Oh, Captain, My Captain! Part 2 (MF,reluc)
by Christine Faltz

Picard was strangely quiet. He had barely touched breakfast.

"Data tells me you had a rough night." Dr. Crusher said tentatively.
"You're awfully quiet, Jean-Luc. Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," Picard muttered. He could not look at her. His hands were
shaking slightly. He had the feeling that at any moment, an erection might
present itself, unbidden, as they so often did when he was younger. He had
been careful to sit so that she wouldn't notice it that happened. He was
very disturbed with his dream of the night before.

"Captain?" Picard started. "Jean-Luc, you look..."

"What? How do I look, Doctor?" Picard barked. Crusher's head snapped up,
surprised. "Sorry, Beverly," he whispered. "I am feeling, perhaps, a little

Dr. Crusher produced her tricorder. "No!" Picard got up. "I am not ill! I'm
just tired!"

"All right, Captain," Crusher said quietly. "I'll leave you then, and allow
you to get some obviously much-needed rest." She turned and left abruptly.

Picard stared after her, feeling ashamed. Perhaps he was sick; maybe he
should have had her check. But he was strangely embarrassed, something he had
never felt with her before. Well, maybe, a few times. What could that damn
tricorder tell her about sexual arousal?

* * *

"Captain, Dr. Crusher asked me to look in on you," Troi said, standing in
front of him. "She says you were a bit moody this morning, quite out of

Troi was absolutely the last person he wanted to see. He felt a nagging

"Counselor, you just lied to me," he said. "You are here because you felt it
necessary to talk to me."

Troi sat down. "All right, Captain. Yes, I'm a bit concerned."

For the second time in less than twelve hours, Picard blushed.

"Captain, the feelings you're experiencing are not unusual, shameful or
anything to be concerned over," Troi stated directly. "You are being too
hard on yourself."

"Indeed," Picard said, smiling beside himself. Troi smiled.

"Captain, permission to speak frankly?"

"Go ahead, Counselor." He looked away.

"You have always been -- rather restrained -- when it came to such feelings.
You continually deny yourself the luxury of indulging them, even sometimes."

"I indulged them enough, Counselor, a long, irreverent time ago," Picard
stated. Troi noticed he was fidgeting.

"Captain, I'm not trying to embarrass you. I just think you should recognize
that you are no more or less human than the rest of us In fact," she added,
"even the nonhuman among us take the liberty of experiencing..."

"Enough, Counselor," Picard interrupted. "I am in no state of mind to discuss
this with you, especially you."

"Perhaps you might confide in Commander Riker, then?" She got up to leave.

"Counselor, he is the last person I would confide in about such things."

"Why?" she asked, smiling. "Because he would agree with me?"

"Undoubtedly," Picard said, smiling in spite of himself.

After Troi left, Picard sat on the side of his bunk, trying to figure out
what to do. He knew that they had a few days to go before arriving at
Starbase 152 to pick up supplies and some crew who were ending their shore
leave. He decided to take a nap.

Ztlaf emerged from the wall of the captain's quarters nearest his bunk. She
showed herself to his sleeping mind as the scarlet light again. "No! not
again! Leave me alone!" His dream hand came up quickly across his eyes.

"Captain, you are honestly acting more immature than the young man you are
trying to avoid acknowledging." Ztlaf laughed. It was like the sound of
small silver bells ringing in the early morning.

"Perhaps you would prefer this form." She became Carmala, the metamorph from
two years ago.

"Carmala," he murmured. "Hello, Captain," she said, coming towards him. She
touched his face lightly, placing her other hand atop his head, as she had
done that night long ago.

"I have always stayed in your mind, a little part of me. You need me now. So
I am here."

Picard was confused. Was this really Carmala; was she capable of sending
herself into his mind from light-years away? He snapped out of it. What was
this crazy stuff he was thinking?

Carmala laughed. It wasn't Carmala; it was not her laughter.

"Captain, it little matters. I can be whatever you want, whoever you want."

"I suppose next you'll tell me you're the devil and have a contract with some
impressionable, defenseless society," Picard snapped.

"No, Captain. I am not she. I have the power to transform; real power."

An immediate, panicked thought. "Q? Is this some sick game designed to test
me again? If it is --"

"Not exactly, Jean-Luc," Q's voice said. "I am not Q, at least not the Q of
whom you are talking. But I can appear to be. I am half-Q. I am not allowed
in the Continuum, because I am damaged. I am the result of a disgraceful
coupling, according to the Continuum. I am on my own. A shape shifter with
Q abilities. Partial abilities, of course."

Picard drew a breath. Carmala's voice came back. "You have not been honest
with yourself for a long time, Captain," she said, and Picard found her in
his lap. "You have denied yourself -- and others, a wonderful side of you."
She placed her arms around him, leaning her head on his left shoulder. "Make
love to me, Jean-Luc." He tried to fling her away, to stand up. Her smell was
intoxicating; her lips suddenly pressed against his. He felt the electrical
rush of desire, the hot tingle in his fingertips, in his thighs, in his
groin. His heart pounded in his head. "Make love to me," she said again,
close to his ear. He remembered the mouth of the young woman of the night
before, nibbling at his ear, and in a second, his erection bulged against
his uniform. As soon as he thought it, Carmala's lips enveloped his ear, her
warm tongue trailing it slowly, sensually. His uniform seemed to melt off.
He was standing, holding her, her legs dangling, her arms around his neck,
her mouth to his ear. He felt weak, and without really thinking about it sat
on his bunk and then lay down. He was still holding Carmala-Q-whoever. He
struggled momentarily with his desire. He studied it for a few seconds. It
was hot, needy and strong. He felt it everywhere. Suddenly, he made a
decision, and rolled onto his right side. He removed his right arm from
beneath her and pulled the tunic-like garment she wore off one shoulder. He
saw her smile; no, he felt it. It was inviting him, imploring him.

Ztlaf was pleased. She had had to do very little persuading, and hadn't used
her mind to do any at all. He was more passionate than she had realized. How
could a man allow such fire to lie dormant for so long? He was kissing her
now. Gently, hesitantly. She opened her mouth to him, and they kissed
passionately, their tongues in a writhing, electric-hot dance. She enjoyed
the feel of the heat pouring from him, his wild, still slightly wary scent.
She reached down and took his erection in her hand, and began massaging it
with a light, teasing touch. She noticed with delight that his eyes were
half-closed and that he was clearly no longer in the mood to resist.

She began kissing him slowly down his body -- his neck, his chest. She
stopped at his nipples to take each one in her mouth and tease it with her
tongue and teeth. She lingered over one of them, and before progressing
further, bit quickly. His breath caught; he hadn't expected that. She
quickly slid her tongue gently over the nipple, soothing the sting. She
began her trip downwards again, flicking her tongue in and out of his navel.
She breathed softly on him; her mouth and breath were hot and extremely
stimulating. Her lips brushed each upper thigh briefly, and she bowed her
head to take his penis in her mouth. He flinched and pulled her head back
up to kiss her.

"Jean-Luc, honestly," she whispered in his mind, "You're such a puritan."
She went back down and closed her lips around him. He stiffened -- everywhere
else, that is. She took him into her mouth, holding him there, not moving her
head, allowing him to get used to it, to like it, to accept it. When she felt
his muscles relax and his hands begin to touch her sensually again, she began
a gentle suction with her lips while applying her tongue with alternately
soft and strong licks. She raised her head, then dropped it to his balls,
taking both in her mouth. Her hand encircled his cock, well-lathered with her
saliva. She stroked him vigorously, feeling him building to a climax.

She was startled when he suddenly flipped her onto her stomach. He lay atop
her, and pushed inside her. She was wet, so wet. When he reached below her
for her clitoris, she understood why he had chosen this particular position.
He moved his fingers rhythmically about her clit. Her back arched, and an
erotic, pleasure-filled growl escaped her. She gripped the mattress with her
teeth -- when she had transformed, she had left herself open to everything a
human woman would feel -- or for that matter a metamorph. Her breath gasped
from her, she felt his lips on the back of her neck, his tongue tickling her.
He gripped her right ear in his mouth. She had never felt so good, though
she had the power to give herself pleasures no one could dare to dream about,
except those who were Q. She felt him place his hands beneath her, gripping
her. He began to fuck her with abandon, fast, hard plunges deep inside her.
With a cry, he poured himself into her, his body tensing everywhere. She felt
the spasmodic rush of semen, and turned and lowered her head to grab one of
his fingers in her mouth. She sucked on it as he came.

After, they lay together, enfolded in one another's arms. "You at least
haven't forgotten anything, Jean-Luc," she whispered. "I'll be back."

"When?" he asked, startled from his tired afterglow.

"When you want me, or when you sleep again," she answered. "Whichever comes


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