"Standard orbit, sir," the helmsman reported, and Will Riker smiled. He loved shore leave, especially on a planet like this one.

His thoughts were interrupted by Deanna, asking about his plans. He didn't really have any; he was never very good at organizing his free time. Something (or someone) interesting always managed to turn up. Before she allowed him much of a chance to answer, Troi began detailing her own plans. The planet had a reputation for its wonderful shopping district. Lingerie, clothing, chocolatiers... maybe she should ask Beverly to join her.

Riker leaned over and whispered to her, "I wouldn't do that. I overheard her and the Captain making plans." Troi's eyebrows rose, but Will shook his head. "She found some good bookstores, she said."

Deanna leaned even closer, frustrated, as always, at the thought of the two old friends. "When are they going to get a clue, Will?"

He laughed. "Maybe 'bookstore' is just a code for some cheap, by-the-hour motel."

Deanna sighed. "I wish. There are days I have to take two or three cold showers after being in the same room as them. It's not easy being an empath, you know."

Of course, Riker was only joking, and bookstores were indeed bookstores. After studying the database about the planet, Beverly had found an entire street of bookdealers, and she and Jean-Luc were quite content to drag themselves from one store to the other, comparing, arguing, and purchasing. In each store there were treasures one or the other could not live without, and their arms became progressively more laden with packages. But still the big treasure, the ultimate bibliophilic find, eluded them.

At the final bookstore, footsore and weary, they split up, because the Shakespearean criticism and the fiction were far apart in the haphazardly organized store. Beverly was quite contentedly perusing some misshelved plays when she realized she had spent a long time alone, and hurried back to check on her companion.

He was standing by a bookcase, an open book in his hand. His eyes were opened wide, and he was biting his lower lip, slowly, ever so slowly turning one page and then another, his face flushing. She had to see what he was reading; she never could pass up an opportunity to tease him.

She snuck up to him and grabbed the book away, over his protests and attempts to snatch it back. She took a quick look at the open page, and then another, unconsciously adopting Jean-Luc's stance. "Oh, my god..." she whispered, turning the pages at random, taking in the pictures of men and women in various states of dress and undress, at the descriptions of leather and latex and restraints.

Gently, Jean-Luc took the book from her and reshelved it. They paid for the more conventional books which had attracted their attention and beamed back to the ship, their day's leave over.

At night, in their separate beds, each tossed and turned, dealing with too many conflicting emotions. The memory of that book, and of being discovered in the reading of it. Worse yet, the memory of discovering the other reading it, and the obvious arousal. And, worst of all, the wonder and doubt about just what had aroused the other one while skimming the book.

Beverly turned over yet again, pulling her thick quilt into a more elaborate spiral around her body. He's the captain, for crying out loud! He likes, no, he needs to be in control all the time. What do you think he'd like, you fool? Damn. Another turn, and her quilt tangled even more tightly around her legs. Oh, but wouldn't it be nice... it's been so long. Odan, well that was too short, and Ronin--I still don't understand what the hell that was all about. Oh, Jack, I really do miss you.

In a bedroom at the other end of a long corridor, Jean-Luc had already opened his pajama top with his restless turning. She's so delicate, so... waifish. And look at the men she's been with; if Ronin doesn't prove what she likes, I don't know what would. Damn. I wish I had let Jack tell me more abut his shore leaves. Then I'd know for sure. But when he'd come back to the ship, all smiles and swagger and that look of a man who'd had lots of sex, I just couldn't listen to him talking about Beverly, not that way. Might as well read maintenance reports; I'll not get any sleep tonight.

They each went on duty early the next morning to allow their staffs a longer shore leave. Each crew member was allowed one day only, but being a senior officer had its privileges, and at the end of his duty shift, Picard beamed back to the surface, to the last bookstore he had visited.

He went straight to the shelf where it had laid, but it was no longer there. He was debating throwing propriety to the winds and asking after it when the clerk spoke up. "If you're looking for that book you didn't buy yesterday, you're out of luck."

Picard merely raised his eyebrows in answer and further question. "That redhead who was with you came in this morning and bought it. Said it was for a friend. Tell you, with the way she looks, I wouldn't mind being that friend."

So distracted was Picard at the thought of Beverly with that book, and with hoping he was the friend she had spoken about, that he didn't even stop to glare at the clerk for her implied slander against Beverly. He hurried back to the ship; as soon as he materialized on the transporter platform, he contacted Beverly and arranged for to visit her for dinner.

The meal was wonderful--all the things she knew they both enjoyed--and he sat at the table being served. His heart dropped with each new proof that he had been right the night before, and with each minute that passed without her mentioning the book. Finally, after dessert, he had to bring up the topic, or risk having the evening end without speaking of it.

"So, how was your day?" he asked.

"Nothing special," she answered. "I updated files, logged some test results. Ensign Takomi broke a leg down on the planet, and I had to set that..."

She wasn't giving anything away; he'd have to ask for it. Not that he minded. "Did you enjoy revisiting that bookstore?"

Her face fell. "Bookstore? Oh... How did you know?"

It was time to let her off the hook, if only a little. After all, he did want to see the book again. "I went down myself. The clerk said you'd been there." He looked at her over the rim of his teacup. "Did you buy anything?"

You know damn well I did. She gathered all her remaining courage and answered. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. That book you were so interested in yesterday."

He waited for her to offer it to him, admiring, in the meanwhile, the spirit with which she fought revealing anything to him. His patience had limits, though, and in the end he was forced to continue his questioning. "Why did you buy it?"

He loved to see her blush. It happened so rarely, but when it did, it fed many nights' fantasies of how she would look, flush with desire. Tonight, she was giving him ample food for fantasy. "It interested me," she finally admitted. Before he could pursue his advantage, she turned the tables on him. "Why were you reading it so intently?"

He was not a man to blush, but he could feel his cheeks grow hot. "It interested me," he finally admitted.

After what seemed an interminable wait, she stammered out an offer to share the book with him and he nodded his assent. She hurried to her desk and brought the book back, handing it to him wordlessly. As he browsed, she stood next to him in an almost classic pose--hands behind her back, legs slightly spread, head down. She might as well have 'slave' stamped on her forehead, Jean-Luc noted with sadness.

He turned his attention back to the book, turning pages at random, stopping when a paragraph or picture caught his eye (or some other part of his anatomy). Beside him, Beverly stood quietly, obediently.

He turned some more pages at random and felt his heart threaten to stop. It was a full page picture: a man on his knees, naked, hands behind his back. Restrained. Blindfolded. The thin strap of a whip was wrapped intimately around him, and was held by a tall redheaded woman. It was a picture to be filed away in his darkest fantasies, actors to be reassigned as required. He stared at the page, memorizing every detail. He was brought back to reality by the sound of Beverly's gasp.

He turned to look at her. Was it possible? "Beverly," he asked, "have you ever..." He gestured at the page.

"It was a long time ago," she dismissed it all, but in a wistful tone of voice.

"Do you ever think about that still?" She shrugged, but did not deny it. His masochistic soul forced his next question: "Did you and Jack..."

"Yes," she whispered.

He let the book fall. "Oh my..." His beloved, precious Beverly, the woman he thought he would need to protect, and she secretly enjoyed handcuffing men and the like. It was a happy revelation.

She was so concerned over his reaction to her inadvertent admission that it took her a minute to realize just which pages he had been reacting to, and what that said about her best friend. But when she did, she was ready for him. Without being aware of it, she had been ready for him for some time now. "You dropped the book," she said. He sat, still motionless, still shocked. Her voice grew colder, more commanding. "You dropped the book. Pick it up."

He bent to pick it up and began to feel that familiar tingling throughout his body. It had been so long.... "You're right. I should have been more careful. I'm sorry."

"Not yet, you're not. But you will be," she promised, and her eyes were absolute ice, contrasting with a high sexual flush everywhere else. His body responded, ready at last to be with her, to give her what she wanted, get what he needed.

He stood and moved toward her, but she backed away. When he finally cornered her near the door, she told him it was time for him to leave, that they both had early shift the next day, and she opened the door, leaving him no choice but to retreat. The next morning, at breakfast, she was her usual self, and Jean-Luc wondered if the whole of last night's dinner hadn't been some elaborate fantasy of his, or whether he might have shown his hand too much, come on too strong, too weak, too needy. He invited her for dinner, and she played the game again, ignoring any hints about their conversation of the night before, rebuffing any attempt to continue what he thought they had started. As they ate dessert, he thought he felt her hand caress his thigh, but as soon as he reacted, she left the table and his quarters.

For a week he lived in hell. It had been bad enough speculating whether or not she might be interested in him, but now, knowing what he knew, waiting for her became sheer torture. She didn't help matters any, being more business-like than ever in public, the perfect buttoned-down professional, and then, in private, teasing him with tantalizing hints, leaving every time he dared respond.

Finally, one night at dinner when she had been lingering over every casual touch, driving him to distraction with smoldering glances, Jean-Luc decided he had had enough. Knowing what he knew now about himself and about her, speaking was dangerous, but this constant unsatisfied yearning was just as dangerous. And, in any case, he desperately wanted to endanger himself with her. "Beverly, explain yourself."

"In what context?" She had a hard time keeping the amusement out of her voice. To cover the laughter in her eyes, she reached for a piece of fruit from the bowl in the middle of the table.

He detailed the way she'd been acting, teasing and withdrawing. She didn't respond, concentrating on cutting her fruit into precise, even sections, but then, at last, spoke. "When I was studying for the command level tests, we were taught that the most important asset to a commander was his self-discipline." She paused, raising her eyes to his face. "Self-discipline is so important, isn't it, Jean-Luc."

He blanched. She really did mean what she had implied, and this past week had all been one long torture. "Yes, of course. Self-discipline is one of the most important lessons to be learned."

Beverly drew her fingernail across the fruit, scoring it, making him shudder. "I'm so glad you agree." She returned to her dessert, and then added, casually, "Do you think you're disciplined, Jean-Luc?"

"Reasonably so, I should imagine, if not better."

She arched an eyebrow and stood. He began to stand, but she motioned him to sit; she would clear the table tonight. He heard her going back and forth to the replicator, disposing of the tableware. Suddenly, Jean-Luc felt something warm and moist drawn across his scalp. He turned in his seat to look at her, but the something had already been withdrawn and hidden. "Reasonably disciplined, you say?" she smirked, and without a further word left.

The next morning she canceled breakfast--some convenient emergency in sickbay. During the morning staff conference, there was no time or privacy to talk, but that didn't stop the occasional significant glance, hopeful, and, each hoped, not intercepted by anyone else.

After everyone else had left, Troi and Riker stayed behind to discuss The Couple. "Something's up," Riker decided.

"I think you're right. Every time he looks at her, I feel a sudden rush of fear."

"That's not good."

"But there's also a surge of happiness."

"That's strange." Riker was as clueless as ever, but this time, deservedly so.

"You're right. I think I'll keep an eye on them," Troi decided, as though she hadn't kept a close emotional watch on both Picard and Crusher since Beverly first beamed aboard and the Captain made a spectacle of himself on the bridge, tripping over his own tongue in an effort to say enough without saying too much.

That night, Jean-Luc returned to his quarters to find Beverly waiting for him. "Take off your clothes," she ordered.

"Excuse me?"

"No, I don't think I will. Take off your clothes."

"Aren't you supposed to wine me and dine me, first?"

"I can leave, if you prefer." At that threat, he began to move to his bedroom to disrobe, but she stopped him. "Here. Where I can watch." So he stood beside his desk, removing each item of clothing while she watched him dispassionately. "Sit." He sat down in his usual seat opposite her at the table and watched as she replicated a meal for one, eating it without offering him any.

After she finished her meal, never once offering him so much as a bite, she motioned for him to resume his place by his desk. She got herself a cup of tea and sipped it as she slowly circled Jean-Luc, scrutinizing his body as though he were a statue and not a person. After a careful mental inventory of all his better qualities, or at least the physical ones, she put her cup down on his desk and grabbed a nearby PADD, using it to spread his legs wider. He hissed at the touch of cold plastisteel against his heated inner thighs.

The sight of him standing, naked, helpless, beside his desk, was arousing as few things in her recent life had been, but she needed to take this slowly, concentrate on him. She ordered him to close his eyes and keep his hands to himself, taking control. He complied willingly while she explored his chest, his legs, but when he felt her fingers surround him, he had to look.

She reprimanded him, but he seemed so chastened that she abandoned her plans to leave him as punishment. Instead she grabbed her dinner napkin, folded it once, twice, three times, making certain he was watching her. Then she stepped behind him and lowered the blindfold over his eyes, taking the time to nip at the tips of his ears as she tied it tightly at the back of his head. Stepping in front of him to gauge his reaction, she offered to bind his hands as well if he couldn't control those, and was gratified to see him leap in response to the delicious threat. Seeing how much he wanted it, she decided against fulfilling her implied promise, leaving him to control himself.

Instead, she indulged herself, allowing her hands and lips to roam his body, enjoying the perfection in front of her. His mind might be wise beyond its years, but his body was suited to one far younger, she thought as she caressed his mouth, his neck, his chest, his nipples, slowly working down his stomach, up his thighs.

He stood still, trying valiantly not to respond, not to give her a reason to stop the delightful torment. But just before her lips moved where he wanted them most to be, she stopped kissing and caressing, and he heard her move away. His stomach sank as he heard the doors open and close. Had she left him like this? Or was she testing him? He remained where she had commanded him to stand, just as she had commanded him to stand, and was glad he had when he felt the warm moisture surround him, teeth lightly grazing him.

He nearly lost his control at the feel of Beverly's mouth, and then the horrid thought that it might not be Beverly's mouth occurred to him. After all, the doors had opened and closed, and he had not heard any movement since then, try as he had to strain his ears. But Beverly wouldn't do anything like that to him, would she? Not this early on, surely.

Before he could do anything about his elusive thoughts, the heat was gone, replaced by intense, almost burning cold. Jean-Luc yelped, and then, as the cold penetrated his skin, began to growl in pleasure. "You like that, don't you," Beverly purred, working the ice between his legs, up behind him, back down over him. He dared not respond, afraid of saying the wrong thing and ending the pain and pleasure.

In an impossibly calm voice, Beverly asked what he was thinking. Forced to answer for fear of antagonizing her, he answered that he was thinking of Riker, an answer which garnered him a laugh and a sharp, sweet bite. "Really," he said, "how could he have given you up?" He wished he could touch her, let her know how much he enjoyed her attentions.

"Riker never had me. It was Odan, you know that."

"But even so, it was Riker's body, and if you did things like this... oh..." She sucked him in again, licking his length, nibbling at the head, keeping at him until his hips were bucking forward despite his best attempts at control. Then the ice was back, cooling him down.

"Do you think I did things like this with him?" Beverly asked contemptuously. "I wouldn't waste myself on that boy." Then the heat returned, and the ice on his nipples, and Picard felt enormously proud that he was able to claim parts of Beverly that no one else had. "I've only ever allowed Jack, and now you. And I think, with some discipline, you could be so much better than Jack. You have so much more control to lose." In a corner of his mind, Jean-Luc was disturbed at having his friend's memory belittled. At the same time, he was very excited at the prospect of, for once, besting Jack at something to do with Beverly, and that thought sent him over the edge. As he climaxed, he reached for Beverly's hair, calling for her.

She backed away, reprimanding him for breaking discipline. The warmth and the icy cold were gone, leaving him to spend himself into the air and onto the carpet as she walked out of his quarters.

The next morning there wasn't time for breakfast, and at the staff meeting the captain was strangely cool and cruel, publicly reprimanding her over a report which had not been tendered, some test results which were not yet available. She almost rose to the bait and reacted, but in the end backed down, demurely promising that they would be finished with all due haste, not even offering the excuses of emergencies or scientific control methodology. After everyone filed out, with Beverly hurrying, eyes downcast, toward sickbay and Picard swaggering off to the bridge, Will motioned for Deanna to stay and talk to him.

"What's with them?" he asked his Imzadi the mind-spy.

She shrugged. "I don't know. They're both so happy."

"Happy? If that's happy, I'd hate to see how he treats her when he's angry."

Will stood and pulled down his shirt, imitating his captain. "This started right after they spent the day together on shore leave. It must have something to do with that. I'll talk to the Captain; you talk to Beverly."

Deanna stood. "I don't think any of this will effect their ability to work together."

Will took her elbow, drew her close. "Who cares about that? I just want to know if they're finally bonking."

He turned the visitor's chair around and straddled it, hoping to create the air of intimacy which might lull Picard into ill-advised confessions. "You came down pretty hard on Beverly during the meeting. Is there something I should know about?"

Picard tried very hard to control his amusement, remembering how Beverly had spoken of the first officer the night before. In his sternest voice he informed the commander that he would book no interference in his dealings with the CMO, and that he could not allow her work to slack off.

Again Riker tried to defend his colleague. Perhaps the difficulties were not all professional in nature? "And how did last week's day of shore leave go?"

Picard sat rigidly straight, broadcasting disdain. "We had a very pleasant day, Commander, though I can not imagine why you would think my shore leave or the doctor's is any of your concern." He smiled, a gesture with no warmth and little sincerity. "And how was your shore leave, Number One? I've heard some rumors, but of course I chose not to believe them."

Riker thought back to his day's leave, and the three young ladies he had spent it with. On that particular planet they were of legal age; on that planet and maybe another five in the Alpha Quadrant. Perhaps this discussion of shore leave antics was one best left to the ladies. He stood to leave, mumbling apologies.

Troi stood right outside the door, presumably fascinated by the door of the turbolift. "No luck," he told her, "If you ask me, Beverly did another one of her famous tease and runs. My father had a name for that kind of woman." He strode past her and onto the turbolift. He wanted to drown his disappointment in a good stiff synthahol and stop thinking about whether the captain was drowning a good stiff...

"Maybe that's why your father had to make do with Kate 'Cold Fish' Pulaski," Troi murmured to the closing turbolift doors. She turned to Data, made some lame excuse about a previous appointment and took the next lift to sickbay.

Beverly did not smile when Deanna barged in and flopped down onto a chair. Jean-Luc had tried to show off his muscle at the staff meeting, and she was now busy deciding how best to make him show his muscle in private. But if she didn't want her emotions broadcast to the whole ship, she knew she had to put up with Deanna's misguided questions. The first was about last week's shore leave.

Beverly leaned back in her chair, a happy smile on her face. "Oh, Deanna, it was wonderful!"

Troi leaned forward, eager to hear more.

"Do you know how long it's been?" Beverly asked, rhetorically. "I was beginning to think it would never happen. But then Jean-Luc and I..."

"Yes?"

"Finally... after all this time. You can't imagine how wonderful it was to finally..." Troi's breath was beginning to speed up. "Finally, we found 'Chronicles of The Cannongate,' so now I have a complete set of Sir Walter Scott's books. I've been collecting them for over thirty years, but they are so difficult to find in good condition."

Deanna hastily cut her off, before she could launch into her "Highland Fling" mode. She asked about the way Picard had exploded at the staff meeting, and Beverly had to work very hard at not thinking of the way Picard had exploded the night before. Getting her emotions under control, she pretended that she hadn't really noticed.

"It's been like this since shore leave," Troi whined.

"Oh, well, I've been too busy to notice. I'm glad you've had the leisure to keep such a close eye on everyone; I wish I had that much free time," Beverly answered.

Troi knew when she was being stonewalled. She might have chosen Wee Willy Riker for an Imzadi, but she wasn't totally blind. Desperation tactics were definitely in order.

"You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

Beverly, shocked, denied it.

"Don't lie to me; I'm empathic."

"I swear to you, Deanna. I am not sleeping with Jean-Luc." She frowned. "In fact, Jean-Luc hasn't laid a hand on me."

There had to be something there, something to explain the conflicting emotions she was sensing. "What about kissing?"

"He hasn't kissed me since right after Kesprytt."

Troi tried to find a chink in this armor, but couldn't. Distressing as it was to contemplate, Beverly was telling the truth. The whole situation frustrated Troi so much that she felt the need for an immediate chocolate infusion. She left, murmuring darkly of locking the two officers in a holodeck until they finally did something or going mad from the underlying sexual tension.

That night, they had a good laugh at the expense of their fellow officers before Beverly shoved Jean-Luc up against a wall and did some very interesting things to him with the Mintakan tapestry he kept on the back of his chair.

Their lives took on a regularity--breakfast in the morning, days full of work, and at night, private games to content their bodies and hearts. Each day, the senior officers noted how much less tolerant Picard was of his CMO, how much quicker he was to reprimand her in public or to cut off her arguments. Each day they expected that this was the day they would see Beverly fight back, let loose a blast of temper to melt the ship's shields, but each day they were disappointed, as Beverly merely smiled and walked away from the fight. Each night, in Picard's quarters, Beverly took her own sweet revenge, always using some item from Jean-Luc's possessions, so that even after she left, he would look around his quarters and be forced to recall what she had done with the bottle of wine, chilled perfectly, or the candle holders, or the sextant from on his desk.

She never actually hurt him, preferring to dominate through intimidation and restraint. Though she was a doctor, or perhaps because of it, she was loath to create damage she would have to mend, at least as long as she could torment him in so many new and agonizing ways while avoiding harm. And never, not once, no matter how he pleaded, did she let him touch her, except for graciously allowing an occasional kiss to her hand in gratitude.

One morning, after about a month, she ended their prosaic breakfast by replicating a hairbrush and slamming it down onto the table. She left for sickbay, and Jean-Luc stared at the brush, terrified and excited about her plans. He had no idea what she might do; she constantly surprised him. It occurred to him to wonder which end of the hairbrush she was thinking of using.

That night, he waited for her in his quarters, as he did each night. Since their last shore leave, it took a ship's emergency to get him to go out after 2000 hours. It had taken some hard experience for him to learn this habit; though he was no social butterfly, he had once ventured out to the holodeck in the evening. Beverly had been at his quarters, and turned away, disappointed at his absence. She had not come to visit him again for over a week.

Of course, Beverly did not always come by. Some nights she had a rehearsal of her drama group, or an emergency in sickbay, or a poker game. But she seemed to know if he stepped out of his quarters for even a minute, and never let his lapses go unpunished in ways he did not like. He much preferred the ways she had devised to punish him for being too perfect.

Just after 2000 hours, his doorchime sounded. He didn't need to answer; Beverly strode in without invitation. Her warning was just to give him time to rise from behind his desk and stand at the ready, arms behind his back, legs spread, head down.

She looked at the table before she looked at him. The hairbrush sat in solitary splendor in the center of the bare surface. It had been a risk for Jean-Luc to leave it in plain sight. Had anyone but Beverly visited, there would have been uncomfortable questions about why a man with no hair to speak of had a brush so prominently displayed. But Beverly had placed it there, and there it had stayed. Jean-Luc certainly deserved a reward tonight.

Beverly led him to the table, sat him down, and served them both their meal. They spoke of ship's business, theater, and all the minutia of their friendship. She even pretended to ignore that he stared at her with unconcealed lust. She knew her outfit--ruffled white blouse, wide velvet skirt, and a vest so tight neither was quite sure why the buttons didn't pop each time she inhaled--provoked him. It had been intended to.

Dinner over, she noticed that Jean-Luc was staring at her, waiting. It was time, yet again, for her to take charge. She extended her hand to him, ordering him to collect their wine and glasses, and then led him, for the first time, into his bedroom. She sat propped against the pillows on his bed, fully clothed, and watched as, at her prompting, he removed his own clothing.

Following her instructions, he laid down against her on his back between her spread legs, feeling the velvet of her outfit against his back. "Jean-Luc," she whispered in his ear, "how did you manage all these years?"

He took a sip of his wine, bewildered.

"You haven't had a great number of relationships, but I know you're a very sensual man." She dipped a finger into his wine and traced his lips, waiting for him to lick her finger clean. "How did you manage?"

He blushed and made inconsequential sounds, unable to blurt out the truth.

"I know what you've done. I want to watch you," she said. He hesitated, wondering if he could go this far. Nothing they'd done until now had strayed too far from his wildest fantasies about her, but this...

Beverly leaned forward, the starched ruffles of her shirt scratching his back. She whispered in his ear about things she'd done to him, things she would do to him if only he'd cooperate. She wrapped her hand around his, leading his palm over his chest, down his stomach, surrounding him, stroking him, whispering of all the things he most desired, until she was sure he would continue on his own. She leaned back against the pillows, watching, and soon thereafter Jean-Luc felt something rough against his chest--the hairbrush, dragging through the sparse hair there, rubbing against his nipples, moving lower, then back up.

He had never felt anything quite like this, and that, combined with Beverly's words and the knowledge of the act he was performing for her amusement sent him over the edge. Afterwards, she dragged her fingers through the congealing liquid, rubbing it into his hairs, up his belly, bringing her fingers sometimes to his mouth to be cleaned, sometimes to her own. When he finally had breath enough to speak, he thanked her. "Sometimes I find it hard to believe this is real, and not some lovely dream," he admitted.

Beverly took his right hand and spread it, biting down on the flesh between his thumb and pointer and drawing blood. He yelped. "Now you know it's not a dream," she murmured, lapping delicately at the blood.

She held him in her arms as he fell asleep by her side, happily spent. It was getting harder and harder to resist him, to keep within the narrow confines she'd set herself. She rose from the bed and left before she could give in to the temptation and do something they'd both regret. Besides--Jean-Luc had never invited her to stay the night in his quarters. Maybe, after all this time, he still didn't trust her that much, as she didn't trust him enough for some things. The thought infinitely saddened her.

The whole next day she was strangely subdued, and even at night she didn't respond to his willingness to play. They ended up on the couch, quietly companionable. Jean-Luc pulled her into his arms, allowing her the silence. After a while, his curiosity and concern got the better of him, and he asked what had been disturbing him since the scene the night before--how had she managed all these years? She shook her head, unwilling to discuss the matter.

He insisted, as her friend and not as her lover. For lack of choice, she finally admitted that she hadn't coped, all these years, that the reason Deanna didn't know exactly what was going on and hadn't stood on a tabletop in Ten-Forward and announced it to all and sundry was that she was walking around frustrated as hell, as she always had.

Jean-Luc was incredulous. Why, then, wouldn't she let him touch her, bring her as much pleasure as she brought him? She shrugged, unable to answer, unsure of the answer herself. He begged, pleaded, endangered his safety and satisfaction by insisting she allow him. He thought he could feel Beverly's breath speed up, her face flush with arousal.

She was getting aroused, but also angry. How dare he try to seize control? That was her role in this little game, and no matter how it frustrated her, she would be the one to set the timetable. She had hoped to string Jean-Luc along, slowly train him, but he was quickly approaching a plateau. If she didn't allow him some of what he wanted soon, he might end their arrangement. If she didn't allow him some of what her body was demanding, it, too, might begin to rebel. But in the meantime, as long as sanity and control remained, she could punish him for his insolence. "Do you have a riding crop?" she asked, and was pleased to see him blanch.

"A saddle, but no, not a crop. I just replicate that when I need one."

"Well, you'll need one tomorrow. Get it. Now." He did, bringing it to her with shaking hands. She took it, not even deigning to look at him before leaving his quarters without saying goodbye. As she walked down the corridor, she wondered what on earth she would do with the crop--she had asked for it mainly to frighten him, and still didn't want to damage him in any way she'd have to doctor. Oh, well, she had almost a day--she'd think of something.

Beverly had trouble sleeping that night. She played around in her quarters, preparing it for the night she knew was inevitably approaching, whether she wanted it to or not . She knew she wanted it, more than she ever had before. She knew she was afraid of it, more than ever before.

Finally, sometime after midnight, she dozed off, and was awoken by her doorchime sounding. She pulled on a robe and answered the door, startled to see Jean-Luc waiting for her. He couldn't sleep, either; he wanted to talk. Knowing what it was he wanted to talk about, she drew him into her quarters and shut the door, but did not let him enter further than that. He admitted to mixed feelings about the new turn their relationship had taken. For himself, he was ecstatic--the way Beverly was treating him was everything he could have hoped for. But he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy, too. What could she be getting out of such a one-sided relationship?

"Please, Beverly. All I want is to give you pleasure. It's all I've ever wanted, even before I knew we were... so... compatible." She stepped away from him, but he followed, insisting that he couldn't do this anymore--if he wasn't to be allowed to make her feel the pleasure he did, he'd just stop everything, now. It had to be reciprocal.

"Who says it isn't?" she asked, but he glared at her--no matter what she might get out of controlling him, it wasn't the same as the release. "Besides," she reminded him, "you're supposed to be able to do anything I tell you to. That's the whole point."

"No," he said, sadly, "the whole point is that we are making love, after our own fashion. But you won't let me love you." She didn't answer.

He stepped out of his allotted role and grew daring, stretching out his fingertips to touch the small bit of skin exposed by the high neckline of her nightgown. She knew she had to stop him, to reprimand him, but craved just one more touch, one minute more. Emboldened by her lack of response, he kissed her, delighted to finally taste her. He parted her lips and explored the inside of her mouth; whatever trouble he had gotten himself into had already begun, and he might as well enjoy his plunge into danger.

She began to lose herself in the feel of his hands, his tongue, and ran her own hands under his shirt, scratching his back sharply, causing him to wince with pleasure. When he was convinced she would no longer oppose him, he released her, and dropped to his knees, begging to be of service, to release her from her clothing, to please her, pleasure her, grant her release. As she surrendered to him, allowing him to do as he pleased, she made sure to do some small act to reclaim her own control, finally allowing him to crawl by her side into her bedroom.

She sat on the bed, and he remained on his knees before her. Jean-Luc kissed her toes, working up over her arch, her ankles, her calves, knees, thighs. Before he could get any closer, she pulled him up on the bed beside her, and joined him in a mutual seduction of touch and taste.

Beverly rolled on top of him and rubbed her body over his, driving him a little wild. Her hands caressed his arms, lifting his hands slowly above his head, running her fingernails down the soft insides of his arms and back up. She held him there, pressed against the bed, gyrating against him, and he quite happily contented himself with nibbling on her neck. Then, needing more, he pushed up against her, trying to get at her breasts. She told him, weakly, to stop, but he didn't believe her, hearing her tone of voice instead of her words.

"Jean-Luc," she gasped, "stop..."

"You don't want me to," he said, in that low, hypnotic voice of his. "You want this as much as I do. You know that."

"Stop. It's enough." He captured one of her nipples in his mouth and bit it, eliciting a low moan. He let it go, chuckling at his power over her.

Sometimes, even a brilliant strategist like Picard made a fatal error, and this was his time. Before he could understand what was happening, she had spread his arms with her hands, his legs with her own, and reached down to the side of her bed. There was a sharp metallic sound, and the pit of his stomach sank somewhere below his knees as he realized that Beverly had activated wrist and ankle restraints. Of course, a different part of him rose at realizing he was finally spread-eagled and shackled on her bed.

Beverly touched him with her hands and her lips, starting at his toes and going all the way up to his scalp, avoiding the obvious erogenous zones. Then, she got an inspiration and rushed off to the living room, returning with a few bowls. Using the handle of the riding crop she had kept by her bed, she spread ice cream liberally over Jean-Luc's groin, pausing now and then to feed him some off the handle. Then, she dragged strawberries through the ice cream, setting him to shiver between the roughness of the berries and the cold, and popped the berries into her mouth. While she chewed, she idly ran the crop over his body, dragging the whip end against his torso or pushing the handle against all his openings. From time to time she leaned over to kiss him deeply, feeding him strawberries and ice cream from the heat of her mouth.

She was driving him mad with her ministrations, and she wasn't about to let up. She straddled him, teasing him by holding herself just out of reach. Jean-Luc tried to force the issue by arching his back, seeking her heat. Beverly seemed to acquiesce, moving closer, but then she moved abruptly away. He groaned in disappointment and began pleading, leading her to reprimand him for losing all his discipline. In this state, she told him disdainfully, he was of no use for her; he was too close to the edge.

She left the bed, and returned with a small basin of cold water and a washcloth. She first washed all traces of the ice cream off of him, cooling him down with the icy water, and then washed the rest of him. When she finished, she squeezed the washcloth out, and moved to lay it aside. He renewed his desperate begging for fulfillment, his pleading to be made love to. She took the washcloth, wadded it up a bit, and stuck it into his mouth, silencing him.

Beverly began to take her teasing seriously, placing her breasts right above his mouth, which he could no longer use to grab them, placing herself just above him, but too far for any hip movement to help. He had few ways left to express his needs, and made them count, twisting in his restraints, begging with his eyes. Once again she left the bed, leaving him to groan in frustration. When she returned, she had his uniform undershirt in her hands; seconds later, it was securely over his eyes.

All that was left to him was hearing and touch. He felt the bed shift as she got up, heard her pad around the room, and a sharp snip. Then the bed shifted again, and all the erogenous zones she had earlier neglected were caressed by something soft. Jean-Luc began to relax into the feeling when he was brought up short by the softness turning into a sharp pain, like the point of a pin being dragged over his most sensitive skin as she replaced the rose petals she had been using to stroke him with the flower's thorns. There was nothing he could do to stop her. Even if there had been, he wouldn't have wanted to.

She straddled him again. "Do you want me?" she asked. He arched his back toward her in response. She sunk down on him a tiny amount, and then drew away, leaving him to sob incoherently through his gag.

"You want me despite what I've done to the great Captain Picard? Even though I've got you bound, blindfolded, and gagged on my bed, absolutely helpless?" He was whimpering now, arching his back more and more, desperate for her to take him and finish this. She smiled, forced to admire his flexibility.

"What will you do to have me?" He whimpered again.

"Oh, that's right," she drawled, cruel and lovely, "You can't tell me, can you? The ever articulate Jean-Luc Picard, reduced to grunts and moans." She ran her hands over him, eliciting a few of each.

"Will you do everything I ask of you?" He hesitated. Everything covered an awful lot of ground.

She took the almost-forgotten crop and placed it on the bed between his legs, not quite penetrating him, but only just technically. He whimpered again, and she waited him out, idly playing with the crop. When he steadied himself, she rewarded him, lowering herself enough that he was penetrating her, but only just technically.

"I'm your mistress, and you're my slave. Is that clear?" He felt the crop begin to enter him, and her begin to leave him. "Is it?" Frantic for the two actions to be reversed, wanting to be inside her instead of having the riding crop inside him, he nodded his head vigorously. "Good boy." She didn't move the crop; he hadn't really expected she would. Beverly covered his ears with her hands, reducing his world to touch alone, and then, suddenly, sank down onto him. Frantic with need, Jean-Luc arched up and felt the crop moving with him. He was forced to stop, to let her control everything, as they both knew was right. Sometimes she rode him, running her hands along his body; part of the time she dropped down prone, brushing his nipples with her own.

"You like this, don't you?" she murmured. "You're not the captain, you're not in command. No decisions, no one expecting you to know everything. You don't have to be the best and the brightest with me--you just have to be." How could she speak so calmly, when he was almost senseless? She realized that he wouldn't last long. "Oh, no, you're to wait for me. You don't do anything until you have my permission."

She sat up, replacing the crop with her fingers, going in further, completing a circle where he penetrated her while she penetrated him. She rode him until she could support herself no longer, collapsing onto him. Despite the gag, he craned his neck forward, touching his lips to her breast, caressing it with the roughness of his cheeks. She took pity on him then and emptied his mouth, allowing him to suck on her nipples, turning her body into his gag. The pleasure built for both of them, and she searched her fantasies for the small trigger which would give them both their release.

She freed his mouth again. "Tell me what you want," she ordered. He stammered, unsure of what to say. "Oh, you're just like Jack. He could never tell me, either." That was all the incentive he needed. He babbled, spilling out everything she asked to hear, begging for fulfillment, anything to get what he wanted from Beverly and prove that he deserved the treatment previously reserved only for Jack Crusher.

He was no longer Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise. He was no longer Jean-Luc Picard, Jack Crusher's friend. Finally, he was Jean-Luc Picard, lover of this extraordinary woman gasping and moaning above him, gripping him tightly, calling out his name and permitting him his own release.

Afterwards, she pulled off his blindfold, freed his hands and feet, and cradled him against her. When their breath returned to normal, she whispered, "Now, about that saddle of yours..."

She'll let you in her house

If you come knockin' late at night

She'll let you in her mouth

If the words you say are right

If you pay the price

She'll let you deep inside

But there's a secret garden she hides --Bruce Springsteen, "Secret Garden"