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This is the Super Hero Archive. These stories were sent to me by
friends. I did not write these stories.
Many have no author name attached. If you are the author of the
enclosed work please let me know and I’ll remedy the situation.
This story, and all the stories in this archive are meant to be
free. They where sent freely and should remain public domain.
X-tenuating Circumstances: An Unauthorized Tale
of One Night in the Private Lives of the X-Men
Anonymous; October, 1994
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
The man called Cyclops, a.k.a. Scott "Slim" Summers, sat in the
command center of the X-Men's secret headquarters complex near
Westchester, New York, hidden deep underground below the innocuous-
looking mansion housing Professor Xavier's School for Gifted
Youngsters. Cyclops held his fingers steepled before him, deep in
thought, staring at a holographic image of the globe. Scattered
across it were coded symbols indicating the locations of recent
incidents involving mutants all over the world. He was sure that
there must be some pattern linking them, but so far the mystery had
defied his best efforts to unravel it, even with the formidable
help of Cerebro, Xavier's highly sophisticated mutant- detection
and analysis computer.
For once, at least, things around the base were quiet, with most
of the other team-members away on various field assignments. At the
moment, apart from Cyclops himself, only Wolverine, Jubilee,
Psylocke, Rogue, and Gambit were around; and the last two had gone
out somewhere for the evening. Good, thought Summers. Although
the X-Men were like family to him, it could be hard to think
clearly when the mansion was crowded with all of them around at
once, smashing up the Danger Room and playing practical jokes on
one another. He took his duty as the team's field-leader very
seriously; and with the Professor absent on mysterious business of
his own, Scott felt a heavy burden of responsibility to unravel the
tangle of clues represented by the holo-display. It was rare
enough that events left them any breathing-space to take stock of
developments this way, and he wanted to seize the initiative before
some power-mad lunatic menace launched yet another attack on them.
Unfortunately, even with the relative peace and quiet, Cyclops
was finding it difficult to concentrate on the problem at hand.
His long-standing relationship with Jean Gray had become almost
hopelessly complicated of late, and she was now away on an urgent
mission to the far side of the world, perhaps already in grave
danger since the last status report. Their last words before her
departure had been angry ones, and he felt deeply frustrated. It
had been weeks since they last made love, and as he idly replayed
the memory in his mind's eye, he felt an involuntary stiffening
between his legs. The specially-designed protective fabric of his
costume pinched him uncomfortably, and he shifted position in the
padded command-chair, completely losing his train of thought about
the mutant incidents. Perhaps he should go to his quarters and
take a cold shower, he thought uneasily, trying to put the thought
of Jean's naked body out of his mind. He was just about to stand
up when he suddenly realized he was not alone.
"Psylocke!" he blurted out in surprise, seeing Elizabeth "Betsy"
Braddock's tall, lithe figure silhouetted in the doorway. She had
a way of appearing unexpectedly like that, thanks to her uncanny
ninja skills; and Cyclops always found it unnerving. It occurred
to him that it was a good thing he was still sitting down, or his
bulging erection would have been all-too-obvious.
"Good evening, Scott," she said, walking slowly into the room
with her distinctive, liquid grace. She was wearing her usual
black one-piece leotard that hugged every curve of her torso, with
a red sash tied alluringly around her narrow waist, emphasizing the
flare of her womanly hips. Long, fingerless black gloves, arm-
bands, and soft-soled, wrap-top sandal-boots completed her costume,
also calling attention to her long, lean, muscular legs. Although
the leotard had a high neck, the shape of her large, firm breasts
showed plainly through the tight fabric; and it was all Scott could
do to keep his jaw from dropping open as his gaze fell upon them.
He was glad that his ruby-quartz glasses effectively concealed his
eyes as well as holding his dangerous mutant optic-blast in check.
"Uh, good evening, Betsy," Summers replied after an awkward
pause as she stood before him, hands on her hips, regarding him
with a cool, unreadable expression.
"Burning the midnight oil again, I see," she said with a hint of
amusement and mild reproach, tossing her head to flick a strand of
her waist-length, purple hair from her eyes. Although her body was
Japanese, her accent was English, indicating her upper-class
origins and distinguished education. "Rogue and Gambit have gone
out," she informed him; "and Wolverine and Jubilee are absorbed
with some ridiculous programme on the telly."
"Good," he replied. "I've been trying to sift through some of
these reports of recent mutant activity. There's a very disturbing
trend here, but I just can't seem to put my finger on the pattern
yet."
"You've been working too hard," Psylocke chided, easing down to
sit on the right arm-rest of his chair. Draping a long arm over
the back of it, she ran her fingers lightly along Cyclop's
shoulders and probed the muscles.
"You're tense," she observed. "You need to relax once in a
while, Scott." He tried to ignore her and focus on the holo-
globe; but the awareness of her warm shape close beside him, and of
the faint, alluring scent of her hair, inexorably drew his complete
attention. All thoughts of Jean had now vanished from his mind,
while his penis had grown even harder, pushing insistently against
his trunks. He shifted uncomfortably, pulling a large notebook-
binder onto his lap from the side-table in order to hide his
embarrassing condition. Psylocke leaned closer, and he felt her
hot breath in his ear.
"It wouldn't take a telepath to sense what you're feeling," she
whispered. "You're lonely. You need to open yourself up to
someone." She began kneading his shoulders more firmly.
"I just need some time to think," he said evasively. "There's
been a lot on my mind. Jean and I . . ."
"Jean's not here," Psylocke cut him off. "But I am." At that,
she ran her tongue lightly along the edge of his ear, giving the
lobe a wet, tantalizing little flick.
"Elizabeth," he began to protest; "I . . . I don't . . ." But
before he could compose himself, she rose smoothly to her feet,
turned, and walked out without another word, treating him to a
final view of the muscular globes of her gymnast's ass as she
disappeared into the corridor. Cyclops breathed a mixed sigh of
relief and disappointment, and found he was sweating.
CHAPTER TWO
In the mansion above the the secret underground part of the X-
Men's headquarters, Wolverine lay sprawled in an over-stuffed chair
in front of the television, a can of Coors in one hand and a cigar
in the other. Known to his few close friends as Logan, he was a
short, powerfully-built Canadian with a flaring mane of black hair
and an odd set of mutton-chop side-whiskers. He wore a pair of old
jeans and a flannel shirt with the top several buttons undone,
revealing a mass of coarse, thick black hair across his broad
chest. His bare feet were propped up on a padded stool in front of
him, and he was idly blowing smoke-rings between sips of beer,
mildly amused by the antics of Ren & Stimpy on the television.
Sprawled on the floor between Logan and the TV was Jubilation
Lee, a.k.a. Jubilee, the X-Men's youngest member, clad in a pair of
baggy shorts and a tank-top, with her characteristic sun-glasses
perched on top of her head in her dark, touseled hair. She lay on
her stomach with her legs splayed out behind her and her chin
propped up the heel of one hand. A pair of large yellow smiley-
faces with bullet holes between the eyes dangled from her ears, and
she was lazily chewing a wad of bubble-gum. Her dark, almond-
shaped eyes reflected little interest in the cartoon, and her nose
wrinkled in annoyance as cigar smoke wafted around her.
"Jeez Louise, Wolvie," she groaned. "When are ya gonna quit
smokin' those things? Your healing-factor may make you immune, but
that smoke *stinks*."
"Open a window if you like," he said simply. She twisted her
head around to glare at him briefly, one eyebrow arched, lips
pursed angrily, before turning back to the TV with a sigh of
disgust. As he took another puff, his eyes wandered down from the
TV screen to the back of her head, and gradually down along the
rest of her. Jubilee's body was growing up fast, he observed, even
if she still dressed and acted like a kid most of the time. Her
shorts were bunched up around her narrow hips, revealing a glimpse
of day-glo orange panties underneath; and her slim legs looked
smooth and appealing, showing good muscle tone. Although Jubilee
was about as Chinese as Frank Sinatra in terms of up-bringing and
attitude, her physical features were nevertheless Asian; and
Wolverine had always had a thing for oriental women. Except this
was no woman, he reminded himself. Jubes was still basically just
a kid, and he compelled himself to return his attention to the TV.
Jubilee was in a fairly rotten mood, and she told herself she
should have gone into town or tagged along with Gumbo and Rogue
instead of staying here tonight. She obviously would have been
like a fifth wheel with those two love-birds, though; and when she
had heard that Wolverine was going to hang around at home, she
figured it would be a good chance to get him to pay her some
attention. Despite their vast differences in age and experience,
she liked to think of herself as his partner; and she had long been
determined that sometime, somehow, she would get him to make love
to her. Unfortunately, he seemed totally oblivious to her as a
woman. Beneath her feisty exterior, she was in fact quite
vulnerable emotionally, and she had always found it difficult or
impossible to relate to anyone her own age. Wolvie was different,
she felt, because they were both loners. She was sure she could
trust him, and that he could give her the kind of attention she so
desperately needed . . . if only she could get him to *notice* her
and stop treating her like a useless little brat.
Well, Jubilee decided as yet another cloud of smoke drifted past
her head, she was going to get his attention one way or another.
Rising to her feet, she sauntered toward the door as if heading for
the kitchen; but as soon as she was out of Wolverine's field of
view, she turned and tip-toed up behind his chair. Darting her
hand out suddenly, she grabbed the cigar from his mouth, dashed to
the window, and dangled the offending object outside.
"Damn it," he said, "That's a genuine Havana! Gonna be a while
before I can get any more of those. Whaddaya think you're doin',
eh?"
"Hah!" she replied haughtily. "I'm doing us both a favor and
helping you kick a rotten habit. You can kiss this little stinker
goodbye!"
"I'm warnin' you, Jubes," Wolverine growled menacingly. "Gimme
back that cheroot, or I'm gonna paddle your little fanny."
"Woo! I'm *mighty* scared now . . . Ooops! There it goes; my
fingers must have slipped or something."
"All right, you little twerp, that tears it. C'mere; you're in
for it now." He levered himself up from the chair and began
advancing on her, placing himself between her and the door.
"Hay, um, I'm, like, *sorry*, okay? It was just a little joke,
see?" she explained quickly, her voice now sounding more uncertain.
"It was an accident. I didn't *mean* to drop it, honest!" But
Wolverine continued toward her, and she saw the determined look in
his eyes. Suddenly she decided to make a break for it, and she
nearly succeeded in ducking past him to the kitchen. But while
Jubilee was quick and agile, Wolverine's mutant reflexes were truly
super-human; and to him, she might as well have been moving in slow
motion. Throwing out one hairy, hard-muscled arm, he caught her
around her tiny waist and plucked her off her feet.
"Hay! Lemme go, you hairy creep!" she shouted, squirming and
struggling to no avail. Sitting down on the arm of the stuffed
chair, Wolverine flung her down sideways across his lap, one hand
on her back between her shoulders to hold her down. He noticed she
was not wearing a bra.
"You got this comin', kid," he said grimly, raising his other
hand, palm open.
"What do you think you're doing?" Jubilee yelled at him, still
trying to twist free, without success. "Leave me alone, you rotten
old codger. I'll scream!"
"Go ahead; won't help you none." With that, he brought his hand
down on her squirming little ass, giving her a good, hard smack.
"Ow!" she cried sharply, renewing her futile struggle. "You
bully! You pervert! Leave my ass alone!" But Wolverine only
smiled wickedly and continued to administer the spanking, ignoring
her flailing legs and her little fists beating against his leg. He
only meant to give her a few token swats, but once he got started
he seemed to lose count; and the paddling went on for quite a
while. He eventually noticed that she had stopped yelling, and she
didn't really seem to be trying to escape anymore. Instead, she
was breathing hard and writhing strangely on his lap. He also
noticed that her nipples were hard, poking against his thigh and
brushing back and forth as she squirmed. Finally, he realized that
his cock had suddenly begun to stand up as well, bulging hard
against the confining crotch of his jeans. His animal-like sense of
smell caught a whiff of her sweat and potent, teen-aged pheromones,
along with another scent that left no doubt she was highly aroused.
He stopped spanking her and removed his other hand from her back.
"All right," he said, "I hope you've learned your lesson: Never
come between a man and his smoke." Jubilee twisted her head to
look up at him over her shoulder. Her sun-glasses had fallen to
the floor, and there was a glazed, pleading look in her eyes. Her
heart was pounding, and she was almost panting. He grabbed her
around the waist and set her back on her feet, and she reached both
hands behind her to massage her sore buns. She had almost had an
orgasm, but not quite; and she now felt frustrated almost to tears.
. . . until she noticed his erection. Suddenly a gleam of triumph
shone in her eyes, and one corner of her mouth turned up in a
small, knowing grin. It looked like they *both* had learned
something from this little episode.
CHAPTER THREE
The young woman known only as Rogue, even to her friends,
walked through the front door of Jack's Place, a road-side bar a
few miles outside Westchester. She had never been to this place
before, and she frowned as she looked around at the rough
furnishings and motley collection of other customers, mostly
bikers, good-ole' boys, and blue-collar-types. Why had that pole-
cat Gambit asked her to meet him at a sleazy place like this,
anyway? Didn't that Cajun have sense enough to know this was not
the kind of place a respectable girl would want to hang around in?
And to top it off, he was late.
Rogue was undeniably beautiful, and her distinctive, flowing,
skunk-stripe hairstyle tended to draw stares under any
circumstances. Tonight, however, she had taken the trouble to
dress up a little bit, with an embroidered green waist-length
jacket over a frilly, long-sleeved white blouse, a knee-length
black skirt, seamed stockings, heels, and silver ear-rings. She
also had applied a little bit of make-up, which normally was not
her style (and, as her admirers would generally agree, quite
unnecessary); but it made her feel good to do something a little
different in preparing for a rare night out.
Finally, as always, Rogue also wore a pair of gloves, in this
case fine black leather, to prevent accidental contact with anyone
else's skin. Thanks to a random genetic fluke, she was cursed with
an uncontrollable mutant absorption power that would not only knock
people unconscious whenever she touched them, but also transferred
all of their memories directly into her mind, sometimes driving her
to the brink of insanity in the process.
Tonight, however, Rogue was not planning to dwell on her
familiar, depressing problems; she had dressed up in order to go
out and have some fun. Now, however, she almost wished she hadn't
bothered, as she felt the brazen stares of several dozen brutish,
hard-drinking men. The whole place stank of cigarette smoke, stale
beer, sweat, and urine. Trying to ignore all of these things, she
walked up to the bar, hoping Gambit would show up soon.
"What'll ya have, sweetheart?" asked the bar-tender, a fat,
bald, ugly man with lewd tatoos on both arms.
"Just a lemonade," she told him.
"Ain't got no lemonade," he said with a scowl. "Schlitz,
Strohs, or Blatz on tap."
"How about a Coke, then?" she tried. But he said there was none
of that either. "Never mind, then," she told him; "Ah'm just
waitin' for a friend."
"Hay, baby," said another voice beside her; "You look like you
could *use* a drink." She turned and found a big, mesomorphic
biker-type towering over her. He was at least 6'6", wearing
engineer's boots and a leather jacket festooned with sharp studs
and rusty chains. His hair was long and greasy, his breath stank,
and his voice was like crushed gravel. "Jack Daniels for the
lady," he called to the bar-tender; "On me."
"Thank ya'll kindly," Rogue said politely, "But I ain't drinkin'
tonight." Not that it would matter anyway, she thought,
considering how hard it was to get drunk with her super-human
constitution. But she didn't want to offer this sleaze-ball any
encouragement.
"Hay, you got some kind of snotty attitude," said the biker, his
face taking on a menacing look. "Makes a guy wonder why a broad
would come into a place like this alone, if she didn't wanna drink.
Whatcha lookin' for, baby?"
"Ah'm just waitin' for somebody," she replied, beginning to lose
patience. "And ah suggest ya'll mind your own business."
"Maybe you wanna dance, then," the man said with a sneer,
grabbing her by the upper arm.
"Hands off, buster!" she said sharply, wrenching loose from his
grip with surprising strength that belied her size and thoroughly
feminine appearance.
"Whoa!" said the biker. "This little skirt's got an attitude,
all right. Think you're too good for a workin' man like me, huh?
Well, think again, baby. C'mere!" He grabbed her again and pulled
her roughly toward him, with the obvious intention of clamping his
big, sloppy mouth on hers and slobbering all over her face. But
Rogue was as quick as she was strong; and before his lips could
touch her, she slammed her fist into his stomach, hard enough to
double him over and send him flying across the room, where he
smashed into a table and sent chairs and pitchers of beer flying in
all directions.
"I *warned* you, ya ugly pecker-wood," she said with disgust,
brushing off the sleeve of her jacket. "Now, the rest of ya'll
gonna mind your manners?" she asked, glaring around at the circle
of staring faces. No one replied, and the biker who had grabbed
her staggered into the men's room to be sick.
At that moment the front door swung open, and in strode Remy
Lebeau, a.k.a. Gambit, wearing a brown leather jacket above his
usual tight-fitting pants and knee-high boots. For once, it looked
as though he had actually shaved; and Rogue was further surprised
to note that he had on a white shirt and a narrow neck- tie under
the jacket. At the moment, however, she was in no mood to offer
any compliments.
"'Bout time you got here," she said irritably.
"Sorry, Chere; had to pick up a package, an' den got a speedin'
ticket."
"Yeah, well, serves you right. Let's get outta here." He
followed her out to the parking lot, ignoring the several dozen
bemused, jealous stares on his back. Rogue reached up to tie a red
scarf around her hair as Gambit mounted his motorcycle and kicked
the starter; and then she climbed on behind him, taking care not to
ruin her stockings.
"Where we goin', Chere?" the Cajun asked.
"Don't you know anyplace *nice*?" she said. "Ah'm hungry, but
the smell in *that* place was enough to turn mah stomach. What were
you thinkin', askin' me to meet you there, anyway?"
Gambit grinned wryly, reaching back with one hand to grasp her
wrist and pull her arm around his middle. She reached the other
one around as well and laced her fingers across his firm, rippled
abdomen.
"I figure you can take care o' yourself pretty good," he said.
"Now hang on; Gambit gonna take you somewhere he guaran*tee* you'll
like." With that, he pulled on a pair of goggles, kicked the bike
into gear, and spun out of the parking lot, spitting gravel; and
they roared off into the twilight.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was autumn, and flurries of leaves flitted through the beam
of the motorcycle's headlight as darkness fell. The air was cool;
and Rogue supposed that it would be chilly at this speed, if not
for the fact that her powers made her largely immune to extreme
temperatures as well as to almost any other sort of harm. Gambit
didn't seem to mind, either, turning his head to grin at her
briefly with his long, unruly hair streaming around his temples.
Despite her earlier annoyance over the incident at the road-house,
Rogue found his mood infectious and smiled back, nestling her chin
on his shoulder.
The "somewhere" Gambit had referred to turned out to be an
out-of-the-way restaurant perched on the steep bank of a river,
with a long porch overlooking the water. A fire crackled brightly
in a large stone hearth at one end of the main dining room,
contributing to a warm, cozy atmosphere. Although there was almost
no one else present, Gambit had made a reservation; and the waiter
showed them to a table in a secluded alcove overlooking the river,
separated from the rest of the room by a stone half-wall topped by
a row of dense, potted ferns. The waiter lit a candle and left
them to browse the menu.
"What you think 'bout dis place, Chere?" Gambit asked.
"Well, it's an improvement over that road-house," she said
guardedly. "But ah'll reserve mah judgement til ah try the food."
Gambit surprised her by selecting what the waiter seemed to
consider a very appropriate choice from the wine list. The Cajun
didn't show it very often, but he could be pretty suave on
occasion, she decided. The food turned out to be excellent, and
they both put away a lot of it, along with two bottles of wine.
It must just be the mood, Rogue supposed, and the novelty of
actually getting away from the mansion for a change--but she
actually felt a little bit light-headed. Her heart suddenly
skipped a beat as she realized that Gambit had taken her hand in
his and was pressing the back of her fingers to his lips. She
almost jerked her hand away by reflex, before remembering that she
was still wearing her gloves. His touch was gentle, and their eyes
met as he held her palm to his cheek.
"Gambit been lookin' forward to seein' you alone like dis for a
long time," he said quietly. "You no easy girl ta get a date
with."
"Ah most surely *ain't* easy," she replied with grin. "But this
ain't no date, either," she said, and her face seemed to fall.
"An' you know why. Ah . . . *like* you, Remy--a lot. You might as
well know that. But what you want is a girl-friend, and that's the
one thing I cain't be for you. Or for anybody." Damn it, she
thought, realizing she was about to cry. She hadn't wanted to talk
or even think about any of this tonight. Why couldn't they just be
friends? Why did things always seem to get romantic between them,
when things *couldn't* be romantic? A single tear overflowed and
ran down her cheek.
"Relax, Chere," Gambit told her, delicately catching her tear
with a corner of his napkin. "You worry 'bout things too much.
Gambit know what you're thinkin'. But he know somethin' else you
don't. Gambit got a little surprise, if you trust him enough.
Maybe somethin' tonight we can remember for a long time."
"Now what're ya'll talkin' about, ya silly Cajun?" Rogue said,
with a little sniffle. "If you really knew what *Ah* was thinkin'
about, ya wouldn't tease me 'bout things like that. Anyway, it's
gettin' late. We oughtta get back to the mansion."
"Don't need to go back to no mansion tonight, Chere," Gambit
said mysteriously, twirling a key around the tip of one finger.
"Dis place a hotel, too."
At that moment, Rogue was about to storm out of the restaurant
and fly home by herself, so strong was the feeling of anger and
frustration that gripped her. What was the matter with him?
Didn't he understand why they couldn't sleep together, when even
the slightest touch would activate her miserable mutant power?
Sure, they *could* sleep together--in a purely literal and Platonic
sense, provided they kept all their clothes on and stayed on
opposite sides of the bed. But Rogue knew that would just be a
kind of cruel torture, to be so close to what she had wanted for so
long, and still have it denied. How could he see it any
differently than that? She already had risen halfway to her feet,
meaning to escape this painful nonsense; but Gambit still had not
let go of her hand, and he tugged on it urgently. She turned back
to face him, with a desperate look in her eyes.
"Di'n't ya hear, now?" he said in a quiet, yet insistent tone.
"Ya'll got ta *trust* Gambit. Ain't nothin' would make Gambit hurt
you. Dis ain't no teasin', no joke."
Rogue stared deeply into his eyes, and realized that she *did*
trust him. She still had no idea what he thought he was up to, but
whatever it was, she knew he would never just toy with her about
something so painful. Besides, she thought, maybe it wouldn't be
so terrible just to sleep in the same bed. She told herself she
shouldn't always be thinking about sex anyway, as if that were the
only thing in the world that mattered.
"All right, Remy," she said softly, touching the side of his
face with her gloved fingers. "Ah trust you."
Gambit smiled at her, and again kissed her hand. Then he rose
slowly to his feet, flung the motorcycle saddle-bags over his
shoulder, and led her upstairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
In his private quarters at Professor Xavier's School for Gifted
Youngsters, Cyclops was taking a shower, bracing himself against
the jet of ice-cold water and trying not to think about what had
happened a little while ago in the control center. What kind of
game was Psylocke playing with him? Did she find it amusing to get
him aroused and watch him squirm, when she knew he was determined
to be faithful to Jean?
Elizabeth Braddock, Betsy or Betts to her friends, had always
been a beautiful woman; and in fact she had pursued a promising
career as a professional model in England before joining the X-Men.
But it was only after a bizarre sequence of events had somehow
shifted her mind and personality into the body of an elite Japanese
assassin named Kwannon that Summers had started to lust after her.
It had begun gradually, for example when he caught glimpses of her
using the mansion's swimming pool, or emerging from a steamy
shower. But before long, he found he could barely look at her
without getting an instant hard-on . . . thanks largely, he
supposed, to that damned costume of hers. Why couldn't she just go
back to wearing her old uniform, a full suit of body-armor with a
heavy cloak and hood? But no, Psylocke seemed to have developed a
wild, more adventurous side to her personality since her strange
transformation, an attitude that her skimpier costume seemed to
represent.
With his teeth almost starting to chatter, Summers shut off the
water, reached for a towel, and began vigorously drying himself.
He kept his eyes tightly closed, however; for that was the only way
to prevent his optic-blasts from destroying everything around him
without his ruby-quartz visor or glasses. Normally he would have
worn a pair of small, tight-fitting goggles in the shower; but for
some reason tonight he had not bothered with them, simply keeping
his eyes shut instead. A bit of warmth began to flow back into his
limbs, and he was just about to reach for his glasses when he heard
a voice from the bathroom door.
"Squeaky clean now, are we?" said the voice, with an
unmistakable English accent.
"Psylocke!" blurted Summers, quickly tying the towel around his
waist and groping on the counter for his glasses. "What are you
doing in here?"
"Oh, come now, Scott," she said teasingly. "You're awfully good
at figuring out mysteries about mutants and such. Surely you must
have *some* theory about why I might be here."
"You like playing games, don't you, Elizabeth?" he said testily,
as his fingers sought in vain for the glasses. He was sure he had
left them right by the sink, and he realized suddenly that she must
have taken them. "What have you done with my glasses?" he
demanded.
"Oh, I think they're lying about here someplace," Psylocke said
lightly. "Come over here, and perhaps I'll help you look for
them."
"Damn it, Elizabeth, this is no laughing matter! You know how
dangerous my optic-blasts are. If I opened my eyes for even an
instant, I might hurt you badly--even kill you!"
"Ah, yes, I remember. But I know you'll be very careful not to
open your eyes, won't you Scott? Come, follow me, now. Out this
way." For just an instant, she brushed the tip of one finger
lightly on the end of his nose.
Summers moved toward her, arms extended before him, into the
bedroom. By now he was fuming. What right did she have to fool
around like this? She must know he could never forgive himself if
he accidentaly harmed someone with his deadly power. He reached
out blindly, moving around the room, trying to find her and take
back the glasses; but she seemed to hover tantalizingly just beyond
his reach.
"This isn't funny, Psylocke," he said crossly.
"Oh, dear, Scott," she said suddenly with apparent concern.
"What? What's wrong?"
"There seems to be something strange going on under your towel.
Here, let's have a look." Before he realized what she was doing,
she had yanked away his towel and again retreated beyond his reach.
Summers realized then that he had another erection, and there
certainly could be no hiding it this time. What did she think he
was, he thought angrily--her private play- thing? Yet perversely,
his anger only seemed to make him that much harder; and in his mind
flashed a brief, obscene image of what he would like to do if he
got hold of her.
"My goodness!" Psylocke said from somewhere behind him. "Such
nasty thoughts. I never would have guessed you were that sort of
fellow. Perhaps all that serious self-control of yours is just an
act--a facade? I think you'd actually like to rape me."
"Elizabeth!" he shouted. "How dare you read my mind without
asking first. You have no right!"
"Hah! I knew it: you *were* thinking something naughty. As it
happens, Scott, I did *not* read your dirty mind. But since
they're so obvious anyway, why not tell me more about these ideas
you're having? Just what *would* you like to do if you could get
your hands on me?"
"You'd just better give me those glasses before I *do* catch
you," he warned her. At that moment, he suddenly felt sure that
she had moved in front of him, between him and the bed; and he
decided to make a grab for her.
Cyclops was in extraordinarily good physical conditions, with
strength and co-ordination honed to the level of an Olympic gymnast
by years of intense training. Consequently, when he lunged for
Psylocke, he moved *fast*; and he almost caught her off-guard. She
had been expecting such a move, however; and with the advantage of
sight, she found it easy to side-step and trip him, so that he fell
sprawling on the bed. Before he could regain his feet or even turn
over, she sprang on top of him, digging a knee into the small of
his back and twisting one arm behind him--not hard enough really to
hurt, but firmly enough to remind him that with her assassin's
training, she could easily put him in a great deal of pain if she
chose.
For a moment, it seemed as though Cyclops had given up and was
simply going to lie there until she decided what to do next. It
was only a ploy, however, and he suddenly twisted free of her grip,
knocking her sideways on the bed beside him. In the process he
caught hold of one of her wrists, and then the other. Summers was
no ninja, but he had learned a good deal about unarmed combat over
the years; and using his superior size and strength, he quickly
forced Psylocke onto her back, straddling her waist and pinning her
arms above her head.
"Well, now," she said; "This *is* an interesting position you've
got me in!"
Cyclops realized that she wasn't wearing much--apparently some
kind of short, silky robe or gown, which seemed to have come
unfastened at the top. His penis was harder than ever, and as he
held her down, he felt it nudging firmly between her ample breasts.
Damn it, he thought; she had tricked him into playing her little
game, despite his intentions to the contrary.
CHAPTER SIX
"This has gone far enough, Elizabeth," Summers told Psylocke in
a low, carefully-controlled voice, still straddling her chest and
pinning her to his bed. "You know I can't get involved with you
like this."
"All right, Scott," she said after a moment, with a small sigh
of resignation. "I can see that your mind is made up, and I admire
your principles. Let my hands loose, and I'll give you back your
glasses."
Summers wasn't sure he could trust her even now; but he decided
to find out, and released her wrists. As promised, she reached up
and placed the glasses back on his face, allowing him finally to
open his eyes again. He immediately wished he had left them
closed, for the sight that greeted them almost made him ejaculate
instantly. There, directly underneath him, was Psylocke, looking
up at him with a mixed expression of amusement and lust in her
dark, heavy-lidded eyes, her purple hair splayed across the bed
beside her. As he had suspected, she was wearing a filmy purple
negligee with ties at the front; and it had fallen open to reveal
her fabulous breasts, rising and falling with her every breathing,
nipples hard and erect like his cock. A trickle of pre-cum oozed
from the head of his throbbing penis, trickling down the inside of
her left breast to form a small pool in her cleavage.
"I suppose I'll just go back to my room, then," she said
lightly, running her fingers over his well-defined chest and down
along his washboard-like abdomen. "You could at least think about
me and masturbate after I've gone, though," she suggested.
Summers had never heard a woman say such a thing before, and
this time his jaw literally did drop half-open, as his ego and
super-ego waged a losing struggle against his raging, horny id.
Psylocke chose that moment to retake the initiative, and she bent
her hips to raise her long, remarkably limber legs up behind his
back. Pushing him slightly backward with her fingers on his chest,
she slipped her feet suddenly around his neck from behind, crossed
her ankles under his chin, and slammed him down on his back,
catching him totally by surprise. He tried to twist free again,
but her legs were very strong; and as he struggled, he felt her
ankles clench tighter around his wind-pipe, threatening to choke
him. She meanwhile had pushed his knees wide apart with her hands
and further displayed her amazing flexibility by sitting up,
curling her back so that her face was directly over his crotch. He
felt her steamy breath on his exposed, angry penis.
"You're awfully stubborn sometimes, Scott," she sighed. "I
suppose it's all the fault of those damned Puritans, that you
Americans are so prudish. Just relax now, darling, and let me take
care of you." With that, she lowered her head and gave the
underside of his cock a long, slow lick. Her tongue was hot and
wet, and she twirled the tip delicately around the slippery crown
of his throbbing head.
"Uuuggh," groaned Cyclops, desperately trying to ignore the
feeling and decide what he should do. His fingers clutched
spasmodically at the bed-cover, and his mind seemed to dissolve in
a warm, overpowering wave of sheer physical pleasure as Psylocke
plunged the entire length of his shaft down her throat. She began
sucking powerfully, and he realized dimly that there was no way he
could stop her now.
"Uh- uh- Elizabeth!" he groaned.
"Yes, Scott?" she said sweetly, lifting her lips from his cock
for a moment between strokes.
"If you don't stop it, I'm going to . . . to . . ."
"To *come*, Scott? That's the point of all this, actually. Go
ahead, dear, whenever you're ready. I don't mind." With that,
Psylocke gave him another sensuous lick, and then took him back
into her mouth, sucking even harder than before. Cyclops couldn't
seem to think at all now, and he felt a growing pressure somewhere
deep inside him, like a rising flood. He tried to fight it, but it
was no use.
"Ungh- ungh- GOD!" he cried out sharply as his back arched and
his whole body stiffened. Psylocke felt his penis swell in her
mouth, and then he ejaculated, sending a stream of hot fluid
running directly down her throat into her stomach. His balls had
been saving up for this one for a long time, and he came in
buckets.
In some dim corner of her mind, Betsy Braddock felt a twinge of
disgust with herself as she sucked and swallowed the last few drops
from his rapidly-softening penis. But Psylocke was no longer only
Elizabeth Braddock, she reminded herself; for she also now
possessed the cumulative experience of Kwannon, whose years of
training as _kunoichi_--a female ninja--had of course included the
art of sexual seduction and ministration. As far as Kwannon was
concerned, if a mission called for it, sex was simply a means to an
end.
Under the circumstances, Psylocke considered that she had simply
done Cyclops a minor favor--one he couldn't have admitted that he
wanted from her, but which his body and stray thoughts had made
plain that he needed nonetheless. Besides, she admitted to
herself, it had not exactly been an unpleasant experience for her,
either, although it was now obvious that Cyclops was too mixed up
and physically spent to provide her any real satisfaction in
return. Ah, well; she had expected nothing more.
She released his penis from her mouth, letting it fall limply
against his thigh, and straitened her back to sit upright again,
simultaneously uncrossing her ankles to release his neck.
"Oh, god," Cyclops sighed weakly. "That was . . . just,
incredible, Elizabeth. But . . . why?"
"Never mind why, Scott," she told him calmly, sliding her legs
out from under his back and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Just
get some sleep now, dear." He couldn't seem to think of anything
to say as she stood up, re-tied the negligee across her breasts,
and padded silently to the door. There, she paused to look back
and saw that he was already out like a light. She smiled, knowing
that in the morning, thanks to a subtle psychic suggestion she had
planted, he would not be certain whether this incident had really
happened, or whether it had been just a dream. She sighed and
stepped into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind her.
Now, if only there were someone else around to take care of her the
way she had taken care of Cyclops.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wolverine was lying awake in his bed with the lights off, hands
folded behind his head, staring out the window at the silvery disk
of the moon rising above the wooded hills that surrounded the
mansion. The wind rustled the dry leaves of a tree just outside
the window, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance. The dog,
he noted idly, was saying something about a raccoon. Raccoons
never seemed to talk much, but dogs always made sense to Logan;
they always said what was on their minds, clear and up-front. Too
bad people were so much more complicated. He debated going out for
a walk, but decided against it. He never really seemed to need
much sleep, but right now he just felt like lying here and letting
his mind wander.
As they often did, Logan's thoughts travelled back among the
many women he had known over the years. There hadn't been many for
quite a while now, since he joined the X-Men. Things just weren't
like they used to be, he reflected. He was getting older, and his
wild days seemed to be over for good. Not that he couldn't perform
when he felt like it; oh, no, that was one problem he never need
fear--not with a mutant metabolism so powerful that he could
recover almost immediately from any but the most grievous wounds.
He just didn't seem to need as much female company as he once had,
that was all. Still, there were times when that old hankering came
back as strong as ever--times like tonight, for instance.
What was he going to do with that crazy kid Jubilee, anyway? He
had decided some time ago that for her own sake, she shouldn't be
hanging around with the X-Men; and he had told Xavier as much. The
group simply had too many enemies, and one of these days their luck
was going to run out. Wolverine didn't want the kid to be around
when that happened. But the Prof had disagreed, arguing that it
was more important to help her gain full control over her powers as
they matured, and that she was still safer with the group than she
would be on her own. Logan still thought otherwise, but he had let
it ride . . . for now. Now there was this other reason that he had
begun to doubt it was so wise having her around. . . .
Wolverine's ears suddenly perked up as he heard a door open and
close quietly down the hall. He had heard a very faint sound a
little while ago but couldn't place it, and figured it was
Psylocke. Betts could move like a cat, and sometimes even his
hyper-acute senses could not track her. This new sound was another
matter; and he knew immediately that it was Jubilation, probably
wandering downstairs to get a drink or something. She was coming
the wrong way for that, though--toward his end of the hall instead
of toward the stairs. What was she up to?
In a moment there was a faint click and a creak as she opened
his door and slipped inside, apparently making her best attempt at
being stealthy, which didn't amount to much. At least she wasn't
popping bubbles this time, though, which meant she might have
learned *something* from all those lessons in the Danger Room. But
what did she think she was doing, sneaking in here? She ought to
know better than to risk startling a psycho- killer like him, and
maybe getting a bellyful of adamantium claws before he was really
awake and realized what he was doing. Under the circumstances,
though, he decided just to lie doggo and see what she had on her
mind.
Jubilee paused beside the bed, biting her lower lip and asking
herself the same question: what on earth she was doing? Although
she was wearing a flannel bathrobe, the air in the room was chilly,
and she shivered slightly. Well, she asked herself, was she just
going to stand here like an idiot, or was she going to do what she
had finally made up her mind to do, after fantasizing about it for
so many nights? She looked down at Wolverine's hairy, hard-muscled
torso above the sheet around his waist, his chest rising and
falling slowly and regularly. She had been sure he would hear her
come in, but he seemed to be soundly asleep. She must be getting
pretty good at this sneaky stuff, after all. Well? All right, she
decided finally, screwing up her courage. Gently lifting the edge
of the sheet, she carefully slid into bed beside him and pulled the
sheet up to her chin. Then she laid her head on the pillow, facing
his, and snuggled up close beside him.
"Mind tellin' me what you think yer doin'?" Logan said
reasonably after a moment, making her realize that he had been
awake the whole time after all.
"Um . . . guess."
"Well," he said, "I don't think *you* know what you're doin'.
Now go on back to bed. *Your* bed, that is."
"I'm older than you think I am, Logan," she told him, ignoring
what he had said. "Old enough to see . . . well, you know, what
happened tonight."
"Nothin' happened tonight, an' nothin's *gonna* happen tonight,"
he said firmly. "An' I know exactly how old you are, which ain't
old enough for what you're thinkin'."
"What makes you so sure what I'm thinking, anyway?" she
challenged. He offered no reply, and she placed her left hand on
his abdomen. Slowly, she began to slide her fingers downward
toward his groin; but just before they got there, he grabbed her
wrist and gently but firmly removed it. Her little body felt warm
and inviting, so close beside him; and he felt the beginnings of
another hard-on stirring in his loins. But by focusing his mind
and applying his uncanny powers of self- control, he was able to
head off the physical reaction, so that his penis gave only an
abortive twitch before subsiding.
"Knock it off, Jubes," he growled. "You wouldn't wanna get me
started."
"Maybe I would. I think you want me."
"Maybe I do. I'm a man. But some things ain't right. We're
like family, Jubes, and family don't do that kinda stuff."
"Damn it, Logan, what do I have to do, beg you?" She sniffled,
trying to control her voice. "I *need* you. Nobody understands
what it's like for me here. Nobody takes me seriously--not even
you, I guess. You all think I'm just a stupid kid! Well I'm not.
I'm a woman--well, almost, anyway. I'm not making any sense, am I?
All I'm trying to say is . . . is that I want you to make love to
me. Okay, there, I said it. Oh, shit, I'm gonna cry now. And
you're just gonna kick me out."
Jubilation began to sob quietly, and Logan silently asked
himself what on God's green earth a fella was supposed to do in a
situation like this. She was right about one thing at least: he
wanted her, all right. But he also wanted to be able to look
himself in the eye in the mirror tomorrow. She was fifteen, which
was way too young for an old fart like him--not that he cared much
about the law, but it just didn't wash. And yet, might he be
hurting her more by rejecting her? Under the circumstances, he
didn't know. With uncharacteristic hesitation, Logan wrapped his
arm gently around Jubilee's narrow shoulders.
"Shhh," he whispered in her ear. "It ain't so bad as all that,
Darlin'. I ain't kickin' you out. I just can't be your man,
that's all. Not 'cause I don't take you seriously. It's only
'cause I care about you too much. If I didn't, I'd just do what
comes naturally. But we'd both regret it later."
Jubilee's sobs gradually subsided into another sniffle, and she
snuggled closer. Logan felt her kiss his cheek softly.
"Maybe you're right, Logan," she whispered. "But I love you."
"I love you too, Darlin'," he said, gently smoothing her wild
hair. "Now go to sleep."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rogue followed Gambit warily into the hotel room, which turned
out to be small but very nice, with a balcony offering a beatiful
view of the moon-lit river. A bottle of Champaign stood in an
ice-bucket, with two gleaming glasses on a silver tray; and several
candles lit the room in a soft glow.
"You had this all planned out, didn't ya?" Rogue said
suspiciously.
"Like he say, Gambit been lookin' forward ta dis for a long
time. C'mon, Chere," he said disarmingly. "Relax. Nothin' bad
gonna happen to anybody tonight. All the bad guys got the night
off, too."
Rogue smiled weakly, although still feeling uncertain about the
whole situation, and walked slowly over to the balcony. The room
seemed warm, so she opened the doors and stood gazing out over the
water. She sensed Gambit's presence close behind her, and then she
felt his hands descend gently on her shoulders. She gazed up at
the stars twinkling brightly as his long fingers began to massage
her tense muscles through the fabric of her jacket and blouse. The
Cajun seemed to have a talent for this, and she gradually began to
relax a little bit, leaning back into his arms until she noticed
something stiff in his tight pants, nudging against her fanny. She
sighed. If only . . .
Yeah, if only. Well, it was kind of nice to know that he wanted
her anyway, even if it could never happen. A girl could still
enjoy the attention. And . . . well, maybe she *could* do a
*little* something for him, even if it wasn't what they really
wanted. With a naughty little smile, she reached one hand around
behind her and brushed her gloved fingers lightly over the bulge
between his legs, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Mmmm," he hummed approvingly in her ear. "Gambit *like* dat
idea." Rogue felt his warm breath on the back of her neck and just
hoped he wouldn't get carried away and forget the ground rules.
For both their sakes. She was beginning to realize how easy it
could be to forget, the way things were going already. She sighed
deeply as his hands left her shoulders, slipped around her waist,
and glided upward to cup the undersides of both her breasts,
lifting and moving them gently, as if weighing them and making some
kind of careful evaluation.
"Oooh, Remy," she cooed. "Ya'll sure know how to get a girl's
attention. Ah hope you like what you're findin'."
"Oh, Gambit like it jus' fine. You somethin' mighty special,
Chere," he whispered. She began twisting her hips against him,
rubbing her butt provocatively against his crotch, knowing she
ought to stop but unable to help herself. Lord, she wanted it so
bad! And so did he. It just wasn't fair! But she wasn't going to
let herself start moping about it again. Not now.
Gambit moved his hands to her hips and guided her toward the
bed, where she kicked off her heels, shrugged off her jacket, and
sank down to lie on her stomach with her head pillowed on her
forearms. He pulled off his boots as well, then climbed onto the
bed on top of her, straddling her thighs with his knees beside her
hips. She felt his hands on her back again, resuming the massage;
and they now roamed up and down the length of her spine, steadily,
magically dispelling the tension that had seemed to grip her for as
long as she could remember. A breeze from the balcony caused the
candles to flicker, casting strange, undulating shadows on the
walls around them.
Rogue eventually felt so relaxed that she was almost asleep; but
she didn't quite want to fade out that way yet. She pushed Gambit
off of her, rolled over, and propped herself up on her elbows. He
looked at her questioningly, and she gazed at him for a long moment
with heavy-lidded eyes.
"You sure know what buttons to push, Remy," she said with a
languid smile. "How about some of that bubbly there, since
y'already paid for it an' all?" He answered only with a grin, and
his eyes barely left hers for an instant as he popped the cork and
filled their glasses.
"Here's to wishes, Chere," the Cajun said as they clinked the
glasses together, reclining side by side on the bed. "You never
know whey dey might come true." Rogue could offer only a wan smile
in return as she brought the glass to her lips, wishing that he
wouldn't say things like that. She was sick and tired of just
wishing.
"Gambit got to ask you somethin'," the Cajun said finally as he
set their empty glasses on the tray. His voice sounded a little
bit strange; and looking into his eyes, Rogue was surprised to see
that for once, he actually appeared rather unsure of himself. What
was on his mind, anyway? She nodded for him to continue.
"Gambit got to know, if tings were different--if we din't have
to be afraid o' touchin'--would you still want ta be here like dis?
Ta stay wit' Gambit all night?" His eyes fell uneasily to stare at
the bed, and then back up to meet hers.
"Of *course* ah would, ya dumb swamp rat," she said testily.
"What kind of a ding-bat question is that, anyway? Maybe you just
wanna see me cry again, is that it?"
"Aw, c'mon now, Chere, don' be like dat," he said soothingly,
gently stroking his hand along her arm. "Gambit don' *never* wanna
make you cry. Ain't you gonna ask 'bout what kind'a surprise
Gambit said he got tonight?"
"Surprise? Well, ah figured ya'll must'a meant the Champaign.
Okay, Remy, now ah'm curious. What're ya talkin' about?"
Gambit smiled and reached down to pull something from the
saddle-bags lying on the floor beside the bed. His hand came back
holding a compact, carefully-wrapped package about ten inches
square.
"Dis' somethin' don' grow on trees, Chere." He nodded for her
to open it, and she did so, her curiosity now truly aroused.
Unwrapping the paper, she found a sturdy metal box, stamped with
the official emblem of Genosha, that small but notorious island-
nation in the Indian Ocean. Rogue felt a sudden flash of anger as
unwanted memories stirred in her troubled mind.
Although now supposedly reformed and democratized, Genosha's
radical policy of mutant-exploitation had caused the X-Men a great
deal of grief in the past. Rogue, in particular, still bore the
Genoshans a bitter grudge; for she had once spent some of the worst
hours of her life as their prisoner, suffering humiliating abuse at
the hands of sadistic guards after temporarily losing her powers.
"What the hell is this, Gambit?" Rogue demanded. "Some kind'a
sick joke?" He recoiled in surprise, raising a hand in
supplication. He had known this would take some explaining, but he
now feared that he might have made a serious mistake.
"Please, Chere, it ain't no joke. Maybe Gambit made a big
mistake, but he only tryin' to make you happy. See what's in da
box." She continued to glare at him for a long moment; but
curiosity finally overcame her other feelings, and she lifted the
lid.
Inside was a strange, circular object about 8" in diameter, with
several small, electronic control keys, a complicated latch, and a
hinge. Rogue recognized it immediately: an inhibitor- collar,
capable of temporarily suppressing almost any type of mutant
powers. The Genoshans had developed the specialized technology in
order to control their corps of mutant slaves and prisoners, and
the hated objects had become a symbol of the regime's brutal policy
of oppression. Rogue's first impulse was to slap Gambit so hard
that his stupid head would spin clear around at least twice, and he
recognized the look of cold fire in her eyes. Well, Remy, he
thought to himself; ya sure blew it this time.
Fortunately, however, Rogue restrained her violent initial
reaction long enough to think a bit further. Turning the collar
over slowly in her hands, she told herself to calm down. Whatever
he was thinking, Gambit surely hadn't meant to insult her with the
bizarre gift. After all, he hadn't even joined the team until some
months after her terrible experience in Genosha; and it was
something she had never yet told him about. Anyway, the collar was
just a piece of metal and plastic, and there was no need to get all
worked up about it.
"Well, Cajun," Rogue said finally, "It's a pretty odd souvenir.
Can't say ah like it much, but ah s'pose ya'll didn't mean nothin'
by it. Where'd ya find it, anyway?"
"Gambit know some folks dat can find mos' anything," he
answered, somewhat evasively. "Thieves' guild not just in
Louisiana, ya know."
"Huh. Well, ah s'pose Hank and the Professor will want to look
it over an' maybe see if it still works."
"It still work, all right," said Gambit with quiet certainly.
"Dat's da point."
Rogue suddenly, belatedly realized what he meant. Lord, she
thought; how could she be so dense? She looked lost in thought as
she considered the implications.
"Gambit don' know if it such a good idea to try it," said the
Cajun. "Tried it out on himself, an' den it work okay. Should be
safe; but it might work different on you, an' if anythin' was to go
wrong, ol' Gambit never gonna forgive himself. But he wanna give
you da choice, Chere."
"Ah . . . ah just don't know what ta say, Remy," Rogue said
after a long pause, still holding the collar. "Ah don't know why
*ah* never thought'a somethin' like this. But now, it's so sudden,
ah'm almost afraid ta try it. What if it doesn't work?"
"Only one way ta find out," Gambit replied with a conspiratorial
grin. "But da real test gonna take *two* volunteers, non?"
Rogue grinned back at him, suddenly making up her mind. Part of
her wanted to wait, to take some more time to think about this, and
to be sure she was really ready. But if not now, another part of
her asked, then when? With the kind of lives they were leading,
there was no telling when another opportunity like this might
present itself; and the mood was right. She opened the collar,
reached up, and closed it around her neck. The latch clicked shut
with a decisive snap.
CHAPTER NINE
Wolverine was still lying awake more than an hour after
Jubilee had crawled into bed with him and gone to sleep with her
head on his shoulder. He could imagine what Charlie, Cyke, or
most of the others would assume if they caught him like this.
Christ, the kid sure had put him in a spot. That, however, was
only part of what finally prompted Logan to get out of bed,
moving slowly and carefully in order not to wake her up. Rogue
and Gumbo still had not returned from their little outing; and
while he knew they probably were still just out having a good
time, Logan was suspicious by nature. He reckoned folks tended
to live longer that way.
Quietly donning his black, blue, and gold uniform, including
the mask with its strange, tapered, wing-like sides, Wolverine
glided out of the room as silent as a phantom. The whole mansion
was dark and still; even the dogs in the distance seemed to have
called off their raccoon-alert and gone to sleep. He moved down
the hallway, avoiding the familiar creaky floor-boards, and
continued down the staircase. Pausing at the door to the
underground levels, he decided instead to take a quick stroll
around the grounds outside, just to look things over. Besides,
he figured a little fresh air might do him good; that nutty
business with Jubes seemed to have left his head all mixed up and
full of cobwebs.
Wolverine had covered about half of the distance around the
wooded perimeter of the school property when he began to sense
someone was following him. It was only a vague hunch at first,
but the feeling grew steadily stronger until he was almost
certain of it. Whoever it was, he realized, was pretty damned
good, keeping down-wind of him and never so much as rustling a
leaf. So much the better, he thought; it had been a while since
he had been in a decent scrap, and he always liked a challenge.
Picking up his pace since the shadower obviously knew where
he was already, Wolverine headed for what he knew would be a
convenient place to turn the tables. Ducking suddenly behind the
trunk of a massive oak, he proceeded to disappear into the
undergrowth, slithering low on the ground, senses keyed-up to the
limit, adrenalin beginning to flow. He reminded himself he'd
better not get carried away until he was sure who he was dealing
with; but anybody snooping around the grounds like this was
likely up to no good. He caught a faint whiff of a scent; but
before he could quite place it, he felt an arm clamp suddenly
around his throat from behind. Christ! He'd been had!
Wolverine's instincts took over, and he slammed an elbow
backward into his attacker's abdomen before whoever it was could
clamp the choke-hold on him properly. Then, in an automatic
follow-through, he took hold of the arm and went for a reversal.
His opponent twisted with him, however, refusing him leverage and
trying to keep behind him. All right, he thought; time to quit
jerkin' around. His left leg snapped out in a lightning-fast
side-kick, slamming the interloper backward against a tree and
gaining some separation. In a fraction of a heart-beat,
Wolverine had unsheathed his fearsome claws and was poised to
lunge for the kill--when he found a glowing, smouldering blade of
pseudo-physical psychic energy staring him in the face,
indicating at last who had jumped him. Each had one hand clamped
around the other's throat, the other hand poised to strike.
"Psylocke!" he barked. "What in blazes do ya think you're
doin', muckin' around like that? I coulda killed ya."
"Just keeping you on your toes, old man," she replied with a
nasty grin as they both sheathed their weapons. "And for the
record," she added, "I *could* have killed *you* when I had the
drop on you." Logan realized she had a point; his mistake had
been to assume that he could use his superior knowledge of this
particular patch of terrain to double back unseen. Psylocke,
however, knew these woods as well as he did and had anticipated
his ploy exactly.
"Fair enough, Betts," he granted. Her looks, he reflected,
certainly weren't the only thing about her that had changed as a
result of her transformation in Asia. Betsy Braddock had always
had plenty of guts and a taste for adventure, but he didn't think
her old self ever would have pulled a stunt like this. It
occurred to him that there would be serious trouble if her new
ninja-side ever came to the fore and she turned pro. But at the
moment, he reminded himself, they might have a more immediate
problem.
"I just happened to be awake and saw you wander outside,"
Psylocke explained. She was wearing her typical, revealing black
costume again, which struck Wolverine as a bit skimpy for an
autumn night like this. "What brings *you* out for a stroll in
the middle of the night?" she asked.
"Couldn't sleep," he said simply, carefully excluding
Jubilee from the level of surface thoughts that Psylocke might
pick up more-or-less by accident. Jean Gray and Charlie always
had made a big deal about never reading anybody's thoughts
without good reason, but Logan felt he could never be quite sure
what Betts was up to. Still, he figured, might as well tell her
what else was on his mind.
"Love-birds ain't home yet," he observed.
"No," she agreed. "What of it?"
"Ain't like Rogue to stay out all night. Could mean
trouble."
"Perhaps. I assume you have a course of action in mind."
"Yep. Figured you could try checkin' up on 'em with
Cerebro, just to see where they are."
"Why, Logan!" Psylocke replied with mock surprise. "Are you
suggesting that we *spy* on them? Don't you suppose they deserve
a little privacy now and then?"
"Course they do. But if they were takin' the whole night
off, they shoulda told us. With all the crazies tryin' ta do in
the X-Men these days, we gotta keep track o' people."
"All right then," she agreed. "Cerebro it is."
As they began walking back toward the mansion, Wolverine
examined her scent more carefully and noted that he had not been
the only one feeling horny tonight. She seemed to have taken a
recent shower, but was that a lingering whiff of Cyke he smelled
on her? Had they been gettin' it on? Maybe. None of the
others seemed to have noticed so far, but Logan had seen her
little tease-act quite plainly. Old Scotty sure did reek, too,
when she got him all horny like that. A hyper-senses were, after
all, a mixed blessing.
"Little cold out tonight for a get-up like yours," Logan
said, by way of idle conversation.
"Perhaps you would prefer if I covered up my body with some
thick, baggy clothes, then?" she replied. He only grunted,
thinking that he had walked right into that one. Nothing wrong
with a little innuendo between consenting adults, though; fending
off the kid must be turning him into a regular basket-case. They
arrived back at the mansion and descended directly to the control
room, where the helmet for accessing Cerebro hung amid a web of
power and control cables.
"Now that I think of it," Wolverine said as Psylocke settled
her derriere into the padded chair, "maybe we oughtta check with
Cyke about this. He gets kinda touchy about anybody else usin'
Charlie's private gizmo."
"Don't bother. He's sound asleep."
"Oh?" Logan arched an eyebrow, but she only smiled;
looking, he thought, just a trifle smug. For perhaps the ten-
thousandth time, he thought what a rare set of knockers she had,
as she reached up to draw the helmet down over her head. Betts
had always been a looker, even before all this weird, body-
swapping business with Kwannon; but now--well, what could he say?
He just had this thing about Asian women. He realized she was
staring at him, still smiling, the smugness now mingled with
amusement. Was she skimming his thoughts? Well, she couldn't be
in much doubt about what he was thinking, anyway. He folded his
arms.
"Let's get on with it," he told her; and she nodded, closing
her eyes. Her face took on a more serious look of concentration,
and for a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Only the bank of
digital display panels surrounding the chair gave any visible
indication of the amplified telepathic energy crackling through
the psychic ether around them, as Psylocke's mind reached out to
locate their wayward team-mates. Before long, however, another
smile crept slowly across her face. Then she opened her eyes,
raised the helmet, and leaned back in the chair.
"Well?" Logan prompted.
"I'm sure they would appreciate your concern," Psylocke
laughed. "But in this case, it seems to have been misplaced. Do
you really want to know where they are?"
"Nope. Long as they're safe."
"Perhaps not from each other, but otherwise . . ." Psylocke
laughed again and crossed her legs, drumming her fingers lightly
on the arm-rests of the chair. "Anyone else you'd like to check
up on tonight? Jean, perhaps?"
"I don't care much for your sense o' humor sometimes,
Betts," Wolverine replied darkly, and her look of amusement faded
immediately as well.
"I'm sorry," she said with apparent sincerity. "I had no
right to say that. . . . Will you have a night-cap?" she added,
seeing him turning to leave. He turned back and looked at her
again, his face a mask, arms still crossed. "If memory serves,"
she went on, "there's an unopened bottle of Chivas Royal Salute
in my wardrobe upstairs. It might help you sleep."
"All right," he said finally.
Psylocke smiled, rose smoothly to her feet, and led the way
to the elevator.
CHAPTER TEN
The inhibitor-collar wasn't exactly comfortable; but a small
light on the side of it changed from red to green, indicating
that its power-suppression circuits had activated automatically.
Rogue realized she was holding her breath, and exhaled deeply.
"Ah guess it's workin'," she said tentatively.
"Yep," the Cajun agreed. "See if you can fly," he
suggested.
Sitting up straighter, Rogue tried to levitate herself,
using the power she had permanently absorbed from Carol Danvers
(a.k.a. Ms. Marvel) on that terrible night several years before.
Since then, flying had become almost second-nature; but now, no
matter how hard Rogue focused, nothing happened.
"Well ah'll be," she mused. "The darn thing really does
work. Ah s'pose ah ain't so strong anymore then, either." She
pursed her lips for a moment as if deep in thought, then raised
her eyes slowly to meet Gambit's, one corner of her mouth showing
the ghost of a grin. "It's a good thing ah know ah can trust you
then, ain't it?" she told him.
"You wanna arm wrestle?"
"No thanks, sugar; Ah might wup your butt anyway, an' Ah
wouldn't wanna hurt your ego."
"You a funny one, Rogue," he said, enjoying the laughter in
her eyes.
"But what ah'm really wonderin'," she said, "is . . . well,
are we gonna put it to the real test?"
Gambit reached out, took her by the forearms, and drew her
gently to him across the bed.
"Like he say before, Chere; Gambit been lookin' forward ta
dis for a *long* time. But dere's one other thing he gotta tell
you first; dat collar only gonna last a little while--maybe four
or six hours. Don' know if we gonna find any more of 'em, or if
we find any way ta recharge dis one. Might be dangerous to wear
it too often, anyway."
"Well, it ain't like you could get me to wear this thing
every day even so. Ah feel pretty silly. But right now, all Ah
wanna know is, are ya gonna kiss me, or just sit there makin'
eyes at me an' thinkin' about it?"
The two of them both leaned closer at once; and as their
lips slowly came together, both their hearts beat faster.
Please, Rogue thought silently; don't let it happen again this
time like before. It didn't. All that happened was that she
melted slowly, deliciously into his arms, their mouths locked on
one another, savoring, refusing to end that first kiss that both
had dreamed of and waited for, with so little real hope, for so
many months. It was no disappointment.
Rogue wrapped her slender arms around his ribs and ran her
hands up his spine, delighting in the feel of his well-muscled
back and shoulders. It dawned on her that for once, if only
tonight, she could get rid of those *damned* gloves. Reluctantly
breaking their kiss, she pulled away briefly, just long enough to
peel them from her hands and toss them on the floor. The act of
stripping off the gloves seemed somehow suggestive, a symbolic
falling of barriers and defenses.
"Oh, Remy, ya'll don't know how bad ah've wanted to do
this," she told him, slowly reaching out to touch his face with
her bare finger-tips.
"Couldn'a wanted dat any more dan Gambit want da same," he
replied, touching her face as well. "Din't think it could be,
but you feel even more beautiful dan you look, Chere."
With sudden impatience, Rogue tugged loose his tie and began
quickly unbuttoning his shirt. In a moment she had him naked to
the waist, and she ran her hands eagerly over the delicious
shapes of his biceps, shoulders, pecs, and abdomen. He seemed
exactly like one of those beautiful beef-cake boys in a blue-jean
commercial, she thought, unable to contain a small giggle.
"What's so funny now?" Gambit asked with a bemused grin; but
the only answer he got was that she wrapped her arms around his
neck and began another long, boldly exploratory kiss. The
inhibitor-collar bumped awkwardly against their chins, but they
both did their best to ignore it.
Lebeau at that moment felt extremely happy, but a part of
his mind remained anxious. He had a furious hard-on that was
struggling to peek over his waist-band and escape the confines of
his tight-fitting pants; and he urgently wanted to see Rogue
naked. It was not his style to hold himself in check this way,
and had it not been Rogue, he already would have been tearing her
clothes loose with wild abandon. Under the circumstances,
however, he was still afraid of spooking her, imagining how she
must feel on such unfamiliar ground. If she was nervous, though,
she certainly was hiding it well, as her tongue began darting
between his lips. Before he even realized what she was doing,
Rogue had unbuttoned the front of her own blouse, which he
discovered only when she broke their kiss, shrugged the garment
smoothly off her shoulders, and let it fall on the bed behind
her.
"Feast your eyes, wild man," she teased, as he did exactly
that. She was wearing a lacy black brassiere; and for a long
moment he could do nothing but stare, riveted by the sight of her
full, up-thrust breasts, straining against the silky fabric and
rising and falling with her deep breathing. He had never seen
anything, anyone, so sexy in his life. He could have told her
so, but that wasn't his style, either. Instead, he simply
reached out, cupped her magnificent globes in both hands, and
began gently massaging them again, now running his thumbs in
little circles around the nipples.
"Oooh, that's sooo nice," she sighed, closing her eyes and
leaning her head back. She arched her back slightly and pulled
her shoulders back, thrusting her chest more firmly against his
constantly-moving hands. Suddenly he removed them, reached
behind her, under the lovely, flowing mane of her hair, and
deftly released the clasp of her bra. She opened her eyes to
find him grinning at her again.
"Ah didn't s'pose a clever ol' thief like you would have
much trouble with that," she giggled.
"Dats right, Chere; now Gambit got da goods!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
With Rogue's generous, perfectly-formed breasts bared to his
hungry gaze at long last, the Cajun's previous sense of restraint
began to crumble; and his attention to her became a matter of more
urgent business than light-hearted banter. Placing his hands on
her hips, he nudged her up onto her knees, bringing her breasts
level with his face, and began tantalizing her taut, blushing
nipples with his hot, slippery, wildly agile tongue. She clutched
his head with both hands, running her fingers through his long,
reddish-brown hair, and he noted with satisfaction that she was
breathing faster. A warm, delicious feeling of pleasure began
coiling deep inside her.
With his tongue still busily attending to her breasts, Gambit
began slowly, stealthily sliding the hem of her skirt up along her
thighs, past the top of her stockings; and he was delighted to find
she was wearing an old-fashioned garter-belt. Rogue felt a breath
of cool breeze on the dampness between her legs, and she realized
in a strangely detached way that this was it: finally, after so
long, she was going to find out what it was like to make love. Yet
now, for some ridiculous reason, she suddenly felt a twinge of
shyness. It was all happening so fast. She shivered slightly,
having almost forgotten what it was like to be affected by
temperature this way.
"Let's get under the covers, Remy," she said. "It's gettin'
cold in here." Although reluctant to let her go even for an
instant, Gambit backed off and turned down the top of the sheets
and blankets. Then he got up and strode over to shut the balcony
doors; and while his back was turned, Rogue quickly removed her
ear-rings and shimmied out of her skirt. Before she could
disappear under the covers, Gambit turned and caught a fleeting,
priceless glimpse of her strong, beautifully-rounded backside in
the soft candle-light, and of her smooth, shapely legs in those
marvelous silk stockings with the seams running up the backs of
them. It would have been nice to have a picture of that, he
thought; but he knew he would never forget it anyway. He blew out
the candles, then stripped off his pants and slid under the covers
beside her.
With only a reflected shaft of moonlight to illuminate their
faces now, Rogue felt her confidence return and smiled at herself
for being so silly. Despite all her previous worries about what
the first time might be like, it now felt perfectly natural and
easy. Except that now, she supposed, they were getting to the
serious part . . . but that was okay. She had no doubts--only a
sense of pleasant desire and anticipation. And yes, somewhere in
the background, that damned little twinge of awareness that she had
better remember this, because it was quite possible it would never
happen again.
Suddenly, however, all Rogue was aware of was Gambit's mouth
tugging gently at her ear and his long, clever fingers stroking the
inside of her thigh. And then she felt the hot, quivering shape of
his penis poking against her tummy. She turned her head to kiss
him again, gently wrapped her hand around his member, and began
slowly, carefully stroking her fingers up and down along the length
of it. She hardly considered herself young or innocent anymore;
but in fact, apart from a few naughty pictures some other girls had
once shown her at school, she had never really gotten a good look
at an erect penis, and she wasn't sure what was normal. She had a
pretty active imagination, though; and it turned out Gambit's
manhood was a little bit thinner than she had pictured it . . . and
a lot longer.
As a matter of fact, a whore in New Orleans had once measured
Gambit's cock for him and found that it was just a smidgeon over
nine inches. But that was one little story Gambit was determined
that Rogue would never hear. By this time, she might have had a
difficult time counting to nine anyway, because his fingers had now
wandered up between her legs, nudged aside the crotch of her
panties, and begun teasing her in that most special, private place.
"Oooh, REMY!" she moaned. "What're you *doin'* to me? Ah-- ah
cain't think!"
"Don' try ta think about it, Chere," he told her, kissing her on
the mouth, and then again on her breasts. "Jus' enjoy." He
decided that as much as he liked her stockings and garters, it was
time for them to go. He unhooked the belt as deftly as he had her
bra, then unclipped the garters and tossed the dainty little
garment onto a chair beside the bed. The stockings, he felt,
deserved a little more attention. Rolling her gently onto her
side, he resumed stroking her between the legs with one hand,
causing her to gasp. With the other hand he raised her leg
slightly, and then slowly slid the top of the stocking down along
her thigh, savoring the alluring contours of her limb as his palm
glided over her knee, calf, and ankle. Then he repeated the
process on her other leg, still stroking her crotch with his other
fingers, pleased to find how wet and slippery she was getting.
"Eyk!" Rogue squeaked in sudden, delighted surprise when he
brushed a finger fully, deliberately across her clitoris for the
first time. She had grown so enraptured with what he was doing
that her hand had gone limp on his penis; but as it nudged
insistently against her belly she grasped it again and began
tugging on it rhythmically, still gently, but with increasing
determination.
Listening to Rogue's ragged breath in his ear, almost panting
now, Gambit found himself breathing heavily as well; and he
realized he had better be careful if he didn't want to come too
soon. He wanted this to be perfect, but the way Rogue was writhing
and moaning and stroking him now, he felt like he could lose it at
any moment. Scooting himself lower on the bed, he regretfully
nudged her hand away from his dangerously pulsing cock. Grasping
the waist of her well-soaked panties, he tugged them off her hips,
down her thighs, and past her knees, where she caught them with one
toe and pushed them off the rest of the way herself.
For a moment, Rogue wondered what he was doing when he didn't
slide back up beside her or climb on top. But then she felt him
grasp her knees, spreading them wide apart; and that crazy,
wonderful tongue of his began lapping at the inside of her thigh,
working its way inexorably upward.
"Oh, *Remy*, she breathed in a husky voice. "You're not gonna
. . . you're not gonna do what ah think you're doin', are you? You
don't . . . Oh!" She inhaled sharply as Gambit lifted the back of
her knees over his shoulders and began licking her right where it
counted, driving her farther and farther beyond any pleasure she
had ever imagined possible. Now he was lapping rapidly, giving her
clitoris firm, regular little flicks with the tip of his snake-like
tongue . . . and that was all it took to drive her over the edge.
"Uuuuuuggggghhhh--UGH!!!" she grunted, gasping for breath as
every muscle in her body suddenly went rigid at once. Her back
arched, her fingers dug into the mattress, and her thighs clamped
hard around Gambit's head. Unfortunately he couldn't see her face;
but at that moment, it was contorted in a strange, wonderful
grimace--lips parted over clenched teeth, eyes closed, nostrils
flared, brow twisted, a fine sheen of sweat glistening in the
moonlight. It would have been another nice picture.
Rogue's orgasm seemed to last forever, and Gambit was actually
getting short of breath when she finally began to relax again,
releasing his head from between her legs. She gave a final,
delicious shudder, and then fell totally limp. Gambit wiped the
corners of his mouth on the sheet, crawled up between her legs, and
bent down to kiss her on the cheek. She stared up at him, eyelids
heavy, mouth half-open, eyes gleaming with a look of distant
wonder.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"If you don' mind, Chere," said Gambit, "Dis ol' Cajun gonna go
crazy if he don' do somethin' else now." Rogue glanced down and
saw his penis, long, hard, and twitching, poised between her legs.
"Yeah," she sighed weakly. "Ah think *ah'm* the one who's gonna
go crazy if you keep touchin' me down there . . . but go on now and
do it. Only . . . you *do* have some kinda, well, protection,
don't ya?"
Gambit's brow suddenly knitted together, and a look of dismay
crept over his face.
"You *ain't* gonna tell me you *forgot* any, after settin' up
all the rest o' this?" Rogue demanded, suddenly sounding more like
her normal self again. Gambit gave a small, helpless shrug, then
nodded sheepishly.
"Yah dumb Cajun! Ya bayou-brain! What're ya tryin' to do, get
this girl pregnant?" Gambit's penis wilted to half-mast.
"Gambit just plain forgot," he said, mentally kicking himself
with a vengeance. "Sure didn't mean to, Chere."
Rogue propped herself up on her elbows, staring at him with a
look of exasperation. Of all the rotten luck, she thought. She
could have brought something herself, if only she'd had the
slightest notion that something like this would happen; but of
course she'd had no idea. Well, who ever said life was fair? Then
the hang-dog look on Gambit's face, plain to see even in the dim
light, reminded her that he must be feeling mighty disappointed,
too; and Rogue suddenly realized she was acting pretty selfish.
"Well, that's okay," she said mildly, feeling her own sense of
frustration abate somewhat even as she spoke. "Ah don't s'pose I
have any reason to complain about anything after what you just did
for me," she mused, as an echo of her recent ecstasy sent another
shiver down her spine. When she saw him beginning to get up from
the bed, she quickly grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.
"Hold on, Remy," she told him. "We ain't quite done here yet,
ya know."
Gambit eyed her quizzically.
"What you got in mind, Chere?" he asked.
"Well, ah don't know," she said mischievously. "But ah'll bet
we could think o' somthin'. Ah couldn't let you go runnin' off
like that, still all hot 'n' bothered, now, could ah?" She nodded
toward his penis, which had never quite entirely lost interest even
during the insults, and was now rapidly climbing back to attention.
"Better watch out," Gambit warned her. "Dat one-eyed trouser
snake can be dangerous. Might make a big mess if you ain't
careful."
"Ah'm sure ah *don't* know what you're talkin' about," Rogue
giggled. "Now suppose we just turn on this little light here, just
so ah can see what this is all about." She reached over and
switched on a small lamp on the bedside table, providing just
enough light to see clearly, and propped her head up comfortably
with a couple of pillows.
Gambit merely watched curiously, enjoying the way her bare
breasts shifted as she moved. Then she reached down to where he
was still sitting between her legs, grasped his cock with both
hands, and began stroking once again. It was well-lubricated with
pre-cum by this time, and it slid smoothly, easily through her
hands as she made them into fists and pumped them up and down,
faster and faster. His breathing soon grew rapid and shallow, and
he clenched his fists at his sides, a look of increasingly
desperate concentration on his face. Rogue watched him closely,
fascinated.
"Dat's . . . 'bout all Gambit can take," he groaned at last.
Did he mean that as an invitation to stop? Rogue wondered, but it
didn't matter. He obviously liked what she was doing, and she
wasn't about to stop now. She felt him begin to throb in her
hands, and gave him several more good jerks. Then Gambit threw his
head back, uttered an odd, strangled little croak from the back of
his throat, and began to spurt. Rogue stopped tugging but
continued to grip him tightly as his ejaculation continued,
sprinkling his warm, white fluid over her belly, breasts, and even
her face. What a strange sight it was, she thought, as she felt a
drop land on her lips. She tasted it experimentally, and decided
it was not unpleasant. Finally Gambit was finished, and he quickly
fetched a towel to clean her off before crawling back into bed
beside her.
"Ah hope ya'll liked that as much as I liked what happened a
little while ago," she said warmly, kissing him on the cheek.
"No words to describe it," he answered, "'Cept to say thank you,
Chere. Gambit always gonna remember dis." He turned out the
light, pulled the covers up around their chins, and wrapped her
snugly in his arms. It felt so natural, and so nice, that as Rogue
drifted off to sleep, she actually managed to forget about the
collar. Little did she know that it would awaken them both with a
piercing alarm when its batteries ran low, just before dawn.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Logan followed Psylocke out of the control room, he found it
impossible to keep his eyes off the bobbing shape of her tight
little ass. She glanced at him over her shoulder, her face half-
hidden by her hair, a knowing look in her eye. When they were
inside the elevator and the door slid shut, she moved toward him,
as if testing his buffer of personal space, to see if he would back
away. He stood his ground, watching her warily, until her face was
only a few inches from his and her breasts brushed lightly against
his chest. She was somewhat taller than he, and he found himself
looking directly at her mouth. Parting her lips, Psylocke ran her
tongue slowly along the upper one . . . and then the door opened.
Wolverine followed her out of the elevator, up the stairs, and
down the hallway to her room, which lay at the far end of the
mansion from his--a good place for it, he decided, hoping Jubes was
still sound asleep. Betsy paused with the door to her room
half-open, looked at him again, and then beckoned him inside with
a curl of one long, elegant finger. Her bedroom was spacious, with
a great, antique four-poster bed and a large, intricate oriental
rug on the waxed wooden floor. She leaned back against the door to
close it behind them, giving him another significant look, and then
sauntered over a tall wooden cabinet, from which she produced the
promised bottle of Chivas Royal.
"Didn't know there was any good liquor in the house," Wolverine
commented as he watched her break the seal and pour them each two
fingers in a pair of heavy crystal glasses.
"It's been waiting for some special occasion ever since I hid it
from my brother last year," she explained in a conversational tone.
"He sometimes drinks too much, you know."
"Not a good idea for somebody strong enough to derail a train,"
Logan observed, knowing that the brother she referred to was in
fact Brian Braddock, a.k.a. Captain Britain, a veritable powerhouse
with an occasionally dangerous temper.
"Quite," she agreed. "Cheers then." Their glasses clinked, and
Logan savored the liquid fire of the well-aged whisky in his
throat. Too bad for her brother, he thought; a fella sure could
acquire a taste for this stuff. Psylocke drained her glass with
neither a grimace nor any particular relish, and they stood looking
at each other. Logan realized she had somehow drifted toward him
again, although not yet quite so far as in the elevator.
"You figure this is some kinda special occasion, then?" he asked
at length.
"Do you want it to be?" She raised an eyebrow.
"You know what I want."
"Why don't you take it, then?" she replied, setting down her
glass on the table beside her bed. She inhaled deeply, causing her
breasts to rise provocatively; and Logan felt a familiar stirring
in his loins.
"Better not start somethin' you don't mean to finish, Betts," he
warned her, feeling his blood running hot.
"You don't think I'm serious? All right. Take off that silly
mask of yours, and I'll show you."
Was she going to strip for him? Well, he certainly meant to
find out. As he pulled off his mask and tossed it on the carpet
between them, Elizabeth untied the sash about her waist and let it
fall to the floor as well. Then, staring him straight in the eye,
she raised her arms, reached behind her head, and worked a small
zipper at the back of her neck. Although it only ran down a few
inches, it provided just enough slack in the tight-fitting leotard
for her to pull it forward and down over her shoulders. Logan
watched with rapt attention as she slowly tugged it lower,
revealing more and more of her cleavage, until her nipples peeked
into view over the edge of the retreating fabric. They were large,
brown, smooth, and perfectly round, just as he had often imagined
them; and he allowed himself a small grin of satisfaction at the
sight.
Elizabeth paused to caress her breasts slowly with both hands,
teasing her nipples erect, and then hooked her thumbs in the
leotard and pulled it steadily further downward, revealing her
flat, muscular abdomen and navel . . . and still lower, down over
the smooth, curving flanks of her hips, revealing a small, dark,
closely-trimmed tuft of fine black hair nestled between her legs.
He had half-expected this to be purple, too; but that would have
looked vaguely ridiculous, and that was one word he would never
associate with Psylocke. The leotard dropped down her legs to fall
around her sandalled feet, and she stepped out of it, depositing it
on top of his mask with her toe.
"Jesus Christ," Logan muttered as he ran his eyes hungrily over
the full length of her naked torso. His throat felt constricted,
and his hard-on had stiffened against his trunks like a tent-pole,
demanding release.
"You're in for it now, girl," he growled, grabbing the hem of
his shirt and whipping it off.
"Oh?" she said curiously, hands on her hips, resting her weight
on one leg and bending the other knee slightly. "Should I be
worried?"
"Maybe. Depends on how much sleep you were plannin' to get
tonight, and how much you mind bein' sore in the morning." As
Logan kicked off his boots and began unfastening his belt, he saw
Elizabeth begin to remove her gloves and arm-bands.
"Leave those," he told her. "And the sandals." She cast him a
look of mild surprise and amusement, but did as he asked.
"As you wish," she murmured.
"Yeah," he said as he stripped off his pants. "That's the right
attitude." He now wore only a pair of thin, tight black speedos,
and the head of his angry cock had pushed into view.
"Allow me," Psylocke offered, hooking her thumbs in the
waist-band.
"Suit yourself," he said, crossing his arms over his chest as
she tugged the speedos off, allowing his penis to spring free. It
was not especially long, she noted, although perhaps a bit longer
than she would have expected for his height; but it was a fat one.
It was also rock-hard and extremely hot to the touch, she
discovered when she brushed her fingers along the underside and
gave the twitching purple head a gentle squeeze. His entire
mid-section, like all the rest of him, was covered in coarse, curly
black hair, which she supposed some women might find a bit
repulsive; but fortunately she did not mind it at all. In fact,
she found it savagely arousing.
Deciding that all this eye-balling had gone on long enough,
Logan grabbed her firmly, almost roughly around the waist and
pulled her to him, clutching her sculpted ass with both hands. She
bent her head slightly to meet his lips, and their tongues
immediately began probing one another. Reaching down between the
two of them, she took hold of his cock and began stroking it,
finding it already slick; and with her other hand she began
touching herself, feeling how wet she already had become as well.
His hands gripped her butt harder, kneading the cheeks, fingers
probing her cleft.
Logan suddenly pushed Elizabeth backward, pinning her against
the door of her wardrobe. Feeling him lifting her by the hips, she
raised her legs and wrapped them around his waist, crossing her
ankles in the small of his back, and curled one arm around the back
of his neck. With her other hand, she guided the head of his
probing cock firmly against her moist, expectant gateway; and she
felt it slide smoothly inside her.
Fortunately, she had taken other, previous precautions that made
it unnecessary to worry about contraception at this point. He
apparently had similar thoughts, raising his eyebrows in an
unspoken question; and she gave him a reassuring nod. In this age
of safe sex, she mused, it was also nice to know that his
incredible mutant metabolism made him immune to any possible
disease; for he had, after all, been around the block several times
in his day.
Now that everything was where it should be, Betsy brought her
other arm up around his neck as well. Logan gave a low growl of
raw pleasure as he lowered her slowly with his hands and twisted
his hips up against her, pushing his thick prong steadily deeper;
and Betsy felt herself stretching to accommodate him until he was
lodged fully inside.
"Ah!" she gasped in his ear. "I feel so full!"
Logan said nothing, but clamped his teeth down on the side of
her neck, causing her to gasp again, more loudly. Then he began
pumping against her, thrusting steadily in and out, supporting her
and controlling her movements with his powerful grip on her
backside. She felt herself rapidly heating up toward the boiling
point, and her thoughts became clouded, her consciousness
submerging in a rising sea of liquid passion. Her legs clamped
tighter around him, and she began writhing, rubbing her breasts
urgently against his hairy chest.
Suddenly Logan's hips bucked hard against her, and she felt his
penis throb, jetting long, powerful bursts of semen deep inside
her, while his eyes rolled back and a low, animalistic gurgle
issued from somewhere in the back of his throat. The sensation
triggered Psylocke's own climax, and her head jerked backward to
bump against the wardrobe door as her entire body clenched with a
powerful shudder, back arching, legs locked, nails violently raking
Wolverine's neck and shoulders. She made no sound other than a
tiny, choking gasp; and time seemed to stop.
When Elizabeth at last managed to draw another breath, she
realized she had scratched Logan's skin hard enough to draw blood;
and he was looking at her with mild surprise. Then he devoured her
lips with another kiss. He seemed to have no intention of putting
her down, keeping a firm grip on her rump; and it was a long time
before their mouths parted.
"You're . . . an animal!" she laughed, fighting for breath.
"Yup. An' you ain't seen the half of it." She realized his
penis had remained as hard as ever inside her, even after he had
pumped out what felt like a huge amount of semen, which she
supposed must now be dripping on the floor beneath them.
Fortunately they were not standing on the carpet. Oh, God, she
realized; why hadn't she thought of this before? With his mutant
healing factor, he would of course recover almost instantly after
an ejaculation, just as the scratches she had inflicted were
already fading. What have I gotten myself into? she wondered?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: CONCLUSION
Allowing Psylocke no respite, Wolverine began stroking in and
out of her again, starting out slowly but gradually increasing the
pace until he was practically hammering her against the wardrobe,
all the while tongueing and biting at her ears, lips, and throat.
In a matter of a few moments, it seemed, Betts felt herself drawing
toward the brink of another orgasm-- and then it crashed upon her,
racking her sobbing, sweating body with such force that she lost
all control and again dug her nails into his flesh. He growled at
her but kept his tenacious grip on her fanny, skewering into her
faster and faster until his cock again erupted with a load of his
plentiful juice.
When his orgasm had passed, Logan lifted her off him, carried
her over to the bed, and laid her on her back. She felt limp and
wondered dimly whether he was finished now; but his still-rigid
penis showed no sign of relenting. He bent down to pick up
something from the floor, then turned back to her and rolled her
over on her stomach. Psylocke submitted passively as she felt him
grab her wrists, pull them behind her back, and quickly tie them
together with what she realized was her own sash. In a moment she
was bound.
"Wha- what are you doing?" she asked weakly.
"Fixin' things so you won't scratch me to ribbons next time
around," he answered, grabbing her ankles and flipping her again
onto her back. She tugged experimentally at her wrists and found
that he had tied them securely. He hastily stripped off her
sandal-boots, unwrapping the bands around her knees and thighs, and
paused a moment to run his hard palms appreciatively over the
smooth, flawless length of her magnificent legs.
"Does this turn you on?" she taunted him. "Would you like me to
pretend it's rape?"
"Don't matter to me none," he muttered, nudging her knees apart
and drawing her long, athletic legs over his hips. "How 'bout you,
Betts?" Kneeling on the edge of the bed before her, he grasped her
hips and slid his indefatigable cock back into her molten depths,
feeling her muscles clench tightly around him. "Does it turn *you*
on, havin' somebody else in control for a change?"
"I . . . I . . . uh!" She found it hard to speak again as he
began rutting into to her without mercy, driving the breath from
her lungs with every thrust. Yes, she admitted to herself: it
*did* turn her on, being dominated this way; and she dug her heels
into his brawny, hairy buttocks. After a while he paused briefly
to grab her legs behind the knees and force her thighs back against
her chest, bending her double and increasing her feeling of
helplessness, before resuming his persistent, plunging attack. She
planted her feet flat against his chest, pushing feebly against him
with the half-formed thought of gaining some breathing-space; but
he would have none of it and gripping her firmly around the waist,
allowing her no escape. Wet and slippery as it was, her vagina was
beginning to feel rather tender from his relentless stroking and
pounding.
But the line between pleasure and pain is, after all, a fine
one; and Psylocke's thoughts soon began to dissolve in a familiar
flow of ecstasy. She was dimly aware that he had raised her calves
over his shoulders, giving himself even fuller access to her
helpless, writhing body, pistoning in and out of her, in and out,
grunting, sweating, penetrating her, using her . . . and making her
come. Again. And again. And . . .
* * *
Logan had just begun gushing yet another goodly load of his
potent mutant spunk deep inside his partner when he realized she
had passed out. Reluctantly slowing his thrusts to a halt, he
lowered her legs to the bed on either side of him, but did not
withdraw from her. Cupping one hand around the back of her head,
he raised it slightly and brushed a strand of her damp, bedraggled
hair from her eyelids. Her mouth hung open, jaw slack.
"Betts, you okay?" He slapped her lightly, twice, and her eyes
fluttered. She drew a deep breath.
"Logan? Wha- oh. Oh my. How long?"
"Dunno." He gave another tentative thrust of his hips, moving
slightly inside her.
"Ah," she gasped, closing her eyes. "I'm getting sore."
"Okay," he said, regretfully pulling out of her tight, slippery
warmth. He had known it would only be a matter of time, and she
already had shown more stamina than any other woman he could
remember. But damn, if he wasn't still horny! Looking at her,
sprawled there on her back, looking helpless, breasts thrust up and
apart by the way her arms were bound behind her, made it hard to
hold himself in check.
"You're still hard," Psylocke observed, her voice weak,
betraying a mixture of exasperation and awe.
"Yup. Tough to stop once I get started. Mind if I try
somethin' else?"
"Go ahead." She looked up at him dumbly as he climbed over her
legs to straddle her chest, with his knees planted on either side
of her, and slid his slippery, twitching, insatiable cock between
her breasts. Taking the latter in both hands, he pushed them
together to embrace his member, stirring her nipples with his
thumbs as he began thrusting his hips forward and back.
"You're somethin' else, Betts," Logan told her, beginning to
sound just a bit winded himself, after he had spilled still another
load of pearly drops all over her chest, throat, and face. She
didn't seem to hear him, however; and he saw that her face was
screwed up in a look of far-away concentration, eyes clamped shut,
breathing short and sharp. He felt how hard her nipples were, and
continued brushing, teasing, twiddling them with his thumbs and
fingers, until her jaw clenched tight and she uttered a strangled
sort of croak, shuddering heavily beneath him. At last she seemed
to relax, breathing again, and opened her eyes. He began sliding
his cock along her warm, slippery cleavage again.
"My God," she breathed. "I didn't know I could do that--I mean,
just from being touched there."
"Don't say I never taught you nothin', then," he grunted,
feeling the makings of another numberless orgasm beginning to coil
tightly in his loins. "Like I was sayin' . . . (grunt); you're
somethin' else. I don't think even I've ever felt like carryin' on
quite this long. Don't know what it is--you just do somethin' to
me, I guess. I can't stop."
Psylocke looked up at him with a sense of amused, frustrated
wonder as he closed his eyes and continued plugging away, lost in
his own animal pleasure. Lord only knew what time it was now.
What was she going to do with him? If she suggested she'd had
enough of this, she had a feeling he would just want to have a go
at her bum instead--which might be interesting, she thought; but
not right now. She wanted to sleep. Then, suddenly, she knew what
to do. It involved some risk; but that, after all, was what made
life worthwhile. She gave a secret little smile and began focusing
her concentration for the task.
Among her many other talents, Psylocke was an accomplished
escape artist. Consequently, now that she had decided to do so, it
was a simple matter to slip Wolverine's knot and free her wrists
from the sash. Spearing madly between her breasts in his latest
bout of hyper-virile frenzy, he took no notice of what she was
doing. She kept her hands beneath her until she was ready, then
reached up suddenly to lay her long, sinuous fingers on his
temples. He opened his eyes in surprise; but even had he tried to
stop her, it was now too late.
When Psylocke struck people with her "psychic knife", what she
actually did was to disrupt their synaptic functions, making them
lose control of voluntary motor functions. This involved no
inherent discomfort, but in the process she usually stimulated
their pain-centers as well, which could inflict hideous agony if
she so chose. Having experienced her power before, Wolverine
instantly recognized what was happening as he suddenly lost control
of his muscles. Christ, he thought; maybe he had been a little
rough on her tonight, but he didn't really deserve this, did he?
Instead of inducing pain, however, this time Psylocke used her
power in a careful, precisely-controlled manner to prod directly at
Logan's neural pleasure-centers; and the resulting sensation defied
any possible description. Already at the brink of orgasm, he felt
himself washed away in a cataclysmic torrent of raw, overwhelming,
hedonistic rapture, unlike anything he had ever known. His body,
it seemed, had dissolved into liquid, and with it his mind and
soul, becoming one with a universe where everything was right.
Before she could grab him, he keeled over backwards, landing on the
floor with a heavy thud.
For a moment, Betsy worried that perhaps she had missed her mark
and caused him harm; but when she sat up and crawled to the edge of
the bed to look at him, she saw that she had done exactly what she
meant to. His face was slack, a thread of spittle leaking from his
mouth; and his eyes seemed to be staring off into the infinite
distance--more or less how people looked when she "knifed" them the
normal way, but somehow she could tell this time that the trip she
had sent him on had carried him to bliss. And at long last, his
penis had gone limp.
* * *
Unfortunately, surveying the gooey mess Logan had made of
everything, including her, Betsy decided she would have to tidy up
a bit before she could go to sleep. First, she pulled off the
soaked bed-covers and cast them into the laundry hamper. Then she
stepped over his prostrate form and into the bathroom to attend to
herself. When she emerged a few minutes later, wrapped in a thick,
soft terrycloth robe and winding her long, wet hair in a towel, she
saw that he had managed to struggle up to a half- sitting position,
propped against the bed; but his arms still lay limp at his sides,
and he couldn't seem to speak or focus his eyes clearly.
"Poor dear," she murmured, and dragged him into the shower to
clean him off. He finally managed to stagger unsteadily to his
feet again about ten minutes later, with the support of an arm
wrapped around Betsy's slender but strong shoulders.
"Guh- God, woman," he managed to mumble with difficulty. "Never
dreamed you could do that."
"I seem to recall someone saying once, `Don't say I never Taught
you anything.'"
"Touche," he grinned weakly. "Hand me those pants, will ya,
Betts?" She did so, steadying him has he pulled them on. "I'd
like to stay an' snuggle," he explained, "but I figure I'd better
get outta here if we ain't lookin' ta start any rumors."
"I suppose you're right," she yawned.
"You know," Logan said, pausing with his hand on the door- knob,
"I normally make it a rule not to take up with anybody I gotta work
with later. Tends ta complicate things on a job, an' that can be
dangerous."
"Well," said Elizabeth, "I suppose that's generally a wise
policy." She leaned against the door-frame beside him and gave him
a final, lingering kiss. As she withdrew, her robe fell partway
open, irresistably drawing his eyes back to her astonishing
breasts. "But just this once," she suggested, "perhaps you could
say there were extenuating circumstances."
END