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.