From ascem@earthlink.net Fri Jun 26 19:44:59 1998 Path: news4.ispnews.com!news11.ispnews.com!news1.ispnews.com!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!newsfeed.concentric.net!newsfeed1.earthlink.net!nntp.earthlink.net!not-for-mail From: ascem@earthlink.net (ASCEM) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated,alt.startrek.creative,alt.fan.q Subject: New: Watching Me 1/1 (TNG, P/Q, NC-17ish) Date: Sat, 27 Jun 1998 02:44:59 GMT Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Lines: 125 Sender: ascem@earthlink.net (ASCEM) Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: <359455e3.2370862@news.earthlink.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pool029-max2.ds8-ca-us.dialup.earthlink.net X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.11/32.235 Xref: news4.ispnews.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:8928 alt.startrek.creative:21389 alt.fan.q:1472 From: ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com (Ruth Gifford) Subject: New: Watching Me 1/1 (TNG, P/Q, NC-17ish) Title: Watching Me Series: TNG Part: NEW 1/1 Codes: P/Q Rating: NC-17ish Summary: What Jean-Luc Picard thinks about when he spends quality time with himself. Well, since June seems to be Masturbation Month (or was it May and I'm just way behing?) and we're turning it into ASCEM(L) Voyeur Month, I was inspired to write this very small vignette. This piece is in direct answer to Reesa's look at P/Q UST in "Another Saturday Night." While it's not "her" Picard per se, it's a look at the other side of that UST equation. It was also inspired by Laura's short, but lovely, "Inhale." Thanks, you two! :-) I'm just a voyeur in the Paramount closet. Can I help it if they don't do anything interesting, forcing me to make it up myself? Watching Me by Ruth Gifford (c) 1998 He watches me. I know that, although I'm rather good at pretending that I don't. Weeks, even months, can go by and my life goes on as if there's no one watching me. Then, something happens and I'm forced to wonder if he's there . . . I suppose it's the height of hubris, to think that anyone, let alone someone for whom the universe is an open book, would find my life all that interesting. In the tiny sphere of history I inhabit, my actions may be of some interest, but I know that, in the grand scheme of things, I'm not that important. He even told me so once, and he should know. It doesn't matter, of course. I still know that he watches me. I don't think that knowledge affects my command in any way. I still do things the only way I know how, figuring that, if he's watching, he needs to see a Human in action. It's not as if, in a moment of crisis, I'm going to stop and think, "What would Q expect me to do now?" Sometimes, after the crisis, I do ask myself what he would think. What did he make of my trip to Romulus? What was it like for him to see me without my memory? What did he think of my solution to being held captive on my own ship in the body of a twelve year old? The last bothers me more than the many of the other situations I've found myself in. I deliberately looked foolish in that situation, and I don't like the idea of looking foolish in front of him. Absurd, that. He undoubtedly thinks that everything I do, whether it's intentional or instinctive, is foolish. Amanda Rogers once told me that he mocked our Human need to eat. The amount of time we spend fueling our bodies must strike him as being hopelessly primitive. I can just imagine him laughing at how much I'm at the mercy of my body. There it is. The one thing that I desperately hope he doesn't watch. Of all the things I do, I hope that he isn't hanging around my bedroom at night when I'm at the mercy of my body, my loneliness, and my hormones. It's one thing for him to see me eat, or bathe, or do all the things I *have* to do, it's another thing to think that he might be watching me masturbate. I can even deal with the knowledge that he's seen me make love. I know he watched me with Vash, and it's possible that he's seen me since then, on one of those rare occasions that I actually have someone else in the bed with me. That's a pretty embarrassing thought, but it's not so embarrassing as . . . And yet . . . There are times when I tell myself he's watching. I don't always do it consciously, but sometimes, when I'm stretched out on the bed, touching myself, I think, "Q is watching me." And it works. It works like no other fantasy; it works so much better than the thought of the perfect woman or the perfect act of love. Just one tiny, unbidden thought, and suddenly I almost lose myself. My own hands become inadequate for the task. At those times I want so much more than I can give myself. Face hot, forcing my protesting mind to silence, I show off. What is normally a fairly ordinary, usually quite routine process becomes far more. I touch places that I normally don't touch, feeling his eyes watching me as I indulge in the little things that drive me wild. If he does watch me, he knows things about me that most of my lovers have never known. He knows that I like to suck and bite my own fingers. He's seen me stroke my throat, and watched me tighten my hand around the base of it. What does he make of that, when I'm not even sure why I do it? He knows that I like to be pinched, and that, when I take the time, I spend a lot of time playing with my nipples. Most of all, he knows that I like the slow tease, that excruciating build up of pleasure where the goal is not just to climax, but to be overwhelmed by that climax. He's seen me start up and stop until my hand (and the rest of me) shakes with tension. When I'm like this, I don't grab; the only thing I'm efficient about is putting off the orgasm. And then, when I can't stand it any longer, my hand, slick with oil, takes up that familiar rhythm. All I can think about are his eyes on me, taking in my body, sprawled on the bed as I bring myself off, thrusting into my hand and hoping that he likes what he sees. Sometimes, before the keen edge of embarrassment pulls me out of my post-orgasmic languor, I wonder what I'd do if, after one of these sessions, he appeared. Would I roll away, trying to hide my body and my thoughts from him, and demand that he leave my ship? Or, relaxed into some sort of ease, would I lie back on the bed and invite him to join me. Would I tell him that I was hoping he'd show up? I don't truly know what I would do. So far, I haven't had to find out. So far, it's enough to know that he's there . . . watching me. The End