Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.pas.earthlink.net!elnk-nf2-pas!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshub.sdsu.edu!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newshosting.com!nx01.iad01.newshosting.com!yellow.newsread.com!news-toy.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "Nick" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW TNG: "Pleasant Dreams, Mon Capitaine" 1/2 (P/Q) [NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 397 Date: Mon, 08 Nov 2004 05:55:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1099893305 209.198.142.218 (Mon, 08 Nov 2004 00:55:05 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 08 Nov 2004 00:55:05 EST Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:85492 X-Received-Date: Sun, 07 Nov 2004 21:55:11 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Pleasant Dreams, Mon Capitaine Author: nick Contact: plan9channel7@witty.com Series: TNG Rating: NC-17 Part: 1/2 Codes: P/Q, D/s Archives: anywhere, as long as my name stays attached. Also at my website: http://www.geocities.com/pompadour_slim/pq.html Summary: Sequel to Separate But Equal. Jean-Luc has an elaborate Warnings: D/s, boot worship, kink. It's dirty. Very, very dirty. Notes: I'm always experimenting with how to write from Q's pov. His near-omniscience presents some unique challenges, of course. The parenthetical asides in his portion of this piece are another arm of that experiment. The pale alien sun beat down on Jean-Luc's bald head and the arms his coarse gray tank exposed so carelessly to it. He pivoted slowly, looking around with no idea where he was and only the vaguest curiosity. Sweating, tiny and childlike, he stood at the bottom of a vast, chalky ravine. There was a waist-high pile of pale, jagged rocks beside his right sneaker, and another, smaller pile about fifteen feet away. Instinctively Jean-Luc knew he shouldn't be standing around; if the Overseer looked down from his high stilted chair and saw him daydreaming he would be punished. Instinct, too, made him squat beside the large rock pile and heave one of the heavy slabs onto his up-turned forearms. His sneakers scratching over the dusty ground, Jean-Luc shuffled toward the smaller pile. Somehow, he knew that when it grew large he would have to start carrying the rocks in the other direction, that his work was never-ending. He didn't wonder why; he didn't want to know why. He was glad he didn't have to. Sweating in the sun and under the Overseer's hot gaze were enough. Dimly, and with disinterest, Jean-Luc was aware that he hadn't always moved rocks for the Overseer. Recently, or long ago, he had been an important man, with lots of responsibilities, which were well deserved. He had had to make all sorts of complicated decisions and know all sorts of complicated things that seemed entirely outside his current ability to comprehend. He liked it that way. He was glad he wasn't important anymore. Stumbling a bit as he let go of the irregular slab in his arms and heard it crunch the tiny pile in front of him, Jean-Luc squinted up at the Overseer in his high chair. A cloth overhang that jutted out from the chair back and flapped in the occasional breeze shaded the long body, which lounged, careless and cross-legged. The only parts of him that Jean-Luc could see clearly in the glare of the sun were his high white boots, and that sight alone made him feel tender and hungry, safe and servile. It seemed possible that he was too limited and fragile to be able to bear more than that tiny glimpse of the Overseer's magnificence. Still, Jean-Luc thought that being overwhelmed by his master's radiance was a very favorable way to die. "What are you staring at?" the rich voice called down as the Overseer shifted and leaned forward. When they dipped into view, his billowy white pants and long-sleeved white shirt blinded Jean-Luc, who gawked dumbly and didn't move. Ducking out from under the overhang, the Overseer stood precariously, nimble fingertips balancing on the arms of his chair. Jean-Luc gasped, dry-mouthed, at the sight of him, and rubbed his chalky hands on the front of his coarse gray shorts self-consciously. "Why aren't you working?" "I..." Jean-Luc tried to say, but no sound came out. He glanced helplessly at the larger of the rock piles and tried to make his feet go that way. Grimacing when they refused, he tried harder, shifting his weight and wanting to whimper at the thought of displeasing his master. It was such a simple thing to do, to move his slick, aching body fifteen feet, to pick up another rock and bring it back to where he now stood. He felt as though he had performed the action a million times, as though he ought to be able to do it without imposing on his brain at all, and yet he was frozen. The sight of the Overseer, perfect and white and glowing, so high above him, had robbed him of his will and transformed him into a statue, one pale, dusty stone among many. Maybe he had been lugging the remains of his master's last slave back and forth. Maybe that was what happened to slaves who were too weak, too inadequate to serve the Overseer. As Jean-Luc stared at the pile of rocks, he braced himself for the moment when the Overseer would blow a puff of air from between his full lips and send him toppling over, to shatter into jagged pieces a new slave would be charged with transporting. The scratch and scrape of boots on the gravelly ravine floor jolted Jean-Luc out of his fantasy, and he looked up in time to see the Overseer, towering and glorious with his shrewd dark eyes and stern, square shoulders, raise one arm across his body. His master's backhanded slap caught Jean-Luc cleanly across the cheek and sent him sprawling in the dirt with ringing ears and a quiet grunt. "I wish you hadn't made me do that." Jean-Luc fought the urge to snivel. He wished he hadn't made the Overseer do it, too. Blinking the sting of grit out of his eyes and unmindful of the way his uninjured cheek pressed against the rough ground, Jean-Luc dared to raise his eyes as far as his master's white boots. They were tall and strong, looming large in his vision and making his heart flip and his cock harden. He wanted to make love to the buckles and straps; he wanted to suck at the discreet suggestion of an ankle bone on the outside of each. One dusty toe nudged at his lips and he mouthed its round edge worshipfully, closing his eyes. When his tongue touched the solid curve, Jean-Luc whimpered softly and his knitted, grimy lashes fluttered with the pleasure of it. He could lie here in the pale dirt, limbs skewed and cramped beneath his sturdy frame, and he could clean the Overseer's boots with his mouth. Maybe that would be enough. The white toe, wet now, and clean, withdrew, and the rocky ground crunched again as the Overseer dropped dexterously to a crouch. In the shade of his body, Jean-Luc could see clearly the way his light, damp skin glistened out from between the sides of the open-necked shirt he wore. A light breeze rippled the garment and tugged it against his chest briefly, allowing just the hints of tight nipples to suggest themselves before the wind passed on and the shirt hung loose again. Somehow Jean-Luc felt that he had seen those nipples, that he had seen every inch of the Overseer's body, but it seemed desperately unlikely that he would ever have been allowed such a privilege. He couldn't even do his work properly. He couldn't even look at his master's boots without swooning. "Why did you stop working?" A long-fingered hand trailed casually down the front of that white shirt, but Jean-Luc closed his eyes in shame before he could see its destination. He didn't know what to say. The Overseer's silkily menacing voice had asked him a perfectly reasonable question for which he had no answer. "I... couldn't... You were..." he choked helplessly, unaware that his hips were squirming and thrusting at the dusty air as he replayed his moment of disobedience over in his mind, looking for an explanation. "Distracting?" came the thick purr from above him, and Jean-Luc tentatively opened his eyes. There, not six inches away and bobbing slightly in the grasp of a knowing hand, was his master's stiff prick. It was long, like the rest of the Overseer, and its thick, flushed head seemed to point right at him. "Is this what you were thinking about?" Jean-Luc made an inarticulate noise and licked his chapped lips quickly, trying to swallow so that he could answer. He was expected to answer. What he really wanted to do, though, was to rise up and seize the beloved organ in his trembling, dirty hands. But he didn't dare. "Yes..." he rumbled hoarsely, his voice thick with dust and desire. As Jean-Luc squirmed on the rocky ravine floor, unable to tear any part of his attention from the proud, veiny evidence of his master's potency, his gray shorts snagged on the sharp stones beneath him. They slid easily over his narrow hips as he moved, but his subtle undulations were not enough to drag them past his own cock, which stood out desperately and drew the stretchy material tight. Jean-Luc failed to notice in his devotion, but his master did not. Nudging a knee toward Jean-Luc's groin, the Overseer sighed. "Yes, I can see that. If only you hadn't been disobedient." The rich, compassionate regret in his master's voice sliced Jean-Luc open, and he had to grit his teeth against a groan of despair. He would never, ever disobey again. He would bite his own wrists open first. "I'm sure it won't come to that." The Overseer chuckled, and Jean-Luc was awash in how powerful his master was, how helpless he himself was that even his private thoughts were jointly owned. "Come up here," the Overseer said gently, patting his white covered thigh with the hand that was not employed at stroking his erection. Jean-Luc wanted to be there, but even more than that he wanted to believe the forgiveness in that loving voice. He wanted to believe that he was worthy, and to prove it to both of them, he scrambled up quickly, despite the numbness in arms and legs too long pinned under his sturdy weight. His master's free hand guided his flushed, grime- covered face to press against that immaculate thigh. It took everything Jean-Luc had at that moment to squash the need to resist, to recoil from sullying the Overseer with his filth. "It's all right," the man above him murmured, though he was less like a man and more like a god, even at this distance, even without the sun-made halo to trick Jean-Luc's eyes. Settling in and tucking his bare legs beneath him, Jean-Luc rested his head where it was wanted against the inside of his master's knee and relaxed. As he watched, the Overseer tenderly brushed the side of his face clean, all the while stroking, stroking, his long fingers curving over the head of his cock and making it leak. Jean-Luc's lips parted at the delicious exhibition, achingly close and yet utterly beyond his reach, and he was so raptly engaged in his observation that he hardly noticed when his master shifted, letting his other knee dip down to the hard ground. They stared together at the Overseer's hand as it moved over his erection, and they breathed together, more and more raggedly as the god-man's body tightened and his strokes became jerky, erratic. Jean-Luc's eyes glazed and he balled his fists to keep from doing something he wasn't supposed to do. The Overseer was so close, his scent so strong in Jean-Luc's nostrils, his swollen, glistening head aimed squarely at Jean-Luc's mouth, and Jean-Luc would let his own need kill him before he would relieve it at the expense of this moment. "You can touch yourself," the Overseer husked, dipping his head back and thrusting into his own hand, but always careful, so careful to maintain his aim. With a low sob, Jean-Luc fumbled a dusty hand under the waistband of his shorts and drew himself out into the still air. When he squeezed himself gingerly, a hot thrill ran up his spine and he shook with the effort it took to hold back. He ached all over, and his cock was the center of the ache, throbbing and dripping and threatening to spoil the beauty of the gift his master was giving him. Blinking and staring helplessly, Jean-Luc pressed his head harder into the Overseer's thigh and hoped that some of the strength in that white body would ground him, would help him control the desperate urgings of his mouth and his hands and his cock. Finally, when Jean-Luc feared he would fail again, humiliate himself, disappoint the master who had been so kind and forgiving, it happened. The Overseer moaned above him, a surprisingly delicate sound from such a powerful being, and he felt the first hot spurt bless his thin lips. The seed was white and glowing, like the master himself, and when the next strong pulse touched Jean-Luc's tongue, the slave lost himself. Nostrils flaring, throat groaning and sobbing, Jean-Luc shuddered deeply and came all over the Overseer's high leather boot. More hot, wet streaks splashed his face, but he hardly noticed as he writhed in the dust and squeezed himself, felt the last trickle ooze between his fingers and across the back of his hand. Everything was warm and musky and soft for a moment as neither moved or spoke. Dreamily, Jean-Luc snaked his tongue out to lick at his upper lip and around toward his chin, following the trail of his master's love. When he felt a gentle, firm pressure at the nape of his neck, he let his sleepy eyelids flutter open. "Clean it up," the Overseer murmured as he guided Jean-Luc's face toward his boot, soiled in long, thin strokes by the slave's passion for him. With no thoughts of resistance, Jean-Luc opened his mouth... --- ...and woke up. Crust poked the corners of his eyes and his pillow was damp with saliva, but Picard hardly noticed for the aching throb in his groin. Blinking into the dark, the running lights of his quarters gradually sharpening in his blurry vision, the man shifted and rolled shakily onto his back. Except that the way was blocked by something big and firm, warm all along the length of his back and the tender backs of his splayed legs. Hot breath tickled his ear and he stiffened, his mechanical heart kicking seamlessly into double time. "Q," he choked breathlessly, the hoarseness of his voice partly due to his having been so recently asleep and partly the result of his bald shock at not having even a moment to process the compelling, and on some level traumatic, dream he had just had. "Yes." The silky murmur almost seemed to be coming from *inside* his ear. Q could do that, of course, but the lightest brush of full lips over the flesh of his ear suggested that he was really just a human body behind Jean-Luc, whispering to him, pressing against him. "I was just --" "I know. I liked the outfit you had me in. White isn't really my color, but nothing else would have complimented the setting or screamed its symbolism quite so loudly. You know, I never figured you for a boot worshipper. I would think it'd be hard to even notice them with your nose so constantly in the air." Something hot and angry burbled up in Picard's stomach and exclaimed that Q had engineered his dream, that Q was trying to trick him into thinking he wanted to be what Q wanted him to be. But, although it was somehow more unsettling to think that the dream had come from his own subconscious and that now even his conscious mind found it arousing, he knew it was true. Beyond the fact that such a heavy- handed manipulation didn't seem like Q's style, it was just so... gauche. "You should know," Jean-Luc answered automatically, using most of his attention to focus and compose himself. He was intensely aroused by fleeting images from his dream that bubbled up without provocation, and by the nearness of Q's body and the discreet anonymity of near darkness. It was hard to think past how hard his cock was and how warm Q was and how if he just shimmied out of his Starfleet pajama shorts and bent his knee a bit more Q could be inside him. Not quite successfully biting back a moan at the thought, Picard grimaced and tried to shift away. He had to get some distance, he had somehow get out from under the lust that was smothering his ability to consider the consequences of anything he might decide to do. "Ah ah ah." A strong arm, shockingly clothed in bright white material that seemed to glow in the blue light of his quarters, drew across Jean-Luc's chest and held him in place. At the same time, something firm and somehow hotter than the rest of Q's body pressed against the cleft of his buttocks, which seemed pitifully unprotected by the thin sleeping shorts he wore. Q's cock. Oh God, Q's cock was pressed against his ass. "I haven't told you you could go anywhere, Mon Capitaine." A growl of indignation overtook a groan of need as both rumbled up from Picard's chest, and the man clutched hard at the arm that held him so tightly against Q's body. Outraged, desperate and still fighting off the last remnants of grogginess, the man hissed, "Rape me or get your damn hands off me, Q!" That did it. The arm withdrew instantly and Jean-Luc closed his eyes, breathing his relief deeply and shifting away to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to the entity. He felt the Q's weight move behind him and he braced himself, but nothing happened. No breath in his ear, no nimble, long-fingered hands touching him. His cock twitched at the mere thought of both, and it was impossible to ignore the fact that some small part of him was disappointed that Q hadn't just heaved him onto his stomach and shoved his legs apart. Shuddering with combined desire and revulsion, Picard passed his hands over his face and tried to think. What the hell was Q playing at? The entity had always flirted with him, whispered in his ear, stood just a little too close, but now he was acting like they were in some sort of seedy bar, as though they had the luxury of seriously considering some act of intimacy. It was absurd. Q couldn't really think that he would be so irresponsible, could he? And what did Q want with his old, awkward human body? Or any human body, for that matter? "Last time you didn't try to pretend that you didn't want me," Q said quietly, his rich voice flat and utterly devoid of sentiment. The sound came from right over Jean-Luc's shoulder, but the entity himself seemed a thousand miles away. "I'm not doing that now." Picard rubbed at his eyes and leaned forward forlornly, exhaling. He had known that letting Q throw him over a pile of exotic pillows and take him rough and hard hadn't been a dream, but the confirmation of it tore at him when he already felt like he was in tatters. "And... last time was a mistake, Q." There was a flash of light from behind him, and then another in the doorway, stinging his eyes. When he had blinked away the momentary blindness, the man saw Q standing tall at the threshold, facing into the main room of his quarters with his long arms folded over his chest. He had judiciously traded in the white shirt (and the white pants and high leather boots, presumably) from the man's dream for his usual Starfleet Captain's uniform. It surprised Jean-Luc, somehow, to see him there. In an instantaneous, inarticulate way the man had assumed that the first flash had indicated Q's departure. The entity was too proud to allow himself to be stepped on; if he was still here it was because he didn't plan to leave without some kind of retribution. Picard swallowed thickly at the thought. When Q turned, though, he expression held none of the mockery or condescension the man might have expected. Instead, as he took a step toward the bed, he looked sober and thoughtful. "What about it was a mistake, exactly?" "Pardon?" Jean-Luc squinted. It was obvious, wasn't it? The entity frowned and stared past him, knitting his mobile brows. "Letting me fuck you? Was it the position?" Putting a hand on his hip and shifting his dark gaze to meet the man's bleary hazel one, Q rubbed a long thumb over his knuckles. "Would it be less of a mistake if I were to let you fuck me instead?" The brief, shrouded grimace that passed over Q's expressive features before he tamed it into a lascivious grin was not at all lost on Jean-Luc. Was it possible that Q sincerely wanted him? Enough to allow him to do something the entity was so obviously uncomfortable with? Would it change things if he did? No, no, of course not. He absolutely could not seriously be considering... consorting with Q. Absolutely not. But his cock disagreed. It had dozed briefly, forgotten in the emotional commotion, but it twitched urgently to life at the thought of getting to dive into Q's tight heat. Gritting his teeth, Picard balled his fists on his knees and pointedly ignored it. "It has nothing to do with the position. I cannot have sex with you, Q." "Again, you mean." [Continued in Part 2/2] ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: