Rated NC-17 E-mail: astarte@uia.net Pairing: Picard/Q Disclaimer: The principal characters are the property of Paramount/Viacom. No copyright infringement is intended, and no financial profit is anticipated. Summary: After the events in "First Contact," Picard and Q have to some really serious work on the power dynamics of their relationship. Warning: BDSM. Note: Unlike Douglas Adams, I cannot describe this as the fourth book in a trilogy, since it is, in fact, the third installment in a series, the first two parts being "She Moves in Mysterious Ways" and "With or Without You." This story will make more sense if you've read the first two. It takes place during and after the events in First Contact. In this particular universe, Q's visits to Voyager never happened. Until the End of the World You led me on with those innocent eyes And you know I love the element of surprise In the garden I was playing the tart I kissed your lips and broke your heart You, you were acting like it was the end of the world --U2, "Until the End of the World," _Achtung Baby_ (Island Records, 1991) Imprisoned in the fiery core of a remote planet, the entity writhed in frustration. He was not physically uncomfortable, as he had taken on the form of a flame himself. He just wanted *out*! His omniscience had not been fettered, so he could observe events anywhere in space and time; his power to remove himself from his situation, however, had been temporarily taken from him. While a small inner voice reminded him that there was good reason for this, he didn't care. His beloved was in danger, really serious danger, and he was forbidden to interfere. As was his wont when trapped and helpless, he cursed fluently in every language ever spoken in the Milky Way galaxy as he watched the starship Enterprise (in her fifth incarnation) follow a Borg sphere back in time to the 21st century. So far, Q was not surprised as events transpired. That Jean-Luc would initially obey Starfleet's ludicrous orders to keep out of the battle was predictable, as was his decision not only to violate those orders but to take command of the fleet. He knew Jean-Luc well enough to understand that he would never entirely recover from his assimilation by the Borg years earlier. So much of what had constituted Picard's sense of himself, of his identity, of his capabilities, had been shattered--Jean-Luc had been raped to his very core, and the rage, the helplessness, and the guilt over his role in the battle of Wolf 359 would never entirely leave him. Jean-Luc kept such a tight lock on his emotions, that when they did erupt, they erupted in volcanic fashion. Even in his relationship with Q, he had burst into a rage on more than one occasion in reaction to Q's ability to get under his skin and search out his vulnerabilities. Giving up control to Q was both exhilarating and terrifying for Jean-Luc; to have his control wrenched from him against his will was an experience that he would never really learn to live with. Being handed the opportunity to pursue vengeance, Jean-Luc was likely to snap any minute. As the Borg began establishing their collective in the Enterprise-E's engineering section, unbeknownst to the crew, Q seethed with helplessness. It was his fault, all his fault that Jean-Luc had been chosen by the Borg in the first place. Just as Picard did not easily lose control, Q did not readily feel guilt or regret for prior actions. But when he did feel guilty, it overwhelmed him. The Continuum knew he wouldn't be able to resist the desire to help his lover, and as soon as the Borg began their invasion, they had locked him up here, able to watch, but unable to act. Jean-Luc was on his own and on the verge of a psychic meltdown, and there was nothing Q could do. * * * The dream again . . . he was part of the Borg collective . . . helpless, violated, furious . . . being turned into a machine, a tool . . . the continuous intrusive whispers, the subvocal chatter of the Borg collective . . . and her voice, sinuously wrapping itself around him, breathing, almost chanting, the name "Locutus" into his brain . . . he was a machine--he was used to betray his own, to kill his own people . . . and still her Siren voice luring him . . . Later he would wonder where he had found the strength to resist her demands that he join her willingly--why could he steel himself against her but not against his forced betrayal of the Federation? He seemingly woke from the dream, went to the sink to wash his face, looked in the mirror, and . . . a steely point burst out of his cheek. The admiral's message that mercifully woke him was expected, but he cursed his absurd orders, pressing his fists to his eyes to push back the tears of frustration. While the Enterprise languished uselessly near the Neutral Zone, he tried to numb himself with music loud enough to rattle the objects in his ready room. It crashed around his ears, as he fought to keep himself under control. Standing by the viewport, he felt terribly alone and terribly small and wondered where Q was. He didn't know if Q would be allowed to help him or not, but even his sarcasm and mockery would be a comfort now. The mirror Q held up to him was terrifying, and their encounters forced him to face his deepest fears and desires--giving up control to Q seemed unutterably dangerous yet strangely irresistable, for even at his most vulnerable moments with the entity, Jean-Luc felt an odd sense of security. Q was a constant in the universe, and having a constant around would be really reassuring right about now. Trying to block out his thoughts of the Borg, he mentally revisited Q's last visit to the Enterprise. The games they had played had grown much more serious as the months passed, and Q had slid up behind Jean-Luc, slipping a pair of old-fashioned handcuffs on his wrists before he had time to react . . . Picard did not hear the door chime or his first officer's entrance until Riker's reflected image appeared beside his in the viewport. He switched off the music, noting that he had regained a good deal of his composure. Underneath his sarcastic demeanor as he conversed with Riker, a hard kernel of determination was growing, and it was a welcome change from the earlier flood of helpless, fuming panic. * * * Q continued observing Picard's progress in trying to regain his ship from the Borg. His attention was momentarily diverted by Data's encounter with the Borg Queen. Q noted Data's flicker of temptation and his resolution to deceive his seductress. *You're a good man, Data,* thought Q to himself. A powerful burst of emotion flashed on Q's consciousness, and he writhed helplessly as he watched an out-of- control Picard gunning down the Borg drones on the holodeck. Jean-Luc was howling all his rage as he pumped bullets into what was already a corpse. *He's lost it . . . totally lost it. Jean-Luc, you've got to get your act together* murmured the entity silently. Fortunately, the woman with him seemed to be a good influence on him. Picard marshalled his self-control, methodically retrieving the chip which contained orders from the Borg collective from the body of former crewman. Q didn't like Picard's apparent obliviousness to the horror of his task; it was almost more frightening than the loss of control minutes earlier. Earlier, Picard had felt a helpless agony when he had to kill an injured crewman to prevent his assimilation. There was no torment now, as if he had to dehumanize himself to combat this inhuman enemy. *Not a good sign,* thought Q. Later, when Lily burst into Picard's ready room to demand that he destroy the ship, Picard insisted that he was not pursuing revenge, that humans had evolved beyond that pursuit. *Oh BULLSHIT Johnny! Who the hell are you kidding?* Q mentally exploded. When Picard smashed his phaser rifle into the display case, Q flamed in frustration. *He needs me, you assholes,* he moaned at his imprisoners. *Can't you see he needs me?* Q was mistaken. With her dry refusal to be intimidated and her lack of awareness of the mystique that surrounded the Captain, Lily defused Picard's rage, allowing him to realize that his single-minded quest for vengeance was interfering with his judgment. Picard emerged from the ready room and began the self-destruct sequence. Q tried to calm himself, realizing that Picard had events under control. When Picard headed off to Engineering to try to save Data, Q relaxed into a moderate smouldering burn, just enough to keep his own temperature equal to that of the planet's core. He knew, where Picard did not, that Data had remained loyal to the Federation and, in fact, had a plan to trick the Borg Queen, thereby saving the Enterprise and protecting Zephrem Cochrane's warp flight. While remaining mostly preoccupied with Picard, Q had kept part of his attention on Data, and he was fascinated by Data's response to the Borg Queen. *You really could do better, my professor of the humanities,* thought Q to himself. At this point, events played out along a predictable pattern. Picard readily climbed away from the rushing plasma, while the Borg drones and their Queen had their flesh seared away agonizingly. Q had no pity for the Borg; he was confident enough in Picard at this point that he could admire the man's muscular arms, as Picard pulled himself out of danger. Yet even Q gave a mental shudder later when Picard, after inspecting the metallic spine of the Borg Queen, snapped it in a brief resurgence of fury. *He *did* enjoy that,* mused Q, *and that woman was right that he enjoyed killing the Borg in the holodeck as well. Oh, Johnny, what have they done to you? What have *I* done to you?* Q's guilt for initially introducing Picard to the Borg began once more to overwhelm him, as he ignored an inner voice that told him he really hadn't done the wrong thing. Picard had told him the same thing, but Q insisted it was all his fault. It had pained him terribly to see Picard's suffering at the hands of the Borg, but it pained him a great deal more to see Picard's transformation, however temporary. He knew it was almost impossible to combat a great evil without taking on the characteristics of your enemy, but to see that chilling, ruthless, murderous determination in his Jean-Luc was horrifying, and it was all his fault. He had begun to flame and writhe again, but he knew that the Continuum would not release him until the Enterprise returned to its own time. *Big fiddling deal,* muttered Q to himself when the Vulcan ship landed in Montana. *All First Contact did was give humans a vastly inflated sense of themselves, without deserving it. Now they think their precious Federation is essential to the existence of the galaxy, with all their silly rules and directives.* The first encounter between humans and Vulcans held no interest for him; he had observed such meetings on many, many planets, and frankly, they weren't nearly as momentous as the participants believed. Q was rather more interested in Picard's affectionate fondness for that woman, Lily. Under different circumstances, Q could see Picard being seriously attracted to her, and she certainly would have been better for him than that irritating Dr. C. He had to admit he admired the way Lily had handled him; if Picard had needed anything during the crisis, it was someone who *didn't* automatically look up to him as some kind of deity incarnate. Q almost had to laugh as he recalled Lily's deadpan response to Picard's display of temper: "You broke your little ships." *You tell him, sister* thought Q to himself. But he also had to admit that Lily had probably handled Picard much better than he himself would have had he been there. She had said and done all the right things, and Q suspected he would have done just the opposite, inflaming Picard even more without even meaning to. He watched Picard give Lily a quick kiss on the cheek before beaming up to the Enterprise and thought, dismally, *He doesn't need me. He can do fine without me. And he certainly doesn't need someone who puts him in danger and turns him into a monster. Someone like that Lily is what he needs, not me.* In his self-pity, Q inadvertently let his own energy simply drain away, until a flash of heat and pain from the fire in which he was imprisoned reminded him he had to protect himself, and he forced himself to flame up again. * * * In the aftermath of the Enterprise's return to its own time, Picard was too busy the first several weeks to stop and think. And Q stayed away, alternating between blaming himself for what had happened, being jealous of Lily, and feeling like he was no longer needed. In a massive sulk (something he had a particular talent for), he ignored Picard's periodic mental summons. Picard meanwhile had to answer to a Board of Inquiry for his deliberate disobedience of orders, but since the originator of those orders was dead, and the results of Picard's disobedience spoke for themselves, he and his bridge crew were eventually both exonerated and commended. Data was making regular visits with Troi to talk about his mixed feelings about the Borg Queen and her attempted seduction of him. Both he and Picard couldn't help wondering if she still existed in some incarnation with the Borg in the Delta Quadrant. Repairs were underway on the Enterprise and other ships, and Picard made a point of contacting personally or visiting the families of as many of his dead crewmembers as he could. Many were awarded posthumous commendations, but knowing just what his people had suffered began to make Picard's anger at the Borg begin to boil up again more and more as he spoke to their families. His meeting with Lieutenant Hawke's parents and partner was particularly difficult; this was a courageous and competent member of his crew who had nearly murdered him after infection by the Borg. Worf had had to kill Hawke to save the Captain. Tears had welled in Picard's eyes as he spoke of the young lieutenant to his family. "I'm so sorry . . . " he had murmured, the horror coming back to him even more strongly. "We don't blame you, Captain," Hawke's partner had said softly; "we knew the dangers, and so did he. It's just hard to accept . . . that he's not coming back." After Picard mercifully escaped that ordeal, he took a shuttle back to his ship, finally able to take some time for himself. He had been granted a leave, but there really wasn't anywhere else he wanted to go. During the shuttle trip, he kept a tight lock on his emotions, barely speaking to the young pilot, for fear of releasing all his anger and pain. He made a quick check on the progress of the repairs, then fled to his quarters, still haunted by the image of Hawke turning into a monster before his eyes. He paced his rooms for hours, angry all over again. Killing the Borg who had invaded his ship was not enough. He wished he could storm into the Delta Quadrant and incinerate them all, and he kept being haunted by the thought of what if they came back? Finally, exhausted, his brain spinning in turmoil, he collapsed on his bed and sobbed aloud, "I want to kill them all! Every fucking one of them!" He fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, but was tortured with nightmares. He was huge, trampling Borg cubes under his boots. He was blowing away one Borg drone after another with a phaser rifle; their adjusting shields were ineffective, and he killed one after another with furious, unremitting glee, slicing off heads and limbs with cruel precision. He led a fleet into the Delta Quadrant, destroying one Borg cube after another, the phasers and photon torpedoes firing and firing again. Yet the violence did nothing to mitigate the furious rage,which kept boiling higher. The Borg cubes began morphing into Romulan Birds-of-Prey and Cardassian warships and Ferengi vessels, and still the destructive binge went on . . . And then her voice in his head, that Siren-voice, almost chanting, "Locuuutus, you're one of us. You always were and always will be Locutus of Borg . . . " Picard awoke, howling "NOOOOOO!" and woke up weeping. After a shower he was able to pull himself together, but was grateful he had no really important responsibilities for a few weeks. The nightmares came back every night, without fail. Sometimes he was Locutus, leading a Borg invasion of the Federation; sometimes he was Picard destroying one Federation enemy after another. Sometimes he watched helplessly as his crew and his friends, one after the other, morphed into Borg drones: Data, Riker, Crusher, Troi, Worf, LaForge. Sometimes Benjamin Sisko appeared, thrusting a picture of his dead wife into Picard's face. And his dreams had a soundtrack of Q's mocking laughter, and a sentence circling in his head: "The hall is rented, the orchestra engaged; it's now time to see if you can *dance*." And each morning he woke up, taking less time to recover from the nightmares and becoming more and more adept at locking down his emotions when he had work to do, but invariably wondering, where was Q? * * * Where Q was was staying away. He didn't know how to help Picard--being comforting was never his strong point--; he was sure he would only make things worse; he felt more and more guilty about his own role in what was happening to Picard; and he was gradually channelling both his guilt and his helplessness into an increasing anger that Picard didn't seem to need him. He knew about the nightmares, and he heard Picard "calling" him, but he had convinced himself that Picard was better off without him. At the same time, an insistently louder voice in Q's mind was saying, "How dare he?" Acting on a suddenly irresistable impulse, Q decided it was time to make an impression. Picard was reading that evening, trying to shield himself from the thoughts that inevitably pressed on him whenever he was alone, when he suddenly heard the sound of a pair of hands clapping slowly, sarcastically, one clap after the other. And then a voice oozing a similar sarcasm: "Well, well, hail the conquering hero! Defeated the Big Bad Borg, did he? Must have felt really good snapping her spine, after she was already dead, hmm? What a brave man you are! So you've *evolved* beyond revenge, have you, *human*? You want to obliterate every Borg in the galaxy so bad you can just *taste*it, don't you?" At this point, Q shimmered into sight, leaning against a wall, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes glittering preternaturally, as if a mere human form could not contain all his withering fury. Picard had dropped his book the moment he heard the clapping, knowing the source immediately, but not understanding the tone. During Q's brief tirade, Picard's face turned whiter and whiter. He had been sure that Q would be the only one who would understand his torture, the only one who could help him. And now he was crushed, hurt, his defenses shredded, tears welling dangerously behind his eyes. He bit the inside of his lip savagely, and forced the tears back. With every bit of control he had, he spoke in a voice of pure ice, without a quaver: "You're a fine one to talk, Q. At least I don't gloat over defeating *inferior* species with tricks and rigged challenges, and I don't waste my time playing games with insects, as you seem to consider us. The survival of the Federation was at stake, and I did what I had to do." "Federation, shmederation," sighed Q. "If you were only concerned about your duty, you would have evacuated your ship and destroyed it the moment you learned that the Borg had beamed aboard. You knew you couldn't win it back without losing large numbers of your crew. But they were expendable, weren't they? You'd expend the rest of them right now if you could destroy the entire Borg collective, wouldn't you?" Picard fought back a flash of nausea; Q's words rang frighteningly true--what kind of monster was he, dreaming genocide and destruction? He replied, however, in a flat voice, "A starship posting is, by definition, hazardous duty. Much as we want to pursue peace, there are times when self-defense takes the highest priority. That's the way it is with the Borg. That's why you exposed us to them, isn't it? To show us that there were dangers we were unprepared for." Q blinked sharply at Picard's reminder of Q's role, fighting to keep from revealing his own sense of guilt. He snapped, "Oh, don't mouth platitudes at me, human. You know you'd do anything to wipe them out--why don't you start being honest with yourself?" "What I might *want* emotionally and what I might *do* are two different things, Q. I know I made mistakes during that last encounter. I'm not being dishonest with myself. I was *hoping* I might be able to work some of my feelings out by talking to *you*. I was *hoping* you knew me well enough to understand I'd need some help. But *no*. I'm only interesting to you when you want a plaything, someone who's enough of a challenge for you to try to master. Someone to play games with. How entertaining--to get Jean-Luc Picard to admit his darkest desires, to persuade him to expose himself to your Godlike scrutiny . . . But when I actually need some help, some support, then, where are you?" Picard's voice began to waver dangerously. "I trusted you . . . A mistake apparently . . . I . . . thought you . . . understood . . . cared . . . Of course not . . . you can't . . . you don't . . . know how . . ." Picard trailed off, his voice dropping gradually almost to a whisper, as if he was talking to himself. Picard shook his head, and turned around, trying to will the rising tears back inside their ducts. Q kept his features frozen while Picard spoke. Inside, however, he felt each phrase as a dagger twist. As he so often did, Q swamped his surging hurt feelings with rage. He spoke in an even, detached, almost bored tone, each word laced with the slightest layer of venom: "You're right, of course, Picard. Since I'm obviously no good for you, perhaps you'd be better off with someone who is." As Picard disappeared from his own quarters with a burst of light, a realization struck him, *Oh, so *that's* what's going on. I should have known.* * * * After the excitement of the first meeting with extraterrestials was being channeled into the real work of continuing space exploration, Lily Sloane was plenty busy. But, still, at night, she wondered. The meeting with the Vulcans had been almost anticlimactic for her, after her visit to the starship from the future and the terrifying encounters with the Borg. The future looked simultaneously ominous and inviting. The Enterprise had thrilled her with its unimaginable technology, and she had been impressed with the dedication of the crew. And she had been pretty impressed with the Captain as well. Oh, he certainly had the makings of a pompous and arrogant ass, but you couldn't deny his sheer courage and determination, and that smile of his and the touch of his hand radiated a warmth and genuine interest she had encountered in few men. It's not as though men were usually her thing, but this time she could see the attraction. It had been such a relief when he had transported down to the surface and reported that his ship and crew were safe and that he had found his friend. On this night, like others, she stared out the window at the stars, ignoring her dinner, musing about Jean-Luc and about the future he represented. And the damnedest thing was that he wasn't even born yet, not even close. Then there was a flash of light in her room, which made her jump, startled, out of her chair. And he was standing there, exclaiming, "Damn it, Q, don't do this!" "Jean-Luc?" she queried, wonderingly. "Lily." His anger melted into a warm smile. "I'm so sorry, Lily, I'm not supposed to be here, and this truly wasn't my doing." "Well, I can't say I'm sorry to see you," she remarked with a grin. "Ah, Lily, I'm not sorry to see you either," he replied, then paused, glancing skyward, before adding, "But *someone* is apparently sorry we ever met." "I would have though you would have evolved beyond jealousy in the 24th century, Jean-Luc." He grinned. "I deserved that. Jealously seems to be a constant . . . even among species that are supposedly *much* more advanced than we are!" He spoke with emphasis, obviously addressing his remarks to an unseen listener. "You said something to someone named . . . Q?" "Yes. He has the ability to travel through time effortlessly . . . and he seems to be trying to make a point, though what that point is, precisely, escapes me," snapped Picard dryly. "Boyfriend?" asked Lily. "Boyfriend? Oh . . . ah . . . Q. Yes, actually, although it's not the term I would have chosen. And I seem to have seriously annoyed him--never a good idea with a lover who's nearly omnipotent." "Your boyfriend is omnipotent? There's a lot you didn't tell me about this future of yours, Jean-Luc. The sex must incredible." "Well, as a matter of fact . . . " replied Picard with an embarrassed grin. Lily grinned back, imagining the possibilities. "You're a lucky man, Jean-Luc, but it wouldn't at all surprise me that a god would be after you. So why's he named Q? Are his brothers P and R?" "It's a long story . . . ," sighed Picard. "On the other hand, I have no idea how long he intends to deposit me here." "Where *are* my manners?" exclaimed Lily. I was just sitting down to a fine meal of chips and salsa, accompanied by a vintage beer. Care to join me? But be careful--I like the hot stuff." "That doesn't surprise me," laughed Jean-Luc. "I'd love to join you." After Lily opened a bottle of beer for her visitor and brought a bowl of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa to the table, she asked, "So what's it like having an omnipotent boyfriend? I mean, I've had girlfriends who thought they were the Goddess's gift to womankind, but that's not quite the same thing." Picard laughed. "No, nothing in my prior experience is quite the same thing as Q. As you guessed, he can use his powers in some . . . very provocative ways. I'm quite spoiled for anyone else." *Pity,* thought Lily to herself, taking a swig of beer. "He's also not exactly a *he,*" Picard continued. "His species don't have genders, or even separate names. They're all called Q. He first presented himself to us as a human male, quite a bit taller than I, on the assumption that he would be more intimidating that way. But when he set out to seduce me, he appeared as a female." "Kinky . . ." mused Lily, aloud. "What? Oh! Well that too," stammered Picard, embarrassed again, as a memory of a recent visit of Q's came to mind. * * * He had come as Catherine, but in full dominatrix regalia, black leather bodysuit, stiletto-heeled boots, and with a riding crop and flogger dangling from her belt. Picard had stood gaping, while feeling a stirring that told him just how great an impression Catherine was making. She had snapped, "On your knees, boy!", and when he had complied so quickly he surprised himself, she had whisked away his clothing with a sweep of her hand, and proceeded to tug on and pinch his nipples with scarlet fingernails. "Oh, you don't miss a trick, do you?" Picard had murmured, willing himself to resist. "No, I don't, Johnny, and don't forget I can see right through you," she had said, circling around him. She had then stopped in front of him, lightly grasped his chin with one hand, and delivered an explosive slap to his cheek. It had been horrible; Picard was overcome simultaneously by a towering rage and by an overwhelming urge to submit completely. He had felt that before--a terrifyingly compelling desire to lose himself in Q and an equally compelling need to defend himself. Rage won out, and he had leapt to his feet. His voice hoarse and tight, he gasped, "Q, don't you ever do that again!" "Why not, Johnny?" taunted Q/Catherine. "Because you liked it too much?" "You! . . . I . . . " Picard had sputtered helplessly, his hands gripped tightly together, as if to stop himself from throttling his tormentor. Catherine had walked up to him deliberately, again positioned his chin with one hand and slapped him again. As soon as the slap cracked upon his cheek, a burst of light flashed, and he found himself standing bound to rings that had materialized in the floor of his quarters and chains suspended from the ceiling. "Damn it, Q!" Catherine had stood in front of him, lazily swinging her flogger. "If you want me to leave, Johnny, I will. Otherwise, my boy, it's time for you to shut up. You wanted to be defeated, and you were. Now can you take what I'm going to dish out? Don't answer aloud--just nod, or shake your head. If you shake your head, I'm out of here." Picard had nodded, unable to resist the temptation to lose himself in Q/Catherine's mastery. Once in restraints, he had begun to relax. He learned very early on in his relationship with Q, back when Q used only his powers to immobilize him in a variety of humiliating and accessible positions, that at that point the game was over. Q was going to have his way with Jean-Luc, and nothing would prevent him unless Jean-Luc asked him to stop. It was never easy; as Q had begun with each visit to increase the explicitness of his bondage techniques--using physical restraints for show, as he obviously didn't *need* to use them--*and* had begun to increase the severity of the sensations he inflicted, Jean-Luc felt more and more compelled to resist Q's seizing of control. But ultimately, he had to give in, with just the tiniest core of resistance still burning inside him. He had realized early on just how free he felt in Q's restraints, and he learned eventually, too, that he had an avid taste for erotic pain. While Q, in turn, had occasionally let Picard master *him*, both quickly tired of that particular game. Picard would be moved by Q's submission, but he could never forget where the power really lay. On the occasions when Jean-Luc had the upper hand, it was only because Q was allowing him to have it, and it began to feel artificial after a few months. Resisting Q and being subdued by him felt much more natural and was much more enticing. It also allowed Picard to avoid acknowledging how much he wanted everything Q did to him--until he was already so aroused that he had no choice *but* to acknowledge it. That time with Catherine had been no different. Secure in restraints and spread- eagled, Jean-Luc could let Q take over because, after all, Jean-Luc couldn't get away, and somehow the word "stop" never made it past his lips. Now that he was helpless, Catherine had taken the opportunity to tease him all over with her fingernails, pinching his nipples, his thighs, and his ass, completely maddening Jean-Luc who couldn't help longing for the satisfying thud of the flogger, with its wide leather strips. Catherine had come up in front of Jean-Luc and kissed him hard, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth so she could bite on it sharply, while her victim moaned. She had then unhooked the flogger from her belt, swinging it lazily and playfully at Jean-Luc's thighs, so that a leather strip would occasionally caress his prominent and aching erection. Still feeling humiliated from the slaps to his face, Jean-Luc had made the mistake of trying to assert himself once again, growling, "Will you just get on with it?" from between clenched teeth. Catherine had laughed delightedly, remarking, "You are going to regret *that*, Johnny-boy. Yes, I'll get on with it, but you'll be sorry later." She had then taken a position behind him and had begun to flog him. Thud after thud landed on his back, his ass, and his thighs. Each one carried that intoxicating rush of heat that Picard had learned to crave from the first time Q had beat him-- wrestling him to his knees after an unusually determined show of resistance, pinning his arms behind his back, and then materializing a hard leather paddle. The first smack had sent a shock of desire through Jean-Luc's system--his own horribly humiliating dreams and fantasies had suggested to him that might have a masochistic streak, but it had taken actual experience for him to be forced to realize how extensively that masochism, combined with a desire to surrender control to someone more powerful, pervaded him. As Catherine's flogger kept slapping at him, each blow reverberating straight through to his throbbing member, Picard had closed his eyes and revelled in the sensation. There was something comforting in being mastered by Q, despite the humiliation--after all, who could withstand an omnipotent being? That notion was enough to allow Jean-Luc to distance himself from his own desires--Q was infinitely more powerful, and Jean-Luc just couldn't help himself. For some reason, the fact that he could tell Q to stop at any time just didn't seem to have any relevance . . . The flogger had merely been a warm-up. Catherine had then switched to the riding crop. After the first few strokes slashed red streaks across his ass, Picard had been once again reminded that an omnipotent being could keep this up forever without tiring, as he felt the crop producing welts with every perfectly aimed stroke. It hurt, of course, but pain was easier to take than humiliation for Picard, and he indulged a perverse pride in his own ability to withstand it. Since he couldn't defeat Q in any way, his only real power was in being able to take whatever Q wanted to dish out, and he felt stronger and stronger as the severity of the strokes increased. When it seemed that every square inch of his ass was covered with welts, Catherine had delivered a resounding smack on each cheek with her hand, then declared, "*Now* I'm really going to make you suffer, boy!" In a flash, Jean-Luc found himself spread-eagled on his back on the floor, again secured to restraints that Catherine had materialized for the occasion. While he squirmed because of the sensation of the carpet against his raw behind, she had then carefully buckled an elaborate cock ring on him with two leather straps snugly fastened around his balls. Jean-Luc groaned with humiliation and agony. He could barely stand the roughness of the carpet beneath him, and Catherine was pinching his genitals with her perfect scarlet fingernails in a way that was utterly agonizing. She had then stood over him, slowly removing her clothes, while providing a pillow for his head that allowed him a better angle to watch her strip. "Utter perfection," Jean-Luc had whispered, "that's what you are, my lady." "Good boy," crooned Catherine in return. "I will now grant you the privelege of pleasing *me*, but don't forget that you're still in trouble." She had knelt over his face, and he had immediately gone to work. Jean-Luc had a real gift in this area, and Q made a point of showing up in female form just so she/he could take advantage of Jean-Luc's talented tongue. That tongue had been tracing a delicate path from just inside her cunt to her clit, back and forth. With Picard, Q/Catherine delighted in exploiting the full resources of a human form, and greedily devoured every sensation. His tongue had begun tightly circling her swelling clit, before he sucked it between his lips for the crowning touch. He might have been spread-eagled on the floor, adorned with a cock ring, but he could give Catherine a thrashing climax, and he couldn't help exulting in his power to do so, as he inhaled the juices spreading over his face. "Don't look so self-satisfied, Johnny," she snapped; "I'm not through with you." She had moved down his body so she was straddling his hips, lowered herself onto his cock, and began slowly riding him, using him as an immobile object for her own pleasure. Jean-Luc had been sure he would come almost as soon as her slick cunt tightened around him, but he quickly realized that she was using her powers to prevent him. He cursed silently to himself, as she slid deliberately up and down, winding him up further, but allowing him no release. She had ridden him faster and harder until she climaxed again, then had slid off, leaving him aching with need. "That's what you get for talking back to me, Captain Picard!" she taunted. "Oh please . . . " he moaned. "Oh please, what?" she demanded. "And it's 'Please, Mistress' boy!" "Oh please, Mistress, let me come," he begged. Q/Catherine had a knack for making Jean-Luc so truly desperate, that he utterly abandoned any pretense of dignity. "Why should I?" mocked Catherine as she dressed herself again in skintight black leather. She materialized a comfortable armchair between Jean-Luc's legs, sat down, and stretched out one leg, so the spiked heel of her boot just pressed between his buttocks, while she tapped at his erect cock with the boot's toe. She reiterated, "What's in it for me?" Given the choice between humiliating himself even further and remaining in this state of agonizing need and desire, Jean-Luc had had no choice. Q/Catherine had done it again, as he/she always did--pushed him into a state of helpless, begging indignity. "Please Mistress, I'll do anything," he almost whined, furious with himself for the desperate tone in voice, but unable to prevent it. "Oh *really*, Johnny?" she triumphed. "In that case, my bad, disobedient boy is going to have to entertain his Mistress and show her that he's capable of behaving himself." She had released his hands with a snap of her fingers, tossed him an instantly-materialized tube of lubricant, and snapped, "Play with yourself boy, while I watch, but don't you dare come until I tell you to." She had then leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and settled in to enjoy the show. * * * Picard was blushing at the memory, remembering how embarrassed he had been at stroking his own cock while Catherine watched, yet how delirious with ecstasy he had been when finally allowed to come. "He, or she, or whatever that Q of yours is must be really something," remarked Lily as Picard came out of his reverie, trying to cover his embarrassment with a long drink of beer. "Yes," admitted Picard with a smile. He felt strangely comfortable talking to Lily about Q, something he really couldn't do with his crew members. "Really something . . . not to mention overwhelming . . . and utterly enthralling . . . and just as utterly infuriating on occasion." "So what made him deposit you in my apartment?" queried Lily. "Not that I'm complaining." Picard acknowledged the compliment with a warm smile--he couldn't help enjoying the company of this woman with her practical attitude and her apparent ability to adapt to the most mind-bending of circumstances. "I don't know exactly. He has a frighteningly quick temper--which is rather intimidating when you consider that he can blow up solar systems with a snap of the finger. I suppose he's jealous, although it seems like it's more than that." "Are you worried about not getting back to your own time?" "No, actually," replied Picard. "He . . . ah . . . loves to flaunt his power, but I know he won't do anything to harm me. At some point, he'll either decide that I've learned whatever lesson he's trying to teach or that I'm far too hopeless *ever* to figure out, and he'll bring me back . . . eventually. I'm sorry to be such a bother . . . " "Cut the crap, Captain," laughed Lily. "It should be more than obvious that I'm enjoying your company. And if Mr. Q doesn't like it, too bad." Picard nodded, and Lily continued, "I'd actually been wishing I could have talked to you again after you got your ship back from those Borg. They . . . were . . . so . . . I don't know . . . inhuman. I mean, I've never been so terrified, and I'm usually pretty good at taking care of myself. But you must have to deal with things like that all the time. Were you scared? Especially after what happened to you before?" "Oh, yes, Lily," Picard half-murmured, half-whispered. "The Borg are unlike any other enemy we've faced. Utterly relentless, utterly focused. Surprisingly, a group of them broke away, learned to define themselves as individuals, but the majority of them, it seems, have had all possibility for independent action . . . erased." He swallowed the last of his beer, his hand shaking slightly, and Lily silently brought two more bottles to the table. Picard continued in a mechanical voice, "That's what they did to me. They took away my volition and used me as a machine . . . used me to penetrate our own defenses and murder 11,000 people." "Oh my God, Jean Luc . . . " breathed Lily, horrified. "The worst thing about it," Picard went on, in the same emotionless tone, "was that I retained total awareness of myself. I knew what they were doing to me, and I was powerless to stop it. I . . . can't begin to describe the horror of it, and I won't try." He barely noticed that Lily had shifted her chair around next to his, and was holding his hand in both of hers. "Suffice it to say, that my crew figured out how to rescue me from the Borg ship. I was still connected to their collective, but Data--my friend I had to go back for--found a way to communicate with me. It took every bit of concentration and will I had to override the implants enough to tell him how to defeat the Borg." He squeezed Lily's hand, trying to still the shudder that arose in him. "When they came back, I could still *hear* them--I still knew them intimately. I was sure I was the only person who knew how to defeat them-- yet without Data, I and the Enterprise would have been lost." He gave his head a shake, then spoke more animatedly. "You were right, of course. I was *consumed* with the idea of revenge, and I began to shut off every other feeling that got in the way. I suppose I was becoming more like them, more monstrous--at least that's what the nightmares I've been having seem to be telling me." "Jean-Luc, I'm so sorry," said Lily. "Under the circumstances, who wouldn't change? It's completely understandable--you're human, after all." "I think, Lily, that I sometimes forget that," remarked Picard with a self- deprecating smile. "In fact, I know I do . . . I suppose it's a good thing that I have Q around to remind me of my limitations. And the Borg, of course, are always going to be a sore spot between us." "How so?" "Another long story. Several years ago, Q visited the Enterprise for the third time. On his previous visits, he had been arrogant, overbearing, utterly contemptuous of humans--yet we surprised him, proved him wrong--and in the process, we seem to have undermined his position among his people. He was in exile--and lonely and bored, although I didn't realize it then--and he asked to be able to join my crew, pointing out the advantages he could offer us. When I declined--indicating that we could do very well without him--he lost his temper and decided to prove to us that we weren't nearly as capable as we thought. He sent the Enterprise across the galaxy and exposed us to the Borg." "Whew!" exclaimed Lily. "You didn't think that pissing off a god was, just maybe, a bad idea?" "Not at the time," admitted Picard. "I was a fool. Eighteen crewmembers were killed by a Borg attack before I could finally admit to Q that I needed his help. My stupid arrogance . . . my pride . . . it was so difficult for me to admit I was outmatched . . . " "Eighteen lives?" asked Lily. "How were you able to get past that with him?" "Getting to know him," replied Picard with a slight smile. "He belongs to a race of extremely evolved beings; they call themselves the Q Continuum. They . . . ah . . . think very highly of themselves and don't tolerate weakness or stupidity among themselves . . . or others. A young Q has to prove itself worthy. The most frequent way of teaching a youngster among the Continuum, as Q told me, is to set up a trap that they will inevitably walk into and then ridicule them for their failure. A Q who is strong enough to withstand the humiliation and learn the lesson . . . again and again . . . eventually demonstrates its fitness. At the same time, they don't even bother with this process with young Qs who don't show enough potential to begin with." "Cold . . . " murmured Lily. "Indeed. When Q invited himself aboard the Enterprise, knowing I would turn him down, he was doing the same kind of thing, teaching me the same kind of lesson by putting me in a situation where I would make one wrong decision after another. We had both surprised and impressed Q by passing two previous tests he had set for us, and he wanted to provide a further challenge--mostly to test how I would handle failure and whether I had the strength to admit that I was wrong. After my assimilation by the Borg, however, he felt terrible; he hadn't intended that to happen, and he felt remorse for what he had done. I wasn't going to keep holding it against him; Q is a product of his 'culture' as much as we are. And his ultimate intention was good, though brutally executed--he wanted to let us know that the Borg existed and what they were like so we could prepare for their inevitable attack on us. As devastating as it was, it would have been much, much worse if we hadn't known what was coming." "I can see that," remarked Lily. "But how did you two end up together?" "He made several other visits to the Enterprise and made it clearer and clearer that he was interested in me . . . as more than just a student," Picard laughed ruefully, "and that he had my interests at heart. He saved my life once, and he helped me pass an unimaginably brutal test the Continuum insisted on putting me through. I grew to trust him . . . cautiously. Then, at a particularly vulnerable point in my life, he threw himself deliberately in my way--as a woman as I mentioned--trying to trick me again. I recognized 'him' immediately and felt reckless enough to think, 'Why not?' It's very flattering to be pursued by a god," said Picard with a grin, " and he's pretty hard to resist." "No shit . . ." murmured Lily. "That 24th century of yours is a lot more exciting than you let on. But if this Q of yours can travel through time, why couldn't he help you out against the Borg?" "The Q don't exactly have a prohibition against interfering with less developed species, the way the Federation does, but they're apparently quite selective about when they interfere. They tend not to interfere in inter-species conflicts, like ours with the Borg, on the assumption that we need to work it out for ourselves. My guess is that Q's fellows prevented him from helping me or contacting me until it was safely over." "That must have been hard for him," mused Lily. "Yes, I suppose so," said Picard. "I was so preoccupied with my own feelings and wondering why he didn't just show up to help me get over what happened that I didn't even think of what he must have been going through. For an omnipotent being to feel helpless must be unimaginably difficult. And then he just showed up . . . tonight . . . and began berating me, and taunting me. I was just so furious it didn't occur to me that he might have been upset himself. And I know he still feels guilty about our first encounter with the Borg and what happened afterward." "So why'd he send you here?" asked Lily, with a mouth half full of chips. "What did he say right before he sent me here? Something about being no good for me, and I'd be better off with someone who is." "Jealous for sure!" exclaimed Lily. "I've never had a god jealous of me before, at least as far as I know." "Don't worry. He won't hurt you. He has a temper, but he'd never do any lasting damage to anyone close to me." "How comforting," noted Lily wryly. "If he's really pissed off about not being able to help you, and he's feeling guilty about why you got in trouble in the first place, it's no wonder he's being a butt. It's like when I take my baby niece out; a couple times she's wandered off and I thought she was lost, and when I found her, I felt so scared and so guilty about losing her, I just started yelling at her--so I'd feel better. Then she starts crying, and I feel worse." "Yes, I think that's it," said Picard thoughtfully. "You know, Jean-Luc, if he's anything like me, he probably really wants to feel needed, but would die a hundred times over before he'd admit it." "Of course," murmured Picard. "And I *do* need him--very much. He gives me a freedom no one else ever could. But I *don't* need him to do my job for me. I wish he'd understand the difference." A narrow wedge of light suddenly appeared and shimmered into Q's human form. Picard exclaimed, "Q!" at the same time that Lily queried, "Q?" "So you're Lily," noted Q brusquely. "And I suppose you're Q," responded Lily calmly. "You don't look all that omnipotent to me." "Appearances are deceiving," remarked the entity. "You're just going to have to take my word for it that I could obliterate your solar system with a snap of the finger and restore it again just as easily." "I'll be happy to take your word for it," said Lily with a slight smile. Picard meanwhile was watching this exchange with his eyes flicking back and forth like watching a ping-pong match, wondering what Q's jealousy would prompt him to this time. Q surprised him. "I want to thank you for something, Lily Sloane," announced Q. "And as Jean-Luc will testify, it's not easy for me. Thank-you . . . ah . . . for taking care of him when I couldn't. You handled him like a pro." "You're welcome," laughed Lily; "the pleasure was all mine." "Excuse me!" snapped Picard irritably. "What am I that I need to be 'handled?'" "A human being," responded Q and Lily simultaneously. Picard sighed in resignation, while Q said, "It's time for us to go home, Jean- Luc. I'll leave you to say your good-byes." He went up to Lily, and they exchanged a firm handshake before Q disappeared. Picard stepped up to Lily and they held hands for a moment. He smiled gently and said, "Thank you for the chips and beer and for listening, Lily." "No problem, Jean-Luc. It's not every night visitors from the future just drop into my living room. Watch your caboose, Dix." "I will. And take care of yourself, Lily." They exchanged a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then a light flashed, and Picard was gone. Lily wandered over to the window, staring once again at the stars. * * * Back in his own quarters, Picard turned to Q, saying quietly, "I realize now how hard it must have been for you not to be able to do anything." Q snapped abruptly, "I don't know if you understand. I did know that it would be wrong for me to interfere; I even knew that you would most likely manage without me. The Continuum was right. But knowing all that, I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from interfering. Do you have any idea how difficult is for me to get used to the idea of needing someone that much? And a mortal at that?" "I'm flattered," said Picard with a half smile. More seriously, he continued, "Q, mon amour, this is new for both of us. You know how hard it is for me to admit that I need you, and I need what you do to me. I just wish it wasn't so hard . . . sometimes . . . for us to talk, to understand each other." "You're human, Jean-Luc. I'm a Q. That's light-years apart. We may understand on an intellectual level why the other does certain things or reacts in certain way, but on some level, we'll always be alien to each other. That's inevitable. And emotional vulnerability isn't exactly a survival skill among the Q. Quite the opposite. And I've noticed you're not exactly comfortable talking about your feelings either. I have to batter down wall after wall to get you to admit what you want and need. But there's always another wall, one that withstands everything I throw at it. It frustrates me, and I get angry . . . and hurt . . . I'm sorry for abandoning you and then attacking you like that. I truly am. I was so sure you'd be better off without me, and I couldn't bear it." Q looked away briefly, struggling with what he was revealing. "I want and I need to get all the way inside you, but I'm not supposed to need you at all . . . " "Can we get past all that, Q?" asked Picard softly. "I've been feeling so terribly alone, and angry, and helpless. The Borg--and my own actions--haunt me. They're always there. I'm afraid my anger and fear will overwhelm me, yet it's such a struggle to keep them under control. I can't fight myself . . . alone." Q stepped up to Picard and pulled him into his arms, then steered him over to the sofa to sit down. Firmly gripping his lover's shoulder's, he spoke directly into his ear: "Tell me what you want, Johnny. You have to tell me." Picard sighed heavily and turned himself around so he was facing Q. Q again clasped both of Picard's hands in his, and Picard spoke, hesitantly, but with his voice gaining strength as he went on. "I want . . . to feel free . . . completely free. I want . . . to . . . let go--completely. I want . . . you to take me, overwhelm me, batter down *all* the walls this time. I want to give up control, all control. I want to let you all the way in. I need to know that you're *with* me, that I'm not alone." "That can be arranged," said Q with a dangerous smile. "But here are *my* terms- -no games, no fighting, no resistance. You'll do what you're told and nothing else. And I'll open you up to me completely, take you farther than you've ever imagined. If it's too much, you can tell me to stop, and I'll stop, no questions asked. Otherwise, you're mine to do with whatever I want. You'll give yourself to me--completely. Agreed?" "Agreed," replied Picard bravely. "Let's see," said Q abruptly. "Stand up." When Picard complied, Q stood also, then delivered a ferocious slap to Picard's face. Before Picard had time to react, Q had slapped the other cheek with equal force. Picard staggered. An involuntary rush of pure fury swept over him, and he began moving as if to strike back, but he forced himself to relax. "It's not easy," he admitted with a self- deprecating smile. "Lesson Number One: It's not supposed to be, Johnny. If it was easy, it wouldn't mean anything, and it wouldn't give us what we both need. But I had to know if you could trust me--all the way." "I trust you, Q," said Picard calmly. He felt a subtle warmth begin to pervade him, a sense of freedom from burdens and responsibilities. He had placed himself in Q's hands, and all he had to do was what he was told. So simple. So clear. So refreshingly safe. "Let's go," said Q, snapping his fingers. The "place" they materialized in was perfect, thought Picard. It was a Gothic dungeon, lit only by candles, with haunting organ music seeming to pervade the room. A four-poster bed was on one side, while the other side was occupied by a St. Andrew's cross, a chain with manacles dangling from the ceiling, and racks of whips, floggers, crops and other equipment. He himself was naked. He approved. Picard had a fetish for doing things right, and he admired the quality in others as well. Q had created a ritual space with just the right atmosphere to heighten's Picard's awareness and sensations and make him feel comfortable at the same time. Q, dressed entirely in black, dragged Picard over to the chain. "Hands over your head," he ordered, then buckled Picard's wrists into the manacles. He moved over to the wall where a crank controlled a pulley, and pulled Picard up until he was balanced on the balls of his feet. He could pull down slightly to put more weight on his feet, but only at the cost of chafing his wrists. His helplessness, here in this safe space, aroused him immediately, and his cock instantly rose to the occasion. "Very lovely, Johnny. Your muscles are so nicely defined when they're strained," noted Q, circling his prey like a wolf. "What to do with all this delectable flesh, that's all, all mine?" "Whatever you please," whispered Picard. "Precisely," said Q, coming around the front to deliver two more hard slaps to Picard's face, hard enough to make him sway on his chain. This time Picard felt a flash of fear, but no anger. Everything was out of his control, and anger seemed pointless. "Better, much better, boy," crooned Q. "You're learning." Q swooped around behind Picard, looming over him menacingly, then did something totally unexpected, tickling Picard in his exposed armpits. Picard writhed and swayed, short bursts of laughter escaping him, as he fought to stop himself from yelling "No!" or "Stop!" The tickling accomplished what Q intended; Picard began to relax, and just as he did, Q moved in, grabbed Picard's waist, and bit sharply into his shoulder. "Just keeping you on your toes--ha ha- -mon Capitaine," he mumbled, then went back to gnawing on the shoulder in earnest. Picard gasped sharply as Q's teeth sank repeatedly into his shoulder muscle. Q was relentless, and it seemed that minute after minute passed, while Picard dangled helplessly, his shoulder pulsing with pain. His body would tense up in reaction to the pain, and he would force himself to relax into it. When it got to be almost too much, he would tense up again, then relax again into Q's hands. When Q finally finished, the result was a very large and very reddish-purple bruise, which Picard could just see if he craned his neck. Q methodically moved to the front and began pinching and twisting and pulling Picard's nipples viciously. Picard desperately wanted to pull away from the pain, yet at the same time, he couldn't help notice the way the sharp jolts travelled from his nipples down to his cock. He swayed slightly on the balls of his feet, willing himself to relax. "Very good," noted Q, aware of every iota of Picard's responses and reactions. Q grasped each nipple between his thumbs and and index fingers in an excruciatingly long pinch, while small grunts of pain and arousal began to escape Picard. Q then twisted them slowly back and forth, as far as the tender flesh would stretch. Picard's head was thrown back, and he was breathing hard, he was falling into the pain, wishing it would turn into a sea of sensation, overwhelming him utterly. "So impatient," complained Q, having read Picard's thoughts. Another pair of slaps to the face jerked Picard out of his dreamy state, before Q moved to the rack to select a flogger, one with thin stingy strands. Q began methodically swinging it at Picard's chest, raising faint red lines. Each time the flogger struck his nipples, Picard would felt jabbed by a needle of pain. It was almost unbearable, but at the same time, it wasn't enough. His body was aching for sensation. "You're mine, remember? You gave yourself to me," said Q. "*I*'ll set the pace. You just need to relax and enjoy the ride." "Yes, Q," gasped Picard. Q then aimed several hard blows right at Picard's swollen nipples, forcing a grunt out of his victim each time. "It hurts, doesn't it?" "Yes, Q." "You like it, don't you?" "Yes, Q." "But it's agonizing, isn't it? Your whole body is just crying out for more." "Oh yes, please Q," begged Picard. "Nope," stated the entity flatly. "Not yet. Wait until you see what I have in store for you now." Q hung the flogger back on the rack, then made a point of rummaging noisily on a nearby shelf, making Picard wait. "Close your eyes, Johnny," he ordered. Picard complied, then howled with surprise and pain as something rough was dragged over one of his swollen, excruciatingly sensitive nipples, then the other. "You can look now," offered Q. It was as Picard suspected, sandpaper. Q took his time, lightly abrading first one nipple and then the other. "Imagine how that will feel with a shirt on, Johnny. You'll be aware of those for days. Unless of course you want to visit Sick Bay to get them taken care of." Picard flushed with shame at the image, but also felt a warm tingling steal through him at the thought that he would be bearing reminders for days. He gritted his teeth. The sandpaper scraping his nipples hurt tremendously, but it was equally irritating for its inadequacy. The rest of Picard's body was humming with desire, in tune with the throbbing in his bruised shoulder, his nipples, and his cock. When Q just began to draw tiny drops of blood from Picard's nipples, he stopped. Grinning triumphantly, he announced, "And that's not all. You're going to bleed more for me tonight, let me all the way in." Q then turned his attention to Picard's heretofore neglected cock. With his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed it up and down lightly, laughing as Picard involuntarily thrust his hips forward. "You're such a slut, Johnny, but degrade yourself all you want, you're not going to come until *I* say so." "Yes, Q," responded Picard firmly. Every reminder of Q's control made him feel more and more free and more and more safe, despite his frustration. He didn't have to do anything, and he couldn't do anything. "You know, Jean-Luc, with that prominent member of yours calling attention to itself, it seems to me I shouldn't neglect it entirely," said Q, wandering over to his rack of supplies. He returned with a short leather strap and began slapping Picard's cock with it, moving around to catch it from different angles. Picard was sure he would explode with need, but Q delivered each stroke with just enough force for it to hurt, but not enough force to allow Picard to come. Each perfectly aimed smack sent a trembling weakness coursing through Picard's legs. He swayed on the chain, revelling in his helplessness and wincing from the pain at the same time. His cock was pounding with arousal, each stroke of strap winding him up higher, but not allowing any release. He felt himself getting closer . . . and closer . . . and then Q suddenly stopped. He snapped his fingers, and Picard was abruptly freed from the chain. Half involuntarily, Picard dropped to his knees on the stone floor, his arms trembling from the strain of having been suspended for so long, and his legs seeming to melt from underneath him. "Hmm, I like you like that, Johnny," said Q. "Kneeling suits you." He bent down, grasped the back of Picard's neck and tilted his head back for a long kiss. To his surprise and relief, a gush of cool water seemed to flow from Q's mouth to his own. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was, and he swallowed it gratefully. Only after he had drunk enough, did Q kiss him in earnest, and he sucked greedily at the tongue that was so forcefully exploring his mouth. "Ready for Act 2?" asked Q. He apparently didn't expect an answer, for with a flash of light, Picard found himself bound to the St. Andrew's cross, a blindfold over his eyes. A set of cuffs that materialized around his wrists and ankles were locked to eye bolts, and a strap was wrapped firmly around the middle of the cross and his waist. Two more sets of straps held his thighs and and upper arms. He was completely immobilized, unable to shift at all to relieve the scraping of the wood on his sensitive nipples. "Happy?" asked Q. "Yes," responded Picard fervently. There was freedom and safety in such secure restraints; all he had to do, all he could do, was respond. The universe had contracted into this dungeon room; he and Q and the bondage and the pain were all that existed. Q began with a light leather flogger. It was almost a caress, as it travelled down Picard's back to his ass to his thighs and back up again. Q continued to flog him for a long time, lulling Picard into complacency with the unexpected mildness of the sensation. He was wishing for more, and he eventually got what he wanted. Q switched to a heavy braided cat o' nine tails, swinging it with full force against Picard's back and ass. Each thud was a heavy jolt. It was not unbearably painful, but the sensation penetrated deeply into his flesh and muscles. Picard craved the force of each blow so urgently that Q could detect shimmering waves of energy emitting from his body, like tendrils reaching out to grasp the heavy strands as they came hurtling toward him. Q was methodical and systematic, flogging Picard's upper back until the entire area was a dull red, then moving on to his ass, striking again and again, then moving up to his back again and then down to his ass. Picard's grunts were turning into guttural groans. As his skin reddened, the pain grew more acute, with the braided leather striking already sensitive flesh. Picard was completely limp, his weight entirely supported by the cross and his restraints. He gave himself over to Q as completely as he could, accepting and taking in the sensations with eagerness. He felt preternaturally alert, registering both the jolting thud of the whole cat as well as the distinct flash of each braided strand. Not being able to see made the sensations all the more intense. After what seemed like hours of relentless flogging, Q paused. "That was the easy stuff, Johnny--your reward for being so good so far. *Now* we're going to get serious." Q's voice in his ear caused a shiver to pass through him at the palpable sense of menace it evoked. "Turn toward me," he ordered. Picard turned toward his voice and was gifted with another long drink. "Je t'aime, mon Capitaine," whispered Q. "I love you, too," responded Picard. "I'm going to hurt you," warned Q. "Everything up to now has been a warm-up. I'm going to break through every barrier you have; I *need* to see you lose control completely." "Yes, Q," murmured Picard. "Please take everything I have, everything I am. I *need* you to hurt me. And, Q?" "Yes, Johnny?" "I'm . . . afraid." "You should be. You and I are going on a journey together, Johnny, and it's going to be rough. Do you trust me?" "Yes, Q." "Good, then let's get down to business. I want you to count now and thank me every six strokes." Picard heard a thin whistle in the air, then howled in surprise. That thin streak of lightening that slashed across his ass could only be a cane. Belatedly, he gasped, "One!" "Next time don't take so long," snapped Q, and struck again. "Two!" groaned Picard. His body was no longer limp and relaxed, but utterly rigid. Each stroke packed a double wallop, the initial red-hot flash of pain and then the deep, pulsing shock of the rebound as the compressed flesh swelled forcibly outward. At six, Picard waited too long to call out, "Thank you, Q," and he was punished by a much harder blow than the earlier ones. Stroke after stroke sliced into his flesh, and he weakly murmured, "Twelve. Thank you, Q." As a reward, Q held back on the next twelve, although each stroke was still excruciating. With each dozen after that, Q ratcheted up the intensity, now laying down welts on top of welts. Picard's ass was exploding like fireworks into thin lines of red and purple, with the earlier ones beginning to bruise as the later ones continued falling. He had figured out that his rigid stance was making it worse, and willed himself to slump against the cross between strokes, floating on an endorphin rush, yet crying out with pain at each stroke. At the same time, he felt a molten heat course through his veins, filling him with a surging strength. He knew he could take whatever Q would dish out, and he counted out the blows with a voice that grew increasingly stronger. The pain was stripping him down to the core, purifying him in a baptism of searing flame, and his exclamations of "Thank you!" grew increasingly fervent. "Last 12," announced Q after the 48th stroke. He put the full force of his human form into each of the twelve strokes that followed, wrenching a howl from Picard each time. Picard was so attuned to each nuance of sensation that it seemed he could feel each drop of blood that oozed out of his welts. He was sobbing now, barely able to collect enough breath for the required counting and thanks. Each of the final strokes was like a knife slicing into his flesh. "Sixty! Thank you, Q," he panted through the tears. "You're *so* good, Johnny," crooned Q, "but I'm not finished with you yet." Picard didn't protest or react. His will was entirely gone; he had no volition. Q *was* his universe, and he had no desires independent of Q's. He was floating in a haze of endorphins and pain, secure in the knowledge that all choices were out of his hands. He should have known, however, that Q wouldn't make it so easy for him. The blindfold, straps, manacles, and cuffs all disappeared, as Q explained, "No more bondage, Johnny. You have to give yourself to me of your own free will while I lay you open. You have to hold on; if you let go, I stop, and it's over." The eye bolts near Picard's hands turned with a small flash into handles, and Picard grasped them in a daze, not entirely understanding the implications of Q's words. A moment later, he understood quickly enough. He was shocked out of his euphoria by the crack of a single-tail whip across his back. He screamed hoarsely, his body flinging itself from side to side in reaction, yet his hands gripped the handles unrelentingly. Another flash of the whip and another welt opened up on his back. "Oh yes," chanted Q, "bleed for me, Johnny, open up, let me all the way in." So simple, thought Picard, total surrender and nothing else. Just do what you're told and *hold on*! He would give himself to Q, give Q what he wanted. The pain was unbelievable, almost too much to process--he was being flayed open, stripe by stripe, his flesh parting for the razor sharp, lacerating cut of the whip. He was both sobbing and howling, his chest heaving, and tears streaming down his face. The tight aching knot that had settled in his chest from his first news of the impending Borg invasion began to unravel, faster and faster with each crack of the whip. Picard's fury, terror, and helplessness whirled away, giving him an exultant sense of freedom, while white-hot streams of energy flowed off of Q into each cut the whip laid open. His knuckles were white from gripping the handles with such ferocity, and the rest of his body danced under the whip, as if he were joined to Q by a music only the two of them could hear. The whip pierced and caressed, overwhelming him so that he was drowning in the pain that flared up and down his back and across his ass, and his body pulsed with an inner warmth that was Q's love for him flowing over, around, and through him. He was completely vulnerable, completely exposed, out of control, and it felt exactly right, like he'd found his true home. After the final stroke, Picard collapsed against the cross, still racked with sobs. "Hold on for one more minute, Jean-Luc," said Q gently. "I want to show you something." Picard felt as though he had stepped outside of himself; he was looking at his own body from Q's vantage point, seeing a man, his shoulders heaving, his back striped with red, bleeding cuts, and his ass covered in purple bruises and dark red lines from the tip of the cane. "That's you, my love," whispered Q softly; "so beautiful and so completely mine." Q returned Picard to his body, and in a flash he had them both on the bed, as he held Picard in his arms, soothing him while he cried himself out. Once his breathing subsided, he disentangled himself from the bed and excused himself to use the facilities Q had so thoughtfully provided. When he returned, Q asked, "Feel better?" "Yes," answered Picard. "Good!" said Q briskly; "then it's time for Act 3. You're going to let me all the way in, Jean-Luc." Picard nodded. He didn't know what Q had in mind, but it didn't matter. Exhausted and drained as he was, he wanted Q to take him even further. Q snapped his fingers, lighting several candles in a corner of the room Picard hadn't observed before. The candles revealed a sling. His eyes widened, but Q laughed and reassured him, "Don't worry, Johnny. I'll take my time." He snapped his fingers again, and Picard found himself in the sling, his arms and legs bound wide apart, leaving him open and exposed. Although the sling was padded, the fabric hurt against his cuts and bruises, but that didn't matter either. Q stood by his head, grasping his neck and pulling him close for a long kiss. With the other hand, he lightly stroked Picard's erect cock with the tips of his fingers. Picard moaned in arousal and frustration. "So greedy," murmured Q. "Look at you, mon Capitaine. All spread out and open and wanting it like the *slut* that you are. And only *I* can do this to you." "Only you," whispered Picard. "Precisely," noted Q, moving down to the front of the sling. With a lubed hand, he grasped Picard's cock, stroking it up and down, very slowly. With the other hand, he toyed with Picard's balls, squeezing them lightly. Picard moaned and swayed in the sling, but Q had no intention of allowing him release this soon. When he sensed the Captain getting close, he stopped what he was doing. He began stroking Picard's anus with a lubed finger, toying with the entrance, slipping the tip of his finger just inside and withdrawing to circle around the outside again. Picard clenched his fists in frustration. "You're going to have to relax, Johnny," noted Q calmly. Picard consciously relaxed his body, and Q said soothingly, "Good boy!" He snapped his fingers, and the whip appeared in his hand. "I don't think you've gotten to know my friend here quite well enough, Johnny," he said menacingly, and Picard felt something hard push inside him. It was the handle of the whip, well-lubricated, of course. Once again, Picard found cause to congratulate himself on having an omnipotent lover who could take care of such details effortlessly. The whip handle was hard and unyielding, and the sensation of it sliding in and out wound him up even tighter. "I'm fucking you with the butt of my whip, Johnny," taunted Q. "Do you like it?" "Yes!" gasped Picard, feeling horribly humiliated by his situation, yet unable to stop himself from thrusting his hips forward. He grunted with frustration because it wasn't enough. He wanted more. "Oh, have no fear," remarked Q, having read his mind, as he had been doing the whole time. "You'll get more, Jean-Luc." Abruptly, Q pulled the whip out and tossed it across the room. Before Picard had time to react, he felt two fingers roughly penetrate him. "Yesss," hissed Picard, "oh, yes, please . . . " "Please what?" asked Q, slowly and methodically sliding his fingers in and out. "Please fuck me, Q, turn me inside out," begged Picard. "Fill me so there's no room for anything but you." "My pleasure," replied the entity with a smile, as he introduced a third finger. Picard winced slightly at being stretched, but quickly relaxed again. It seemed as though Q was pressing more lubricant into him with each stroke, and his fingers began sliding in and out with ease. Picard shifted himself in the sling, ignoring the stinging on his back and ass, interested only in opening himself up further. "My, you really do want it, don't you?" said Q, obligingly adding a fourth finger, eliciting a loud moan from Picard. "Well, you're just going to have to be patient." Q fucked Picard slowly and patiently, stretching him carefully, using his powers to generate lubricant continuously. Picard's cock throbbed with arousal, and he began tensing up with frustration. Q stopped moving his fingers. "I can't do this unless you relax, my love." Picard nodded and began consciously to slow his breathing and to let his weight sink into the sling. "That's good," noted Q. "Keep breathing." As Picard slowly exhaled, Q slipped his thumb inside so that all five fingers made a wedge, pressing into Picard's ass. There was more lube, more gentle stretching. It burned, but Picard welcomed the sensation. He wanted Q inside him, completely, and he wanted it to hurt. Only pain would be real enough, intense enough, to quench his overwhelming desire. "Give . . . my . . . self . . . to . . . you . . . com . . . plete . . . ly," whispered Picard between breaths. "Yes, love, completely," responded Q. "I'm going to take you all the way. Breathe for me, Johnny." Picard took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. As he did, he felt Q's knuckles stretching him wider than he could have ever imagined, followed by the feeling of Q's hand inside him curling into a fist. He felt as if his ass was on fire, sending streaks of sparks shooting into his cock. "Ohhhhhhhh!" moaned Picard. A warm ache ignited in the small of his back, sending pulsations down his legs. His toes curled, and his hands clenched into fists. Q kept his hand still, letting Picard get used to the sensation. "All the way," murmured Q, and Picard felt the touch of Q's mind on his, not just reading his surface thoughts, but penetrating deeper. Not quite sure how he knew how, Picard opened his mind to Q, letting him read his deepest needs, fears, and desires. At the same time, he felt an onrush of Q's feelings for him flow into his mind. It was a love that neither could communicate in words, but flowed back and forth between them through the charged connection of their minds. Q slowly began moving his fist back and forth, stroking Picard's prostate with his knuckles, retreating slightly and pressing forward again. An electric heat flowed outward from Q's fist to Picard's entire body, making him tingle from his scalp to his toes. His body and mind penetrated at once, Picard cried out, overwhelmed. He felt whole and fulfilled, as if this contact with Q completed a circuit. He was beyond pain and fear and need and desire, feeling a satisfying totality in being filled by Q that he had never before experienced. There were no walls, no barriers. As Q's fist rocked inside him, he felt a surge like a wave gathering energy, drawing itself up. With their minds locked together, there was no need for words. Each felt the overwhelming love, awe, and gratitude of the other. As the tension built up to the breaking point, Q pressed deeper with each thrust, and Picard felt the volcanic rush of his orgasm pervade every nerve of his body. He howled as he came, and Q rode with him through the shocks and shudders and aftershocks until he was entirely spent. He shuddered as Q's hand slipped out of him, tears filling his eyes. *I'm still here* soothed Q's voice inside his head, as the entity released all the restraints and let Picard down from the sling, then led him to the bed. Q put his arm around Picard, pulling him close, while slowly disengaging the mental link he had created. Picard shivered and wept, feeling suddenly empty, and suddenly aware of pain everywhere, from the stripes across his back to the ache in his ass where he had been so filled. "Have no fear, Johnny," said Q with a voice somehow both gentle and slightly mocking; "there's no law that says we can't ever do that again. Now that you've let me in, there'll be no keeping me out, trust me." "Q, . . . I . . . can't . . . there are no words . . . " Picard trailed off. "I know, Jean-Luc," murmured Q. "Words aren't necessary. I saw and felt everything I needed to." "So did I," said Picard, wrapping his arm tightly around Q's waist and burrowing his head into Q's neck. For the first time since the recent Borg invasion, he felt whole and wholly himself. Yes, he had monstrous thoughts, and absurd vanities, and humiliating desires, but Q had seen it all, and it didn't matter. He shifted slightly, wincing from the sensation of the sheet against his ass. "I can take care of those if you like," said Q doubtfully. "No, please, I want to keep them," said Picard urgently. "Thank-you, Johnny," whispered Q. He pulled Picard closer, confessing, "It's harder than I could have imagined knowing you're out there, risking your life one way or another. It . . . hurts. I wish I could always protect you, keep you safe . . . forever." "I know," said Picard softly. "But I can't," said Q half-irritably, half-mournfully, turning his head away in a futile attempt to hide his tears from Picard. "No, you can't," said Picard, "but there is something you can do." "What?" muttered Q. "Kiss me." "I suppose that'll have to do," said Q gruffly, before planting his mouth on Picard's. The End