X-tenuating Circumstances: An Unauthorized Tale of One Night in the Private Lives of the X-Men Anonymous; October, 1994 DISCLAIMER: The X-Men (c) and individual members thereof are the creative property of Marvel Comics and appear in this story without permission. Some chapters contain graphic descriptions of heterosexual acts between (mostly) consenting adults. If this sort of thing offends you, or if you're under age 18, DON'T READ THIS! The author welcomes thoughtful comments. * * * AUTHOR'S NOTE: Several readers have asked the same good question: where does this story fall within the continuity of published X-events? I did not devote a lot of attention to this question before writing this, so there may be some discrepancies, which I would be happy to have pointed out; but basically the story would fall sometime between the appearance of "Revanche", ca. X-Men 21-24, and Scott & Jean's wedding. I really appreciate the questions and comments so far. Enjoy! * * * 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 straightened 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.