar 13 9:07:29 PM CST 1996 His Beloved Pet Part Two (1/3) After that night, Picard’s life began to take on an almost surreal quality. During the day watch, his life was as beige as his surroundings. He did his job with his usual efficiency, attending meetings, writing reports, and handling all the routine business that made up his days, but he felt oddly distanced from it all. He knew that Q's screen (as he continued to think of it) was shielding him from Troi’s helpful but intrusive talents, and he remained grateful for the help. After all, it would hardly do for his Ship's Counselor to know that he spent a good deal of his time thinking about how it felt to be on his knees begging for Q's touch. In contrast to Picard’s placid days, his nights were edged in knife-bright colors, pulsing with hot white fire. There were times when he would have sworn that he could see sounds, and feel colors; he was so completely overwhelmed, transfixed and enraptured by the things that Q did to him. Lying exhausted, and more satiated than he had ever felt in his life, he was occasionally troubled by that nagging question, but to tell the truth, he didn't work too hard to figure out what it was. And if he did look a little troubled, Q would simply touch him, and it would start all over again, the need, the longing, the intense sensations like none he’d ever felt, and in the end, the almost painful ecstasy that touched every nerve with flame. He would be lost then, adrift in a sea of sensations. The situation remained the same for three unbelievable weeks. It seemed to Picard that each night he learned something new about his own needs and desires. From gentle sex to violent sex, from detached psychic sex to tactile sweaty human sex, Q gave Picard sensations he hadn’t even thought he would want. When he thought about life before the affair began, it seemed unbelievably empty. But now . . . the nights stretched out like pearls on a necklace, each different, each incredible . . . and he became accustomed to things he had never had before. He became accustomed to the sound of his own voice pleading... *** Q had asked for Picard's riding crop. In spite of the fact that they had just had sex an hour ago, Picard felt a feeling that was fast becoming familiar; fear and desire coiled so tightly together that he couldn't tell where one let off and the other began. The riding crop would hurt far more than anything Q had used on him yet, but he wanted it. Aware that he was being watched, he walked slowly to the trunk in the bottom of the closet that he kept his tack in. As he dropped to his knees to open it, the bathrobe he was wearing vanished. Catching his breath sharply, he managed to locate the crop. While he closed the trunk, he heard Q speak from the direction of the bed. "Don't *walk* back, johnny." As always, Picard could *hear* the difference in the nickname, and knew that Q had once again reduced him to the level of a pet. Then Q's words sunk in, and his heart began to pound. *I *can't* . . . I just can't . . .* His bedroom wasn't all that large; it would only take a second or two. He closed his eyes, trying to deny that he wanted to . . . crawl to Q. "Please . . . " he whispered. "Is it too much?" Q asked, somewhat condescendingly. *You're so easy, Mon Capitaine; now you'll have to prove yourself to me.* *I wanted this,* Picard thought. *I actually *told* him that I wanted things like this. So why is it so hard?* Q's assumption that he couldn't do it--wasn't strong enough to do it---stung. Aware that Q was manipulating his pride in order to humiliate him, Picard looked down the crop that he was gripping tightly. "You know what to do with it, pet." He did, indeed. In all the stories and books he had read about playing these kinds of games, the protocol in this situation was clear. *I'm a starship Captain, how can I *do* this?* That thought was followed by one that was as equally important. *How can I *not* do it?* His face burning, he put the riding crop in his mouth, trying not to bite down too hard, and dropped to his hands. Suddenly the distance from the closet to the foot of the bed looked vaster than the Alpha Quadrant. Oh God, it was even worse. Q wasn't at the foot of the bed anymore. He wasn't in the bedroom at all. Picard remained still for a long moment, not sure that he could do this after all. Maybe Q was right, maybe it was too much. *Open your mouth and say 'Stop,'* he thought. *NO!* He watched, amazed as one hand moved, and then the other, followed by his knees. Knowing that Q was watching, he tried for some dignity (no easy feat when crawling on your hands and knees with a riding crop in your teeth) holding his head up, and moving steadily. *I rather like this,* Q thought smugly. *This is the same man who quoted "Hamlet" to me to prove that Humans were special. Now look at him, crawling on his hands and knees, because he thinks his lover wants him to. Pathetic.* He tried to ignore the fact that Picard was exhibiting a truly amazing strength of will. Q knew that this was incredibly hard for the Captain, but that he was doing it to prove to both himself and his lover that he *could* do it. Q didn't quite understand the feeling that came over him briefly; a touch of pride and an odd tenderness for the man who was now kneeling at his feet. Without being told, Picard came up onto his knees and put his hands behind his back. His chin high, he offered the riding crop to Q. Q had to glance aside; for a second he couldn't stand the look in Picard's eyes. Picard waited, perfectly content to remain here all night if that was what Q wanted. He had never felt this way before; he was terrified of the crop, humiliated to be kneeling next to his own desk while Q sat in his chair looking down at him, and yet he *wanted* to be here, to prove to his lover just how far he would go, how much of himself he was willing to give up. He was in that space that only Q had been able to take him to, and he tried as well as he could to silently convey his gratitude. "You're learning, pet." Q took the crop out of his mouth, but held it until Picard kissed it. Picard was finding that he loved the ritual aspect of being dominated; there was a strange comfort in the formality of it all. He wasn't sure how Q knew all the right things to do (although he assumed that Q had simply read the same things he had), and in this space he didn't care. Outside this space, he simply avoided thinking about the situation, half afraid that he would wake up and find that it had all been a dream within a dream. "Up over the desk!" Q snapped, breaking Picard's reverie. His contentment vanished, replaced by growing need. Rising quickly to his feet, he bent over the end of the desk that Q gestured to with the crop. The glass was cold against his skin, but it didn't seem to affect his erection. Q stood; as Picard turned his head and caught sight of him, the Captain gasped. Q was wearing an exact replica of Picard's dress uniform, not the Starfleet uniform, but the one that he wore on the holodeck Enterprise of 1812. It suited the entity perfectly, and Picard wasn't surprised to suddenly feel the room roll. The desk he was over was made of wood now, and smaller, as was the room. As it sometimes did in the clarity that these moments provided, Picard's mind grabbed at a silly little detail; the riding crop was no longer appropriate. Remembering the brutal discipline that *was* appropriate to this time, he said nothing. "We'll start with twelve," Q said crisply. "You will count each one and thank me for it. Ask me to start when you're ready, but if you wait too long, I'll add another six." Picard was relieved that Q was following conventions. This was the first time Q had done such a thing, but Picard didn't think he could stand the crop unless he had ample warning. *A dozen of the best,* he thought, with grim amusement. "Please Sir, I'm ready, Sir." He was pleased that his voice was steady, maintaining his dignity was important, at least in the beginning. Later, of course, even that would be gone. His musings were cut brutally short by Q laying down the first hard punishing stripe. It hurt far more than Picard had expected and he grunted in spite of himself. After a second, he managed to stammer out, "One . . . Sir . . . thank . . . you . . . Sir . . ." "Good boy," Q said lightly. Picard could feel a hot blush of humiliation wash over his face; this was going to be a *long* scene. *Thank God for that,* he thought. The crop landed again forcing a yelp from him, and he clung to the edge of the desk as he thanked Q. He tried to relax into the pain, having discovered that it was much easier to take a beating if his buttocks weren't tensed. The next stripe landed and then the next; Q was merciless, leaning into each blow with pitiless strength. Picard's world had narrowed down to the searing lines of pain and the ragged sound of his own voice. In spite of the pain (or indeed *because* of it), he was sincere as he thanked Q; if he hadn't been ordered to, he would have done it anyway. He made it through twelve, knowing that he wasn't anywhere near his limit. "Well, that was too easy for you," Q said. Picard shivered in delicious anticipation; Q's tone of voice was biting. "Twice twelve." The crop whistled through the air again, and the brief respite made it feel worse. Picard made it through the second twelve fairly easily even though Q increased the strength of the blows. The last twelve, however were sheer agony, particularly as the crop began to find earlier welts. Around thirty, tears began to form in Picard's eyes, and at thirty four, he began to sob in earnest, barely managing to choke out his thanks for the last two. He was, however, still utterly and painfully aroused. After he had stammered out his final thanks, he slid off the desk and knelt before Q, once more kissing the crop that was held out to him. When Q reached down and brushed a hand across his head, Picard was ridiculously grateful and he leaned into the caress eagerly. *This is *so* right,* he thought. *This is what I am; this is where I'm supposed to be. Isn't it strange that the only other times I feel like this are when I'm on the bridge?* He was brought back to the moment by the sound of Q snapping his fingers. Suddenly they were in a bedroom, but one Picard had never seen. He recognized the Empire style of the furniture and decor; it perfectly suited Q's uniform (of course). The room was lit only by candlelight and the warm glow of a fire somewhere behind Q, and Picard could see a large bed to one side. He looked up at Q, waiting for the next order. Q said nothing, but he tapped the tip of the riding crop against Picard's thighs and Picard shifted into the desired position, sitting back on his heels while he spread his knees. As he clasped his hands behind his back, he marveled at how little time it had taken him to learn what to do. *Maybe it's not so odd . . . after all, I've wanted this . . . studied this . . . for a long damn time.* The tip of the crop moved upward and inward to slide slowly along his erection. Holding himself as still as he could, he moaned. "Do you want something, johnny?" Q asked. As always, Picard marveled at the way Q's voice surrounded him, wrapping all his nerves in fire. "Please . . ." Picard began to ask, but then he caught himself. "Whatever pleases you, Sir." *Why is he so *good* at this?* In spite of himself, Q was impressed with Picard's willingness to throw himself into the submissive role. Apart from the occasional directive from an Admiral, or Starfleet Command, Picard hadn't had to obey a direct order for years. For no reason that he could put his finger on, Q's irritation with Picard grew more intense. *Idiot,* the entity thought. *I'm going to push those lines of yours.* "'Sir' isn't good enough anymore!" he snapped. He almost laughed as Picard bit his lip; the Captain was obviously struggling with his pride and his image of himself. Picard clenched his hands together behind his back. This was impossible, he couldn't *really* call Q *that*. Then again, an hour ago, he would have said that he couldn't really crawl across his own bedroom floor with his riding crop in his teeth. *I can do this for him.* In spite of his resolve, however, his voice was a little shaky when he finally spoke. "Whatever pleases you . . . Master." He closed his eyes, breathing hard now that he'd cleared that hurdle. He suddenly gasped, there was a hand, a slippery hot hand, slowly stroking his cock. "Remain still!" Q ordered, tipping Picard's chin up with the crop. "Open your eyes." Picard obeyed, forcing himself to meet Q's hard stare as the invisible hand continued to stroke him. He was soon shaking with the effort to remain still, and Q smiled down at him, a cruel edge to the smile. "You know better than to come without permission, don't you, johnny?" "Yes Master," Picard whispered. As he twisted his hands together, he could feel them growing slippery with sweat. He was soon gritting his teeth in an effort to keep from begging for release. This was unbearable, if that hand didn't stop touching him he was going to . . . The hand stopped, and he breathed out a careful sigh of relief. Nothing happened for a moment and then the hand was back. This time it merely ran its fingers ever-so-lightly along the extremely sensitive skin of his penis. Picard began to shake again, wondering how much more of this delicious agony he could stand. A split second before the point when the need for release would override the need to obey, the hand stopped. Q tossed the crop onto the bed, and unbuttoned his trousers. "Go ahead, pet. You know what to do." As Picard moved forward and began to slowly run his tongue along Q's cock, the entity sighed and rested a hand on Picard's head. *And do you ever,* he thought. Without even thinking about it, Q simply let his adopted Human form take over, gasping as the warm mouth of the man kneeling before him moved down over his erection. This was one more thing Picard had proved surprisingly good at, and Q began to moan as Picard began to suck in earnest. Although he was perfectly happy to make Picard wait all night for an orgasm, Q had no sense of restraint about his own pleasure, and he soon found himself coming. Grateful for the fact that Picard had been holding on to his hips and was now able to steady him, Q staggered slightly before he regained his footing. Once Picard was sure that Q was able to stand, he returned to his prior position, waiting for whatever Q wanted next. Looking down at him, Q fought off a surprisingly strong wave of tenderness. *He is *just* a pet, after all, and this is just a game,* he told himself firmly as he refastened his pants. Picard was not surprised to find that his own need had hardly abated. *Why did I ever think that I wouldn't like doing that?* he wondered silently. *And God knows I've gotten better at it.* His smug thought was cut off by Q's caustic voice. "You could still stand some improvement, johnny." Picard didn't know if Q had been reading his mind; the remark might have just been spontaneous. He bowed his head; here in this space the thought of Q violating his mental privacy didn't bother him as much as it did at other times. Q tapped his chin with the crop again and he looked up again. The hand was back, teasing his cock, and two pairs of fingers toyed with his nipples, while a yet another finger traced patterns across the back of his neck. There were more fingers pinching along the insides of his thighs and one finger slipped easily inside him. All of the fingers seemed to reach right through to the nerve endings buried beneath Picard's skin. It was excruciatingly wonderful, and he wanted it to go on forever. More fingers came into play, teasing his ears, the insides of his elbows and knees, and all the other secondary errogenous zones. In spite of all this contact, the only visible connection to Q was the riding crop that still held Picard's chin up. That and the heavy, palpable pressure of Q's intense stare. Picard fought to remain silent, forcing down his need to break down and plead. It was a struggle he was fated to lose. "Please . . . " he moaned. "What do you want, johnny?" "To . . . come . . . oh please . . . Master . . ." The fingers that tormented him vanished, and Picard groaned in acute frustration. He saw Q raise his hand and he braced, having no idea what would happen when Q snapped his fingers. When it came, the transition wasn't as surreal as some of the ones Q had put him through. He was now lying on the bed, the embroidered covelet rough against the welts on his ass. Q was still standing by the side of the bed. "Well . . ." he drawled. "You've been on your best behavior tonight." He leaned forward and ran a finger gently along Picard's erection. "Should I let you? . . . what would you do for it?" "Anything, Master," Picard promised, meaning it. "Well, frankly, I want to see *you* do it." When Picard just stared at him, not sure if he understood, Q continued. "Really, I don't know what your problem is. After all, you've been doing it on an amazingly regular basis since you were twelve." He paused and Picard felt that familiar warm oil cover his own hands. "Now johnny!" Q snapped. Picard's hands seemed to move of their own accord, and as they reached his erection, he closed his eyes. "No, I don't think so," Q said. Picard froze. "Look at me, boy! I won't let you pretend that I'm not here." The entity's dark gaze seemed to look right into Picard's soul, and comforted by that, Picard bit his lip and ran a hand down over the head of his penis. "Slowly," Q ordered. "Don't rush it." "Yes . . . Master," Picard gasped out. He slowly began to stroke himself, his slippery hand moving across the taut skin of his erection. It had *never* felt this good, and he had to struggle to keep his eyes open. He also had to struggle to keep to a slow rhythm; the need was so great that it was almost painful. But Q was watching him, and pleasing Q was all that mattered, for there was no one else in Picard's universe. He was gasping now, his unoccupied hand closing and opening rhythmically. Finally he could stand it no longer. With what little control he had left, he managed to get a few words out. "Please . . . Master . . . may . . . I . . . ?" "Go ahead, johnny." Picard felt like he was falling into the depths of Q's dark eyes as his climax rushed over him. Wanting to prolong the moment as long as possible, he continued to move his hand, shuddering his way through the aftershocks. Finally he lay still, his breathing ragged. Q smiled at him, a tiny aloof smile, and Picard breathed out a sigh of relief, somehow *knowing* that he had pleased Q. He closed his eyes then and relaxed for a moment. Q was relieved when Picard closed his eyes. More and more, in these situations, he was becoming aware of some kind of *connection* between himself and his "pet." When Picard had forced himself to keep his eyes open while masturbating, Q couldn’t help absorbing his thoughts. It was gratifying, if somewhat unnerving, to discover that he, Q, was firmly at the center of those thoughts. Picard’s eagerness to please Q, and his willingness to humiliate himself for that purpose felt somehow . . . right to Q. Annoyed, he snapped his fingers, returning them to Picard’s bedroom. Picard opened his eyes at the transition, and moving carefully, slid off the bed to kneel at Q’s feet once more. Looking up into Q’s ey