Disclaimer: Ready for your lesson, little ones? This here is called a copyright. Violating it isn't nice. These here are called characters--specifically, Jean-Luc and Beverly. They belong to a company called Paramount. This here is called a holodeck, and the idea to put the two characters together on it belongs to a woman named Ruth Gifford. She didn't mean to violate copyright, and neither do I. Now go write a 6 page composition about the whole situation before you go off to play.

Warning: This story takes place during the episode "Rascals," after the Ferengi takeover is thwarted but before JLP regains his adult body. In this story he is still in his teenaged body--consider yourself warned.

She was almost certain he wouldn't show, not now. She would never break their routine, but almost hoped he would. This was difficult enough, intimidating enough, with him the captain. But now? Whatever her many sins, pedophilia had never been among them. But he was still the captain, still Jean-Luc. Wasn't he?

But he must be here, she realized as she stepped onto the holodeck--a program was running. She had no idea who she was to be, who he would be. He hadn't told her, probably had forgotten in all the confusion. But there would be clues-in any program there were clues.

The doors opened up onto a bedroom. He's anticipating, she smiled, remembering what she had been like, pubescent, randy as hell, able to pick from any number of boys and men. To distract herself she looked around. There were a few travel bags, mainly packed. Some clothes hung in the closet, and from previous times she recognized them as being from Earth, twentieth century, sometime toward its start. Choosing one at random, she replaced her uniform with a high neck white starched blouse and a suit of brown suede. She tried to walk a step over toward the suitcases and nearly tripped herself with her own long stride, hobbled by the narrow skirt; it was only when she found the buttons and opened the slit that she could bend enough to don the high, narrow heels which matched her outfit. She dispensed with a hat, not planning to go outdoors until she knew who and where she was, but put her hair up, consistent with what she recalled of the time period.

But what country was she in, and what situation? And, more importantly, where was he?

The tags on her luggage revealed her name to be Miss Stavmore, and a note on her desk, thanking her for the care she had taken with Johnny (Johnny?) and his education revealed her to be a tutor or governess. The fact that her bags were packed, and the final tone of the note, led her to believe that her charge was leaving as well, probably grown beyond her care.

But was Jean-Luc Johnny, or, more likely, was he the Lord Bertram who had signed the note? He had the body of a teenager, true, but the mind of a middle-aged man.

There was a knock on the door and she jumped, still uncertain if this could work. *He is still Jean-Luc Picard.* Only he wasn't, not in here, and what was she to do if he tried to present himself as still her senior and superior?

Her heart settled when the man who entered was merely a holodeck construct. "I was wondering, Miss Stavmore, if I might walk you to the library? Seeing as it's your last day..." She nodded, smiling, both because she now knew where she was to go and at the look of adoration in the man's eyes. Who he was she wasn't certain, but from the way parlourmaids scurried from him, she rather guessed he might be the butler.

"Might I take the liberty?" he asked, crooking his arm, and she allowed it, placing her hand there. "I'm sorry to see you go, Miss," he said. " 'Tis a pity Johnny's the youngest, or you wouldn't have to leave."

She made a small sound, meaning to be reassuring, covering her lack of any interest in this man who would lead her to Jean-Luc.

"No one else had been able to tame Master John; you are a wonder. I hope the Fitzpatricks know how lucky they are to get you."

They slowed before a door, the library, she supposed. "Lord Bertram will be wanting a word with you," the man told her. She gave his arm a parting squeeze before pushing open the door to wait for the story to unfold.

And she waited. And waited. Maybe he had thought better of this; maybe he had second thoughts, and third ones, too. Maybe something was wrong with him; his body had undergone unprecedented stress the past few days. She was about to break discipline and hail him over the comm lines when she heard the sound of footsteps.

He entered, closing the door behind him and leaning on it. "Miss Stavmore."

"Johnny."

"I think," he began in a voice which sounded bored of life already, "that since I am off to school, you should call me Viscount. You ought to show respect for your betters."

She almost laughed at that--a boy, her better? No, not even Jean-Luc. But a governess, though she might think that, would never say anything, so she replied, "I hadn't been aware I was ever disrespectful, Viscount." She gave enough twist to his title to show all the insubordination she felt.

He walked across the room to her, his stride arrogant, privileged, utterly unlike the stride of such a young boy, but utterly like himself. He placed a hand behind her neck, fingers in her hair, loosening its pins. "Always, Beverly."

She had a moment of blind panic--Beverly? Johnny?--but the family names were not theirs, and neither name was uncommon enough to make her worry that this would be the time they broke discipline. Not this time, not yet--just his way of teasing her an extra bit, disconcerting her, though for what reason or purpose she could not fathom.

She shook her head away. "I am still Miss Stavmore to you."

"You are no longer my governess or tutor, Beverly. Unless you think there's still something you have to teach me?"

"I have taught you everything you need to know."

He leaned in close to her, smiling. "I don't think so, Miss. I think you've been very lax with my education. And I think that's something which must be remedied before you leave." Why had she never before noticed that sneer to his smile?

She leaned back and away from him, not noticing the way this presented her bosom and not caring once she noticed. Damn his arrogance, anyway--let him suffer a bit of adolescent longing. "And what is it I have not taught you, Johnny?"

"All the men are off to war, Beverly; the only headmasters who are left are old or infirm. All those poor wives, so lonely, and no one to comfort them. You must know what it's like, Beverly, all alone, every night, no one to hold you, or touch you..."

She glared at him, hitting too close to reality for her likes, but he continued with his speech. "Do you think what I've learned from stumbling around with the village girls will be adequate? Would it be enough for you?" he challenged.

He was leaning over her now, hands on the arms of her chair, while she tried to decide whether to laugh in this little boy's face or close her eyes and let his voice, his scent, his presence seduce her. Or, perhaps, do neither.

"I think there are parts of my life that are no concern of yours." Two could play with illusion and reality. She pushed her chair back and escaped from him, reaching for a bookcase and burying her nose in one of the tomes.

He followed. "I will not be ignored." She thought he reached to close the book, but instead his hand closed over her breast.

"Do you need to hear romantic claptrap? I can do that," he whispered into her ear. "I love you, Beverly. Madly. Passionately. I don't ever want to leave you, lose you, what we have here between us." He took a small step back. "But it wouldn't be true. This isn't love, it's just sex. I want you, and I shall have you."

He retreated further, giving her a hope she might escape--until he turned, locked the door, and pocketed the key. "And it wouldn't pay to scream, my dear, for I'd just say that you were trying to seduce me. Unsuccessfully, I might add. And even if you were believed--it's commonly thought you've been screwing my father; no one would begrudge me a taste of his candy."

"It isn't true."

"Isn't it? All those late night visits, those early morning breakfasts, private conferences in his study..."

"It isn't," she insisted.

He walked back toward her, his stare so intense it froze her in place. "Then you must be very lonely, Beverly." His hands reached for her buttons as his mouth found her neck, tasting as she was exposed, here and there--oh, god, yes, there--forcing her to gasp before she could collect herself and push him away.

"You are a boy. I can't. I won't."

"Then don't." She was almost disappointed that he would give up so easily, watching him turn to walk away again. "I can learn as much by watching as doing. Show me what you dream of, Beverly."

"I will not perform for your amusement, Johnny. I am not an actress, and this is not a stage."

"Isn't it?" He reached for her lapel. "This clothing--is it not a costume? Covering you, giving the illusion you are so closed, so professional, so aloof. And then," he slid the garment off her shoulder, "off the coat comes, and you are a woman." He began working on the buttons of her shirt, opening the ties. "Without the clothing, you are so different. Alone, at night, in your room," he scraped his nails across her collarbone and she winced at the pain, but when he stopped, she missed the sensation. "I've seen it. I've watched you. Watched as you held yourself, touched yourself. You've performed for me before; now do it again."

"No."

He put his hands into her hair again, pulling it free of its pins, pulling at the roots, stretching her neck back for his hungry mouth. "Again," he insisted as he suckled at her.

Her eyes closed, she could forget his appearance, concentrate on his mouth against her neck, her collarbone, whimper only instead of protest.

His hands finished unbuttoning her blouse, moved it off her shoulders. Underneath she had not bothered to change into appropriate garments, and she could feel his mouth bend into a smile. He grabbed her hand somewhat roughly as his other hand undid the clasp of her bra. "This is how you start, isn't it? You touch yourself...here..." He placed her hand on her breast, closing the long fingers over her nipple, keeping his hand on top, not allowing her to draw away, pulsing his fingers over hers, forcing her to tease herself.

It was a dangerous game he played, he knew, this mixture of adolescent fantasy and innuendo, coming precariously close to their real lives, to all the things they had vowed to avoid when they had begun, all the issues left checked at the doors. But he had no control anymore--no longer captain of the ship, no longer master of his own body. Even she no longer seemed to want him, simply because of an accident, a mere change in appearance. He had to have control of something, someone--and Beverly, by coming here today, had volunteered herself.

And she was willing. Her measured breaths proved that point.

"You like that, don't you? Of course you do--that's why you allow yourself this pleasure so frequently. Oh, yes, I do watch you, you know. Often, sitting outside your door, opening it just a touch. And do you know what I do as I watch?"

She had a pretty good idea what a boy of his physical age would do, watching a woman pleasure herself, but she wasn't yet prepared to give into him and the game. Soon, perhaps, but not yet.

He chuckled, a sound so like his real self that she found it easy to keep her eyes closed, forget the recent past, give in, as she was meant to, to the fantasy.

"What do you think of while you touch yourself? Do you know what I think of as I watch you?" He tightened his fingers around hers, forcing her to pinch herself, hard, to gasp in painful pleasure. "I think of you. I think of you letting me touch you as you touch yourself, of you touching me. I think of kissing you. Like this..." He bent toward her and touched his lips to hers, gently, then forcefully, roughly, biting at her lips, forcing them open, forcing her to accept his tongue.

When he heard her moan, Johnny lifted his lips. "Is that what the village girls taught you?" Beverly asked, breathless.

"Why, didn't you like it? Teach me what it is you like," he invited. She stared at him a moment, eyes full of doubt and confusion. He was so young, and she had a responsibility for him, but soon enough he would be a man. And didn't she owe him one small indulgence after all this time? Later, when he was adult, she would not be his equal, much less have this power to grant so graciously what he greedily demanded.

Her hesitation took too long, and he had already stepped away from her, leaving her chilled where his warm body had stood so close to hers. He was sitting in her chair, all arrogance and indulged indolence, no sign of what he had been doing seconds before except for a prominent bulge in his trousers. Apparently an early bloomer, Beverly thought, eyeing what she could see of his shape and size, one eyebrow quirking upward.

Johnny noticed her eyes' focus. "Or perhaps there are some things even you don't know," he ventured.

"There is nothing you could teach me I would care to learn, Viscount."

His smile held no warmth, and nothing boyish, either. "Come here."

Again she hesitated. This would never do, it was wrong. But she did it, anyway. Beverly walked back to the chair, standing over her former charge, and he grabbed her around the waist with one hand, fondled a breast with the other. His mouth sought out and found her nipple, licking and biting, gently at first and then harder.

She tried to pull away. "Please, no."

"Yes," he growled, not letting go, holding her hardened nipple between his teeth. "You want this. You want me. I've heard you, in your room, touching yourself, stroking yourself, calling my name."

Beverly couldn't deny that; it was too close to the truth.

"Get rid of that ridiculous skirt," he ordered, and, when she hesitated to comply, Johnny ripped it off of her. Taking off her stockings and underthings was more difficult, and he bent her back over the desk to accomplish his goal.

His mouth returned to her breast, his hair sweeping her bare skin, the difference between this time and all the others causing her to remember reality and their situation, to tense and draw away. "Johnny, stop. Please."

He didn't insist, pulled away from her and returned to the chair. Before Beverly could sit up again, he spoke. "And after you've touched your breasts--what then? What do you do to yourself? Close your eyes, Beverly--close your eyes and tell me."

She stared at him.

"I said 'close your eyes,' Miss Stavmore. I am not accustomed to being disobeyed by servants."

Still she stared at him.

He rose from his chair and pressed his fingers against her eyelids, closing them for her, holding them down. "And then what do you do?"

"If you've watched me," she answered with a touch of annoyance, "then you already know."

"Yes, I do," he chuckled, taking her hand and running it over her stomach and then down into the curls between her legs. He pressed her hand down, into herself, and Beverly's eyes flew open, meeting Johnny's far too adult gaze. "I told you to close your eyes, Miss. I don't know why I must keep repeating myself. It's very impertinent of you, you know, and it simply won't do." He bent down, retrieved something from the floor--a stocking. Holding her eyes closed, Johnny tied the improvised blindfold over them. Though Beverly tried to open her eyes again, she found the hazy view allowed her was not worth the trouble. And, besides-hadn't she earlier wanted not to have to see him?

"Now, where were we," he whispered. "Oh, yes." Taking her other hand, he slid it over her body, further down between her legs, stopping, teasingly, just before he made her penetrate herself. Beverly had an instant of blind panic--had he ever really watched her? Or were all women so alike that he could, from what he knew of others, all those "village girls," (and who were they in his life, who had allowed him intimacies she had yet to match?) know her so well?

And then there was no time for thought as he pushed her finger in. "One, then another, and sometimes even a third," he said, grasping her hand tightly, pulling and pushing, in and out, rubbing her other hand in hard circles against her clitoris, bowing his head to her breast and suckling a nipple.

Blindfolded, with him silent, it was now easy enough to give in to the fantasy, the boy's fantasy of loving a teacher, the man's fantasy of watching a woman pleasuring herself, the woman's fantasy of being watched, of a man joining her at just that instant...

And then his mouth moved down her body, replacing her hand between her legs, lazily flicking over her in a way no boy could know. He took her now free palm and pressed it against his trousers, showing her just how he liked to be touched, rubbing along with her until she took up the rhythm on her own, allowing him to return some attention to her breast.

She smiled as very soon, too soon for any man's pride, she felt him tense, stiffen, and then felt the spreading moisture on the front of his trousers. And as he tumbled, so soon, so unexpectedly, he bit down on her, pushed her fingers in deeper, forcing her to join him in this premature pleasure.

Beverly waited for him to release her from the blindfold and was surprised, instead, when she felt him move, felt cloth against her head, him straddling her, heard buttons being undone. "Though you might prefer older men, you'll find there are some benefits to a younger paramour, Miss Stavmore," he smirked as he began to push himself, already growing hard, into her mouth.

She resisted him, pressing her hands against his chest and hips, trying to raise him away, but he would not be dissuaded. Backing away from her, Johnny caught her hands, briefly licking at her moist fingers, and held them over her head before straddling her again, trapping her hands away from productive use.

He bent his mouth toward her center, using his hands where she no longer could use her own. His thighs gripped her head and arms tightly, allowing her no escape, and she briefly toyed with using her teeth as a weapon, but when she tried it, the sensation seemed to please him greatly, causing him to raise his head and crow, "You have been wasted as a governess, Miss Stavmore. What a pity you spent so much time teaching me the geography of Europe, when the only land I wished to conquer is laid out now under me." And then he set out on a triumphant campaign, determine to win her unconditional surrender. His hands seemed to be everywhere, poking, probing, twisting inside her, stroking her, and from time to time she managed to do something with her mouth to provoke a response, as well.

But worst was when he felt the need to speak. "Isn't this what you wanted, Beverly? All this time we've known each other? It is so much better than always taking care of yourself. Can what pleasure you give yourself equal this?" And then he lowered his head back between her legs, waiting for her to lose her propriety and thrust up toward him.

When she did, he stopped, waiting for her to calm, and then began again, bringing her almost to the brink and backing away, all the while thrusting enthusiastically into her mouth. When at last he felt himself approaching the edge he raised up on his elbows, admiring her flushed pink skin, the sound of pleading whimpers from her full mouth. "Was there something you wanted, my dear?" he asked, lazily running a finger between her lips, penetrating her for the briefest fraction of time.

Unable to speak, she did manage to nod. He withdrew from her soft lips enough to allow her speech. "Please."

"Please?"

"Please, Johnny."

"Viscount," he insisted.

"Please, Viscount."

"My Lord."

She knew he was toying with her, but at this point, she could no longer resist. This was the same man she had given herself to, over and over, whom she had never, really, been able to resist. And when he had her like this they both knew that she would do anything he asked as long as he promised to give her what she needed.

"Please, My Lord."

"Sir."

Oh, no she rebelled; this was striking too dangerously close to reality. He ran his finger through her again, slowly circling her hardness, kissing her stomach, using his knowledge of her desires against her, as he so often did. "Please, sir," she surrendered.

And brooking no opposition, he moved back up over her, pulling away her blindfold, forcing her to look her pupil in the face. "Do you want me?"

"Yes, please, sir."

She was betting that he wouldn't take this teasing game too far, the stores of control to which his fully adult body had access no longer available to him. Beverly knew him as well as he knew her, and so she was not surprised when he plunged into her, thrusting into her ferociously, shouting out his pleasure, quickly bringing them both to climax.

He rose, straightened his clothing and walked to the door. Just when she thought he would leave without saying a farewell, he spoke, though he did not turn to face her. "I enjoyed that. I wasn't sure I would, or that you could, but I'm glad you did, Beverly. I might detest this age, this body, but it's nice to be appreciated."

He left, shutting the door behind him. Wearily, Beverly instructed the holodeck to materialize her uniform. It was time to get back to sickbay; the next time she and Jean-Luc met on the holodeck it would be as equals.