CHAPTER ONE

    The man called Cyclops, a.k.a. Scott "Slim" Summers, sat in
the command center of the X-Men's secret headquarters complex
near Westchester, New York, hidden deep underground below the
innocuous-looking mansion housing Professor Xavier's School for
Gifted Youngsters.  Cyclops held his fingers steepled before him,
deep in thought, staring at a holographic image of the globe. 
Scattered across it were coded symbols indicating the locations
of recent incidents involving mutants all over the world.  He was
sure that there must be some pattern linking them, but so far the
mystery had defied his best efforts to unravel it, even with the
formidable help of Cerebro, Xavier's highly sophisticated mutant-
detection and analysis computer.
    For once, at least, things around the base were quiet, with
most of the other team-members away on various field assignments. 
At the moment, apart from Cyclops himself, only Wolverine,
Jubilee, Psylocke, Rogue, and Gambit were around; and the last
two had gone out somewhere for the evening.  Good, thought
Summers.  Although the X-Men were like family to him, it could be
hard to think clearly when the mansion was crowded with all of
them around at once, smashing up the Danger Room and playing
practical jokes on one another.  He took his duty as the team's
field-leader very seriously; and with the Professor absent on
mysterious business of his own, Scott felt a heavy burden of
responsibility to unravel the tangle of clues represented by the
holo-display.  It was rare enough that events left them any
breathing-space to take stock of developments this way, and he
wanted to seize the initiative before some power-mad lunatic
menace launched yet another attack on them.
    Unfortunately, even with the relative peace and quiet,
Cyclops was finding it difficult to concentrate on the problem at
hand.  His long-standing relationship with Jean Gray had become
almost hopelessly complicated of late, and she was now away on an
urgent mission to the far side of the world, perhaps already in
grave danger since the last status report.  Their last words
before her departure had been angry ones, and he felt deeply
frustrated.  It had been weeks since they last made love, and as
he idly replayed the memory in his mind's eye, he felt an
involuntary stiffening between his legs.  The specially-designed
protective fabric of his costume pinched him uncomfortably, and
he shifted position in the padded command-chair, completely
losing his train of thought about the mutant incidents.  Perhaps
he should go to his quarters and take a cold shower, he thought
uneasily, trying to put the thought of Jean's naked body out of
his mind.  He was just about to stand up when he suddenly
realized he was not alone.
    "Psylocke!" he blurted out in surprise, seeing Elizabeth
"Betsy" Braddock's tall, lithe figure silhouetted in the doorway. 
She had a way of appearing unexpectedly like that, thanks to her
uncanny ninja skills; and Cyclops always found it unnerving.  It
occurred to him that it was a good thing he was still sitting
down, or his bulging erection would have been all-too-obvious.
    "Good evening, Scott," she said, walking slowly into the
room with her distinctive, liquid grace.  She was wearing her
usual black one-piece leotard that hugged every curve of her
torso, with a red sash tied alluringly around her narrow waist,
emphasizing the flare of her womanly hips.  Long, fingerless
black gloves, arm-bands, and soft-soled, wrap-top sandal-boots
completed her costume, also calling attention to her long, lean,
muscular legs.  Although the leotard had a high neck, the shape
of her large, firm breasts showed plainly through the tight
fabric; and it was all Scott could do to keep his jaw from
dropping open as his gaze fell upon them.  He was glad that his
ruby-quartz glasses effectively concealed his eyes as well as
holding his dangerous mutant optic-blast in check.
    "Uh, good evening, Betsy," Summers replied after an awkward
pause as she stood before him, hands on her hips, regarding him
with a cool, unreadable expression.
    "Burning the midnight oil again, I see," she said with a
hint of amusement and mild reproach, tossing her head to flick a
strand of her waist-length, purple hair from her eyes.  Although
her body was Japanese, her accent was English, indicating her
upper-class origins and distinguished education.  "Rogue and
Gambit have gone out," she informed him; "and Wolverine and
Jubilee are absorbed with some ridiculous programme on the
telly."
    "Good," he replied.  "I've been trying to sift through some
of these reports of recent mutant activity.  There's a very
disturbing trend here, but I just can't seem to put my finger on
the pattern yet."
    "You've been working too hard," Psylocke chided, easing down
to sit on the right arm-rest of his chair.  Draping a long arm
over the back of it, she ran her fingers lightly along Cyclop's
shoulders and probed the muscles.
    "You're tense," she observed.  "You need to relax once in a
while, Scott."  He tried to ignore her and focus on the holo-
globe; but the awareness of her warm shape close beside him, and
of the faint, alluring scent of her hair, inexorably drew his
complete attention.  All thoughts of Jean had now vanished from
his mind, while his penis had grown even harder, pushing
insistently against his trunks.  He shifted uncomfortably,
pulling a large notebook-binder onto his lap from the side-table
in order to hide his embarrassing condition.  Psylocke leaned
closer, and he felt her hot breath in his ear.
    "It wouldn't take a telepath to sense what you're feeling,"
she whispered.  "You're lonely.  You need to open yourself up to
someone."  She began kneading his shoulders more firmly.
    "I just need some time to think," he said evasively. 
"There's been a lot on my mind.  Jean and I . . ."
    "Jean's not here," Psylocke cut him off.  "But I am."  At
that, she ran her tongue lightly along the edge of his ear,
giving the lobe a wet, tantalizing little flick.
    "Elizabeth," he began to protest; "I . . . I don't . . ." 
But before he could compose himself, she rose smoothly to her
feet, turned, and walked out without another word, treating him
to a final view of the muscular globes of her gymnast's ass as
she disappeared into the corridor.  Cyclops breathed a mixed sigh
of relief and disappointment, and found he was sweating.

                          CHAPTER TWO

    In the mansion above the secret underground part of the
X-Men's headquarters, Wolverine lay sprawled in an over-stuffed
chair in front of the television, a can of Coors in one hand and
a cigar in the other.  Known to his few close friends as Logan,
he was a short, powerfully-built Canadian with a flaring mane of
black hair and an odd set of mutton-chop side-whiskers.  He wore
a pair of old jeans and a flannel shirt with the top several
buttons undone, revealing a mass of coarse, thick black hair
across his broad chest.  His bare feet were propped up on a
padded stool in front of him, and he was idly blowing smoke-rings
between sips of beer, mildly amused by the antics of Ren & Stimpy
on the television.
    Sprawled on the floor between Logan and the TV was
Jubilation Lee, a.k.a. Jubilee, the X-Men's youngest member, clad
in a pair of baggy shorts and a tank-top, with her characteristic
sun-glasses perched on top of her head in her dark, touseled
hair.  She lay on her stomach with her legs splayed out behind
her and her chin propped up the heel of one hand.  A pair of
large yellow smiley-faces with bullet holes between the eyes
dangled from her ears, and she was lazily chewing a wad of
bubble-gum.  Her dark, almond-shaped eyes reflected little
interest in the cartoon, and her nose wrinkled in annoyance as
cigar smoke wafted around her.
    "Jeez Louise, Wolvie," she groaned.  "When are ya gonna quit
smokin' those things?  Your healing-factor may make you immune,
but that smoke *stinks*."
    "Open a window if you like," he said simply.  She twisted
her head around to glare at him briefly, one eyebrow arched, lips
pursed angrily, before turning back to the TV with a sigh of
disgust.  As he took another puff, his eyes wandered down from
the TV screen to the back of her head, and gradually down along
the rest of her.  Jubilee's body was growing up fast, he
observed, even if she still dressed and acted like a kid most of
the time.  Her shorts were bunched up around her narrow hips,
revealing a glimpse of day-glo orange panties underneath; and her
slim legs looked smooth and appealing, showing good muscle tone. 
Although Jubilee was about as Chinese as Frank Sinatra in terms
of up-bringing and attitude, her physical features were
nevertheless Asian; and Wolverine had always had a thing for
oriental women.  Except this was no woman, he reminded himself. 
Jubes was still basically just a kid, and he compelled himself to
return his attention to the TV.
    Jubilee was in a fairly rotten mood, and she told herself
she should have gone into town or tagged along with Gumbo and
Rogue instead of staying here tonight.  She obviously would have
been like a fifth wheel with those two love-birds, though; and
when she had heard that Wolverine was going to hang around at
home, she figured it would be a good chance to get him to pay her
some attention.  Despite their vast differences in age and
experience, she liked to think of herself as his partner; and she
had long been determined that sometime, somehow, she would get
him to make love to her.  Unfortunately, he seemed totally
oblivious to her as a woman.  Beneath her feisty exterior, she
was in fact quite vulnerable emotionally, and she had always
found it difficult or impossible to relate to anyone her own age. 
Wolvie was different, she felt, because they were both loners. 
She was sure she could trust him, and that he could give her the
kind of attention she so desperately needed . . . if only she
could get him to *notice* her and stop treating her like a
useless little brat.
    Well, Jubilee decided as yet another cloud of smoke drifted
past her head, she was going to get his attention one way or
another.  Rising to her feet, she sauntered toward the door as if
heading for the kitchen; but as soon as she was out of
Wolverine's field of view, she turned and tip-toed up behind his
chair.  Darting her hand out suddenly, she grabbed the cigar from
his mouth, dashed to the window, and dangled the offending object
outside.
    "Damn it," he said, "That's a genuine Havana!  Gonna be a
while before I can get any more of those.  Whaddaya think you're
doin', eh?"
    "Hah!" she replied haughtily.  "I'm doing us both a favor
and helping you kick a rotten habit.  You can kiss this little
stinker goodbye!"
    "I'm warnin' you, Jubes," Wolverine growled menacingly. 
"Gimme back that cheroot, or I'm gonna paddle your little fanny."
    "Woo!  I'm *mighty* scared now . . . Ooops!  There it goes;
my fingers must have slipped or something."
    "All right, you little twerp, that tears it.  C'mere; you're
in for it now."  He levered himself up from the chair and began
advancing on her, placing himself between her and the door.
    "Hay, um, I'm, like, *sorry*, okay?  It was just a little
joke, see?" she explained quickly, her voice now sounding more
uncertain.  "It was an accident.  I didn't *mean* to drop it,
honest!"  But Wolverine continued toward her, and she saw the
determined look in his eyes.  Suddenly she decided to make a
break for it, and she nearly succeeded in ducking past him to the
kitchen.  But while Jubilee was quick and agile, Wolverine's
mutant reflexes were truly super-human; and to him, she might as
well have been moving in slow motion.  Throwing out one hairy,
hard-muscled arm, he caught her around her tiny waist and plucked
her off her feet.
    "Hay!  Lemme go, you hairy creep!" she shouted, squirming
and struggling to no avail.  Sitting down on the arm of the
stuffed chair, Wolverine flung her down sideways across his lap,
one hand on her back between her shoulders to hold her down.  He
noticed she was not wearing a bra.
    "You got this comin', kid," he said grimly, raising his
other hand, palm open.
    "What do you think you're doing?" Jubilee yelled at him,
still trying to twist free, without success.  "Leave me alone,
you rotten old codger.  I'll scream!"
    "Go ahead; won't help you none."  With that, he brought his
hand down on her squirming little ass, giving her a good, hard
smack.
    "Ow!" she cried sharply, renewing her futile struggle.  "You
bully!  You pervert!  Leave my ass alone!"  But Wolverine only
smiled wickedly and continued to administer the spanking,
ignoring her flailing legs and her little fists beating against
his leg.  He only meant to give her a few token swats, but once
he got started he seemed to lose count; and the paddling went on
for quite a while.  He eventually noticed that she had stopped
yelling, and she didn't really seem to be trying to escape
anymore.  Instead, she was breathing hard and writhing strangely
on his lap.  He also noticed that her nipples were hard, poking
against his thigh and brushing back and forth as she squirmed. 
Finally, he realized that his cock had suddenly begun to stand up
as well, bulging hard against the confining crotch of his jeans. 
His animal-like sense of smell caught a whiff of her sweat and
potent, teen-aged pheromones, along with another scent that left
no doubt she was highly aroused.  He stopped spanking her and
removed his other hand from her back.
    "All right," he said, "I hope you've learned your lesson:
Never come between a man and his smoke."  Jubilee twisted her
head to look up at him over her shoulder.  Her sun-glasses had
fallen to the floor, and there was a glazed, pleading look in her
eyes.  Her heart was pounding, and she was almost panting.  He
grabbed her around the waist and set her back on her feet, and
she reached both hands behind her to massage her sore buns.  She
had almost had an orgasm, but not quite; and she now felt
frustrated almost to tears. . . . until she noticed his erection. 
Suddenly a gleam of triumph shone in her eyes, and one corner of
her mouth turned up in a small, knowing grin.  It looked like
they *both* had learned something from this little episode.

                         CHAPTER THREE

    The young woman known only as Rogue, even to her friends,
walked through the front door of Jack's Place, a road-side bar a
few miles outside Westchester.  She had never been to this place
before, and she frowned as she looked around at the rough
furnishings and motley collection of other customers, mostly
bikers, good-ole' boys, and blue-collar-types.  Why had that
pole-cat Gambit asked her to meet him at a sleazy place like
this, anyway?  Didn't that Cajun have sense enough to know this
was not the kind of place a respectable girl would want to hang
around in?  And to top it off, he was late.
    Rogue was undeniably beautiful, and her distinctive,
flowing, skunk-stripe hairstyle tended to draw stares under any
circumstances.  Tonight, however, she had taken the trouble to
dress up a little bit, with an embroidered green waist-length
jacket over a frilly, long-sleeved white blouse, a knee-length
black skirt, seamed stockings, heels, and silver ear-rings.  She
also had applied a little bit of make-up, which normally was not
her style (and, as her admirers would generally agree, quite
unnecessary); but it made her feel good to do something a little
different in preparing for a rare night out.
    Finally, as always, Rogue also wore a pair of gloves, in
this case fine black leather, to prevent accidental contact with
anyone else's skin.  Thanks to a random genetic fluke, she was
cursed with an uncontrollable mutant absorption power that would
not only knock people unconscious whenever she touched them, but
also transferred all of their memories directly into her mind,
sometimes driving her to the brink of insanity in the process.
    Tonight, however, Rogue was not planning to dwell on her
familiar, depressing problems; she had dressed up in order to go
out and have some fun.  Now, however, she almost wished she
hadn't bothered, as she felt the brazen stares of several dozen
brutish, hard-drinking men.  The whole place stank of cigarette
smoke, stale beer, sweat, and urine.  Trying to ignore all of
these things, she walked up to the bar, hoping Gambit would show
up soon.
    "What'll ya have, sweetheart?" asked the bar-tender, a fat,
bald, ugly man with lewd tatoos on both arms.
    "Just a lemonade," she told him.
    "Ain't got no lemonade," he said with a scowl.  "Schlitz,
Strohs, or Blatz on tap."
    "How about a Coke, then?" she tried.  But he said there was
none of that either.  "Never mind, then," she told him; "Ah'm
just waitin' for a friend."
    "Hay, baby," said another voice beside her; "You look like
you could *use* a drink."  She turned and found a big,
mesomorphic biker-type towering over her.  He was at least 6'6",
wearing engineer's boots and a leather jacket festooned with
sharp studs and rusty chains.  His hair was long and greasy, his
breath stank, and his voice was like crushed gravel.  "Jack
Daniels for the lady," he called to the bar-tender; "On me."
    "Thank ya'll kindly," Rogue said politely, "But I ain't
drinkin' tonight."  Not that it would matter anyway, she thought,
considering how hard it was to get drunk with her super-human
constitution.  But she didn't want to offer this sleaze-ball any
encouragement.
    "Hay, you got some kind of snotty attitude," said the biker,
his face taking on a menacing look.  "Makes a guy wonder why a
broad would come into a place like this alone, if she didn't
wanna drink.  Whatcha lookin' for, baby?"
    "Ah'm just waitin' for somebody," she replied, beginning to
lose patience.  "And ah suggest ya'll mind your own business."
    "Maybe you wanna dance, then," the man said with a sneer,
grabbing her by the upper arm.
    "Hands off, buster!" she said sharply, wrenching loose from
his grip with surprising strength that belied her size and
thoroughly feminine appearance.
    "Whoa!" said the biker.  "This little skirt's got an
attitude, all right.  Think you're too good for a workin' man
like me, huh?  Well, think again, baby.  C'mere!"  He grabbed her
again and pulled her roughly toward him, with the obvious
intention of clamping his big, sloppy mouth on hers and
slobbering all over her face.  But Rogue was as quick as she was
strong; and before his lips could touch her, she slammed her fist
into his stomach, hard enough to double him over and send him
flying across the room, where he smashed into a table and sent
chairs and pitchers of beer flying in all directions.
    "I *warned* you, ya ugly pecker-wood," she said with
disgust, brushing off the sleeve of her jacket.  "Now, the rest
of ya'll gonna mind your manners?" she asked, glaring around at
the circle of staring faces.  No one replied, and the biker who
had grabbed her staggered into the men's room to be sick.
    At that moment the front door swung open, and in strode Remy
Lebeau, a.k.a. Gambit, wearing a brown leather jacket above his
usual tight-fitting pants and knee-high boots.  For once, it
looked as though he had actually shaved; and Rogue was further
surprised to note that he had on a white shirt and a narrow neck-
tie under the jacket.  At the moment, however, she was in no mood
to offer any compliments.
    "'Bout time you got here," she said irritably.
    "Sorry, Chere; had to pick up a package, an' den got a
speedin' ticket."
    "Yeah, well, serves you right.  Let's get outta here."  He
followed her out to the parking lot, ignoring the several dozen
bemused, jealous stares on his back.  Rogue reached up to tie a
red scarf around her hair as Gambit mounted his motorcycle and
kicked the starter; and then she climbed on behind him, taking
care not to ruin her stockings.
    "Where we goin', Chere?" the Cajun asked.
    "Don't you know anyplace *nice*?" she said.  "Ah'm hungry,
but the smell in *that* place was enough to turn mah stomach. 
What were you thinkin', askin' me to meet you there, anyway?"
    Gambit grinned wryly, reaching back with one hand to grasp
her wrist and pull her arm around his middle.  She reached the
other one around as well and laced her fingers across his firm,
rippled abdomen.
    "I figure you can take care o' yourself pretty good," he
said.  "Now hang on; Gambit gonna take you somewhere he
guaran*tee* you'll like."  With that, he pulled on a pair of
goggles, kicked the bike into gear, and spun out of the parking
lot, spitting gravel; and they roared off into the twilight.

                         CHAPTER FOUR

   It was autumn, and flurries of leaves flitted through the
beam of the motorcycle's headlight as darkness fell.  The air was
cool; and Rogue supposed that it would be chilly at this speed,
if not for the fact that her powers made her largely immune to
extreme temperatures as well as to almost any other sort of harm. 
Gambit didn't seem to mind, either, turning his head to grin at
her briefly with his long, unruly hair streaming around his
temples.  Despite her earlier annoyance over the incident at the
road-house, Rogue found his mood infectious and smiled back,
nestling her chin on his shoulder.
   The "somewhere" Gambit had referred to turned out to be an
out-of-the-way restaurant perched on the steep bank of a river,
with a long porch overlooking the water.  A fire crackled
brightly in a large stone hearth at one end of the main dining
room, contributing to a warm, cozy atmosphere.  Although there
was almost no one else present, Gambit had made a reservation;
and the waiter showed them to a table in a secluded alcove
overlooking the river, separated from the rest of the room by a
stone half-wall topped by a row of dense, potted ferns.  The
waiter lit a candle and left them to browse the menu.
   "What you think 'bout dis place, Chere?" Gambit asked.
   "Well, it's an improvement over that road-house," she said
guardedly.  "But ah'll reserve mah judgement til ah try the
food."  Gambit surprised her by selecting what the waiter seemed
to consider a very appropriate choice from the wine list.  The
Cajun didn't show it very often, but he could be pretty suave on
occasion, she decided.  The food turned out to be excellent, and
they both put away a lot of it, along with two bottles of wine.
   It must just be the mood, Rogue supposed, and the novelty of
actually getting away from the mansion for a change--but she
actually felt a little bit light-headed.  Her heart suddenly
skipped a beat as she realized that Gambit had taken her hand in
his and was pressing the back of her fingers to his lips.  She
almost jerked her hand away by reflex, before remembering that
she was still wearing her gloves.  His touch was gentle, and
their eyes met as he held her palm to his cheek.
   "Gambit been lookin' forward to seein' you alone like dis
for a long time," he said quietly.  "You no easy girl ta get a
date with."
   "Ah most surely *ain't* easy," she replied with grin.  "But
this ain't no date, either," she said, and her face seemed to
fall.  "An' you know why.  Ah . . . *like* you, Remy--a lot.  You
might as well know that.  But what you want is a girl-friend, and
that's the one thing I cain't be for you.  Or for anybody."  Damn
it, she thought, realizing she was about to cry.  She hadn't
wanted to talk or even think about any of this tonight.  Why
couldn't they just be friends?  Why did things always seem to get
romantic between them, when things *couldn't* be romantic?  A
single tear overflowed and ran down her cheek.
   "Relax, Chere," Gambit told her, delicately catching her
tear with a corner of his napkin.  "You worry 'bout things too
much.  Gambit know what you're thinkin'.  But he know somethin'
else you don't.  Gambit got a little surprise, if you trust him
enough.  Maybe somethin' tonight we can remember for a long
time."
   "Now what're ya'll talkin' about, ya silly Cajun?" Rogue
said, with a little sniffle.  "If you really knew what *Ah* was
thinkin' about, ya wouldn't tease me 'bout things like that. 
Anyway, it's gettin' late.  We oughtta get back to the mansion."
   "Don't need to go back to no mansion tonight, Chere," Gambit
said mysteriously, twirling a key around the tip of one finger. 
"Dis place a hotel, too."
   At that moment, Rogue was about to storm out of the
restaurant and fly home by herself, so strong was the feeling of
anger and frustration that gripped her.  What was the matter with
him?  Didn't he understand why they couldn't sleep together, when
even the slightest touch would activate her miserable mutant
power?  Sure, they *could* sleep together--in a purely literal
and Platonic sense, provided they kept all their clothes on and
stayed on opposite sides of the bed.  But Rogue knew that would
just be a kind of cruel torture, to be so close to what she had
wanted for so long, and still have it denied.  How could he see
it any differently than that?  She already had risen halfway to
her feet, meaning to escape this painful nonsense; but Gambit
still had not let go of her hand, and he tugged on it urgently. 
She turned back to face him, with a desperate look in her eyes.
   "Di'n't ya hear, now?" he said in a quiet, yet insistent
tone.  "Ya'll got ta *trust* Gambit.  Ain't nothin' would make
Gambit hurt you.  Dis ain't no teasin', no joke."
   Rogue stared deeply into his eyes, and realized that she
*did* trust him.  She still had no idea what he thought he was up
to, but whatever it was, she knew he would never just toy with
her about something so painful.  Besides, she thought, maybe it
wouldn't be so terrible just to sleep in the same bed.  She told
herself she shouldn't always be thinking about sex anyway, as if
that were the only thing in the world that mattered.
   "All right, Remy," she said softly, touching the side of his
face with her gloved fingers.  "Ah trust you."
   Gambit smiled at her, and again kissed her hand.  Then he
rose slowly to his feet, flung the motorcycle saddle-bags over
his shoulder, and led her upstairs.

                         CHAPTER FIVE

   In his private quarters at Professor Xavier's School for
Gifted Youngsters, Cyclops was taking a shower, bracing himself
against the jet of ice-cold water and trying not to think about
what had happened a little while ago in the control center.  What
kind of game was Psylocke playing with him?  Did she find it
amusing to get him aroused and watch him squirm, when she knew he
was determined to be faithful to Jean?
   Elizabeth Braddock, Betsy or Betts to her friends, had
always been a beautiful woman; and in fact she had pursued a
promising career as a professional model in England before
joining the X-Men.  But it was only after a bizarre sequence of
events had somehow shifted her mind and personality into the body
of an elite Japanese assassin named Kwannon that Summers had
started to lust after her.  It had begun gradually, for example
when he caught glimpses of her using the mansion's swimming pool,
or emerging from a steamy shower.  But before long, he found he
could barely look at her without getting an instant hard-on . . .
thanks largely, he supposed, to that damned costume of hers.  Why
couldn't she just go back to wearing her old uniform, a full suit
of body-armor with a heavy cloak and hood?  But no, Psylocke
seemed to have developed a wild, more adventurous side to her
personality since her strange transformation, an attitude that
her skimpier costume seemed to represent.
   With his teeth almost starting to chatter, Summers shut off
the water, reached for a towel, and began vigorously drying
himself.  He kept his eyes tightly closed, however; for that was
the only way to prevent his optic-blasts from destroying
everything around him without his ruby-quartz visor or glasses. 
Normally he would have worn a pair of small, tight-fitting
goggles in the shower; but for some reason tonight he had not
bothered with them, simply keeping his eyes shut instead.  A bit
of warmth began to flow back into his limbs, and he was just
about to reach for his glasses when he heard a voice from the
bathroom door.
   "Squeaky clean now, are we?" said the voice, with an
unmistakable English accent.
   "Psylocke!" blurted Summers, quickly tying the towel around
his waist and groping on the counter for his glasses.  "What are
you doing in here?"
   "Oh, come now, Scott," she said teasingly.  "You're awfully
good at figuring out mysteries about mutants and such.  Surely
you must have *some* theory about why I might be here."
   "You like playing games, don't you, Elizabeth?" he said
testily, as his fingers sought in vain for the glasses.  He was
sure he had left them right by the sink, and he realized suddenly
that she must have taken them.  "What have you done with my
glasses?" he demanded.
   "Oh, I think they're lying about here someplace," Psylocke
said lightly.  "Come over here, and perhaps I'll help you look
for them."
   "Damn it, Elizabeth, this is no laughing matter!  You know
how dangerous my optic-blasts are.  If I opened my eyes for even
an instant, I might hurt you badly--even kill you!"
   "Ah, yes, I remember.  But I know you'll be very careful not
to open your eyes, won't you Scott?  Come, follow me, now.  Out
this way."  For just an instant, she brushed the tip of one
finger lightly on the end of his nose.
   Summers moved toward her, arms extended before him, into the
bedroom.  By now he was fuming.  What right did she have to fool
around like this?  She must know he could never forgive himself
if he accidentaly harmed someone with his deadly power.  He
reached out blindly, moving around the room, trying to find her
and take back the glasses; but she seemed to hover tantalizingly
just beyond his reach.
   "This isn't funny, Psylocke," he said crossly.
   "Oh, dear, Scott," she said suddenly with apparent concern.
   "What?  What's wrong?"
   "There seems to be something strange going on under your
towel.  Here, let's have a look."  Before he realized what she
was doing, she had yanked away his towel and again retreated
beyond his reach.  Summers realized then that he had another
erection, and there certainly could be no hiding it this time. 
What did she think he was, he thought angrily--her private play-
thing?  Yet perversely, his anger only seemed to make him that
much harder; and in his mind flashed a brief, obscene image of
what he would like to do if he got hold of her.
   "My goodness!" Psylocke said from somewhere behind him. 
"Such nasty thoughts.  I never would have guessed you were that
sort of fellow.  Perhaps all that serious self-control of yours
is just an act--a facade?  I think you'd actually like to rape
me."
   "Elizabeth!" he shouted.  "How dare you read my mind without
asking first.  You have no right!"
   "Hah!  I knew it: you *were* thinking something naughty.  As
it happens, Scott, I did *not* read your dirty mind.  But since
they're so obvious anyway, why not tell me more about these ideas
you're having?  Just what *would* you like to do if you could get
your hands on me?"
   "You'd just better give me those glasses before I *do* catch
you," he warned her.  At that moment, he suddenly felt sure that
she had moved in front of him, between him and the bed; and he
decided to make a grab for her.
   Cyclops was in extraordinarily good physical conditions,
with strength and co-ordination honed to the level of an Olympic
gymnast by years of intense training.  Consequently, when he
lunged for Psylocke, he moved *fast*; and he almost caught her
off-guard.  She had been expecting such a move, however; and with
the advantage of sight, she found it easy to side-step and trip
him, so that he fell sprawling on the bed.  Before he could
regain his feet or even turn over, she sprang on top of him,
digging a knee into the small of his back and twisting one arm
behind him--not hard enough really to hurt, but firmly enough to
remind him that with her assassin's training, she could easily
put him in a great deal of pain if she chose.
   For a moment, it seemed as though Cyclops had given up and
was simply going to lie there until she decided what to do next. 
It was only a ploy, however, and he suddenly twisted free of her
grip, knocking her sideways on the bed beside him.  In the
process he caught hold of one of her wrists, and then the other. 
Summers was no ninja, but he had learned a good deal about
unarmed combat over the years; and using his superior size and
strength, he quickly forced Psylocke onto her back, straddling
her waist and pinning her arms above her head.
   "Well, now," she said; "This *is* an interesting position
you've got me in!"
   Cyclops realized that she wasn't wearing much--apparently
some kind of short, silky robe or gown, which seemed to have come
unfastened at the top.  His penis was harder than ever, and as he
held her down, he felt it nudging firmly between her ample
breasts.  Damn it, he thought; she had tricked him into playing
her little game, despite his intentions to the contrary.


                          CHAPTER SIX

   "This has gone far enough, Elizabeth," Summers told Psylocke
in a low, carefully-controlled voice, still straddling her chest
and pinning her to his bed.  "You know I can't get involved with
you like this."
   "All right, Scott," she said after a moment, with a small
sigh of resignation.  "I can see that your mind is made up, and I
admire your principles.  Let my hands loose, and I'll give you
back your glasses."
   Summers wasn't sure he could trust her even now; but he
decided to find out, and released her wrists.  As promised, she
reached up and placed the glasses back on his face, allowing him
finally to open his eyes again.  He immediately wished he had
left them closed, for the sight that greeted them almost made him
ejaculate instantly.  There, directly underneath him, was
Psylocke, looking up at him with a mixed expression of amusement
and lust in her dark, heavy-lidded eyes, her purple hair splayed
across the bed beside her.  As he had suspected, she was wearing
a filmy purple negligee with ties at the front; and it had fallen
open to reveal her fabulous breasts, rising and falling with her
every breathing, nipples hard and erect like his cock.  A trickle
of pre-cum oozed from the head of his throbbing penis, trickling
down the inside of her left breast to form a small pool in her
cleavage.
   "I suppose I'll just go back to my room, then," she said
lightly, running her fingers over his well-defined chest and down
along his washboard-like abdomen.  "You could at least think
about me and masturbate after I've gone, though," she suggested.
   Summers had never heard a woman say such a thing before, and
this time his jaw literally did drop half-open, as his ego and
super-ego waged a losing struggle against his raging, horny id. 
Psylocke chose that moment to retake the initiative, and she bent
her hips to raise her long, remarkably limber legs up behind his
back.  Pushing him slightly backward with her fingers on his
chest, she slipped her feet suddenly around his neck from behind,
crossed her ankles under his chin, and slammed him down on his
back, catching him totally by surprise.  He tried to twist free
again, but her legs were very strong; and as he struggled, he
felt her ankles clench tighter around his wind-pipe, threatening
to choke him.  She meanwhile had pushed his knees wide apart with
her hands and further displayed her amazing flexibility by
sitting up, curling her back so that her face was directly over
his crotch.  He felt her steamy breath on his exposed, angry
penis.
   "You're awfully stubborn sometimes, Scott," she sighed.  "I
suppose it's all the fault of those damned Puritans, that you
Americans are so prudish.  Just relax now, darling, and let me
take care of you."  With that, she lowered her head and gave the
underside of his cock a long, slow lick.  Her tongue was hot and
wet, and she twirled the tip delicately around the slippery crown
of his throbbing head.
   "Uuuggh," groaned Cyclops, desperately trying to ignore the
feeling and decide what he should do.  His fingers clutched
spasmodically at the bed-cover, and his mind seemed to dissolve
in a warm, overpowering wave of sheer physical pleasure as
Psylocke plunged the entire length of his shaft down her throat. 
She began sucking powerfully, and he realized dimly that there
was no way he could stop her now.
   "Uh- uh- Elizabeth!" he groaned.
   "Yes, Scott?" she said sweetly, lifting her lips from his
cock for a moment between strokes.
   "If you don't stop it, I'm going to . . . to . . ."
   "To *come*, Scott?  That's the point of all this, actually. 
Go ahead, dear, whenever you're ready.  I don't mind."  With
that, Psylocke gave him another sensuous lick, and then took him
back into her mouth, sucking even harder than before.  Cyclops
couldn't seem to think at all now, and he felt a growing pressure
somewhere deep inside him, like a rising flood.  He tried to
fight it, but it was no use.
   "Ungh- ungh- GOD!" he cried out sharply as his back arched
and his whole body stiffened.  Psylocke felt his penis swell in
her mouth, and then he ejaculated, sending a stream of hot fluid
running directly down her throat into her stomach.  His balls had
been saving up for this one for a long time, and he came in
buckets.
   In some dim corner of her mind, Betsy Braddock felt a twinge
of disgust with herself as she sucked and swallowed the last few
drops from his rapidly-softening penis.  But Psylocke was no
longer only Elizabeth Braddock, she reminded herself; for she
also now possessed the cumulative experience of Kwannon, whose
years of training as _kunoichi_--a female ninja--had of course
included the art of sexual seduction and ministration.  As far as
Kwannon was concerned, if a mission called for it, sex was simply
a means to an end.
   Under the circumstances, Psylocke considered that she had
simply done Cyclops a minor favor--one he couldn't have admitted
that he wanted from her, but which his body and stray thoughts
had made plain that he needed nonetheless.  Besides, she admitted
to herself, it had not exactly been an unpleasant experience for
her, either, although it was now obvious that Cyclops was too
mixed up and physically spent to provide her any real
satisfaction in return.  Ah, well; she had expected nothing more.

She released his penis from her mouth, letting it fall limply
against his thigh, and straitened her back to sit upright again,
simultaneously uncrossing her ankles to release his neck.
   "Oh, god," Cyclops sighed weakly.  "That was . . . just,
incredible, Elizabeth.  But . . . why?"
   "Never mind why, Scott," she told him calmly, sliding her
legs out from under his back and sitting on the edge of the bed. 
"Just get some sleep now, dear."  He couldn't seem to think of
anything to say as she stood up, re-tied the negligee across her
breasts, and padded silently to the door.  There, she paused to
look back and saw that he was already out like a light.  She
smiled, knowing that in the morning, thanks to a subtle psychic
suggestion she had planted, he would not be certain whether this
incident had really happened, or whether it had been just a
dream.  She sighed and stepped into the hallway, closing the door
quietly behind her.  Now, if only there were someone else around
to take care of her the way she had taken care of Cyclops.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Several readers have asked the same good question:
where does this story fall within the continuity of published
X-events?  I did not devote a lot of attention to this question
before writing this, so there may be some discrepancies, which
I would be happy to have pointed out; but basically the story
would fall sometime between the appearance of "Revanche", ca.
X-Men 21-24, and Scott & Jean's wedding.  I really appreciate the
questions and comments so far.  Enjoy!

                         CHAPTER SEVEN

    Wolverine was lying awake in his bed with the lights off,
hands folded behind his head, staring out the window at the
silvery disk of the moon rising above the wooded hills that
surrounded the mansion.  The wind rustled the dry leaves of a
tree just outside the window, and a dog barked somewhere in the
distance.  The dog, he noted idly, was saying something about a
raccoon.  Raccoons never seemed to talk much, but dogs always
made sense to Logan; they always said what was on their minds,
clear and up-front.  Too bad people were so much more
complicated.  He debated going out for a walk, but decided
against it.  He never really seemed to need much sleep, but right
now he just felt like lying here and letting his mind wander.
    As they often did, Logan's thoughts travelled back among the
many women he had known over the years.  There hadn't been many
for quite a while now, since he joined the X-Men.  Things just
weren't like they used to be, he reflected.  He was getting
older, and his wild days seemed to be over for good.  Not that he
couldn't perform when he felt like it; oh, no, that was one
problem he never need fear--not with a mutant metabolism so
powerful that he could recover almost immediately from any but
the most grievous wounds.  He just didn't seem to need as much
female company as he once had, that was all.  Still, there were
times when that old hankering came back as strong as ever--times
like tonight, for instance.
    What was he going to do with that crazy kid Jubilee, anyway? 
He had decided some time ago that for her own sake, she shouldn't
be hanging around with the X-Men; and he had told Xavier as much. 
The group simply had too many enemies, and one of these days
their luck was going to run out.  Wolverine didn't want the kid
to be around when that happened.  But the Prof had disagreed,
arguing that it was more important to help her gain full control
over her powers as they matured, and that she was still safer
with the group than she would be on her own.  Logan still thought
otherwise, but he had let it ride . . . for now.  Now there was
this other reason that he had begun to doubt it was so wise
having her around. . . .
    Wolverine's ears suddenly perked up as he heard a door open
and close quietly down the hall.  He had heard a very faint sound
a little while ago but couldn't place it, and figured it was
Psylocke.  Betts could move like a cat, and sometimes even his
hyper-acute senses could not track her.  This new sound was
another matter; and he knew immediately that it was Jubilation,
probably wandering downstairs to get a drink or something.  She
was coming the wrong way for that, though--toward his end of the
hall instead of toward the stairs.  What was she up to?
    In a moment there was a faint click and a creak as she
opened his door and slipped inside, apparently making her best
attempt at being stealthy, which didn't amount to much.  At least
she wasn't popping bubbles this time, though, which meant she
might have learned *something* from all those lessons in the
Danger Room.  But what did she think she was doing, sneaking in
here?  She ought to know better than to risk startling a psycho-
killer like him, and maybe getting a bellyful of adamantium claws
before he was really awake and realized what he was doing.  Under
the circumstances, though, he decided just to lie doggo and see
what she had on her mind.
    Jubilee paused beside the bed, biting her lower lip and
asking herself the same question: what on earth she was doing? 
Although she was wearing a flannel bathrobe, the air in the room
was chilly, and she shivered slightly.  Well, she asked herself,
was she just going to stand here like an idiot, or was she going
to do what she had finally made up her mind to do, after
fantasizing about it for so many nights?  She looked down at
Wolverine's hairy, hard-muscled torso above the sheet around his
waist, his chest rising and falling slowly and regularly.  She
had been sure he would hear her come in, but he seemed to be
soundly asleep.  She must be getting pretty good at this sneaky
stuff, after all.  Well?  All right, she decided finally,
screwing up her courage.  Gently lifting the edge of the sheet,
she carefully slid into bed beside him and pulled the sheet up to
her chin.  Then she laid her head on the pillow, facing his, and
snuggled up close beside him.
    "Mind tellin' me what you think yer doin'?" Logan said
reasonably after a moment, making her realize that he had been
awake the whole time after all.
    "Um . . . guess."
    "Well," he said, "I don't think *you* know what you're
doin'.  Now go on back to bed.  *Your* bed, that is."
    "I'm older than you think I am, Logan," she told him,
ignoring what he had said.  "Old enough to see . . . well, you
know, what happened tonight."
    "Nothin' happened tonight, an' nothin's *gonna* happen
tonight," he said firmly.  "An' I know exactly how old you are,
which ain't old enough for what you're thinkin'."
    "What makes you so sure what I'm thinking, anyway?" she
challenged.  He offered no reply, and she placed her left hand on
his abdomen.  Slowly, she began to slide her fingers downward
toward his groin; but just before they got there, he grabbed her
wrist and gently but firmly removed it.  Her little body felt
warm and inviting, so close beside him; and he felt the
beginnings of another hard-on stirring in his loins.  But by
focusing his mind and applying his uncanny powers of self-
control, he was able to head off the physical reaction, so that
his penis gave only an abortive twitch before subsiding.
    "Knock it off, Jubes," he growled.  "You wouldn't wanna get
me started."
    "Maybe I would.  I think you want me."
    "Maybe I do.  I'm a man.  But some things ain't right. 
We're like family, Jubes, and family don't do that kinda stuff."
    "Damn it, Logan, what do I have to do, beg you?"  She
sniffled, trying to control her voice.  "I *need* you.  Nobody
understands what it's like for me here.  Nobody takes me
seriously--not even you, I guess.  You all think I'm just a
stupid kid!  Well I'm not.  I'm a woman--well, almost, anyway. 
I'm not making any sense, am I?  All I'm trying to say is . . .
is that I want you to make love to me.  Okay, there, I said it. 
Oh, shit, I'm gonna cry now.  And you're just gonna kick me out."
    Jubilation began to sob quietly, and Logan silently asked
himself what on God's green earth a fella was supposed to do in a
situation like this.  She was right about one thing at least: he
wanted her, all right.  But he also wanted to be able to look
himself in the eye in the mirror tomorrow.  She was fifteen,
which was way too young for an old fart like him--not that he
cared much about the law, but it just didn't wash.  And yet,
might he be hurting her more by rejecting her?  Under the
circumstances, he didn't know.  With uncharacteristic hesitation,
Logan wrapped his arm gently around Jubilee's narrow shoulders.
    "Shhh," he whispered in her ear.  "It ain't so bad as all
that, Darlin'.  I ain't kickin' you out.  I just can't be your
man, that's all.  Not 'cause I don't take you seriously.  It's
only 'cause I care about you too much.  If I didn't, I'd just do
what comes naturally.  But we'd both regret it later."
    Jubilee's sobs gradually subsided into another sniffle, and
she snuggled closer.  Logan felt her kiss his cheek softly.
    "Maybe you're right, Logan," she whispered.  "But I love
you."
    "I love you too, Darlin'," he said, gently smoothing her
wild hair.  "Now go to sleep."

                         CHAPTER EIGHT

   Rogue followed Gambit warily into the hotel room, which
turned out to be small but very nice, with a balcony offering a
beatiful view of the moon-lit river.  A bottle of Champaign stood
in an ice-bucket, with two gleaming glasses on a silver tray; and
several candles lit the room in a soft glow.
   "You had this all planned out, didn't ya?" Rogue said
suspiciously.
   "Like he say, Gambit been lookin' forward ta dis for a long
time.  C'mon, Chere," he said disarmingly.  "Relax.  Nothin' bad
gonna happen to anybody tonight.  All the bad guys got the night
off, too."
   Rogue smiled weakly, although still feeling uncertain about
the whole situation, and walked slowly over to the balcony.  The
room seemed warm, so she opened the doors and stood gazing out
over the water.  She sensed Gambit's presence close behind her,
and then she felt his hands descend gently on her shoulders.  She
gazed up at the stars twinkling brightly as his long fingers
began to massage her tense muscles through the fabric of her
jacket and blouse.  The Cajun seemed to have a talent for this,
and she gradually began to relax a little bit, leaning back into
his arms until she noticed something stiff in his tight pants,
nudging against her fanny.  She sighed.  If only . . . 
   Yeah, if only.  Well, it was kind of nice to know that he
wanted her anyway, even if it could never happen.  A girl could
still enjoy the attention.  And . . . well, maybe she *could* do
a *little* something for him, even if it wasn't what they really
wanted.  With a naughty little smile, she reached one hand around
behind her and brushed her gloved fingers lightly over the bulge
between his legs, giving it a gentle squeeze.
   "Mmmm," he hummed approvingly in her ear.  "Gambit *like*
dat idea."  Rogue felt his warm breath on the back of her neck
and just hoped he wouldn't get carried away and forget the ground
rules.  For both their sakes.  She was beginning to realize how
easy it could be to forget, the way things were going already. 
She sighed deeply as his hands left her shoulders, slipped around
her waist, and glided upward to cup the undersides of both her
breasts, lifting and moving them gently, as if weighing them and
making some kind of careful evaluation.
   "Oooh, Remy," she cooed.  "Ya'll sure know how to get a
girl's attention.  Ah hope you like what you're findin'."
   "Oh, Gambit like it jus' fine.  You somethin' mighty
special, Chere," he whispered.  She began twisting her hips
against him, rubbing her butt provocatively against his crotch,
knowing she ought to stop but unable to help herself.  Lord, she
wanted it so bad!  And so did he.  It just wasn't fair!  But she
wasn't going to let herself start moping about it again.  Not
now.
   Gambit moved his hands to her hips and guided her toward the
bed, where she kicked off her heels, shrugged off her jacket, and
sank down to lie on her stomach with her head pillowed on her
forearms.  He pulled off his boots as well, then climbed onto the
bed on top of her, straddling her thighs with his knees beside
her hips.  She felt his hands on her back again, resuming the
massage; and they now roamed up and down the length of her spine,
steadily, magically dispelling the tension that had seemed to
grip her for as long as she could remember.  A breeze from the
balcony caused the candles to flicker, casting strange,
undulating shadows on the walls around them.
   Rogue eventually felt so relaxed that she was almost asleep;
but she didn't quite want to fade out that way yet.  She pushed
Gambit off of her, rolled over, and propped herself up on her
elbows.  He looked at her questioningly, and she gazed at him for
a long moment with heavy-lidded eyes.
   "You sure know what buttons to push, Remy," she said with a
languid smile.  "How about some of that bubbly there, since
y'already paid for it an' all?"  He answered only with a grin,
and his eyes barely left hers for an instant as he popped the
cork and filled their glasses.
   "Here's to wishes, Chere," the Cajun said as they clinked
the glasses together, reclining side by side on the bed.  "You
never know whey dey might come true."  Rogue could offer only a
wan smile in return as she brought the glass to her lips, wishing
that he wouldn't say things like that.  She was sick and tired of
just wishing.
   "Gambit got to ask you somethin'," the Cajun said finally as
he set their empty glasses on the tray.  His voice sounded a
little bit strange; and looking into his eyes, Rogue was
surprised to see that for once, he actually appeared rather
unsure of himself.  What was on his mind, anyway?  She nodded for
him to continue.
   "Gambit got to know, if tings were different--if we din't
have to be afraid o' touchin'--would you still want ta be here
like dis?  Ta stay wit' Gambit all night?"  His eyes fell
uneasily to stare at the bed, and then back up to meet hers.
   "Of *course* ah would, ya dumb swamp rat," she said testily. 
"What kind of a ding-bat question is that, anyway?  Maybe you
just wanna see me cry again, is that it?"
   "Aw, c'mon now, Chere, don' be like dat," he said
soothingly, gently stroking his hand along her arm.  "Gambit don'
*never* wanna make you cry.  Ain't you gonna ask 'bout what
kind'a surprise Gambit said he got tonight?"
   "Surprise?  Well, ah figured ya'll must'a meant the
Champaign.  Okay, Remy, now ah'm curious.  What're ya talkin'
about?"
   Gambit smiled and reached down to pull something from the
saddle-bags lying on the floor beside the bed.  His hand came
back holding a compact, carefully-wrapped package about ten
inches square.
   "Dis' somethin' don' grow on trees, Chere."  He nodded for
her to open it, and she did so, her curiosity now truly aroused. 
Unwrapping the paper, she found a sturdy metal box, stamped with
the official emblem of Genosha, that small but notorious island-
nation in the Indian Ocean.  Rogue felt a sudden flash of anger
as unwanted memories stirred in her troubled mind.
   Although now supposedly reformed and democratized, Genosha's
radical policy of mutant-exploitation had caused the X-Men a
great deal of grief in the past.  Rogue, in particular, still
bore the Genoshans a bitter grudge; for she had once spent some
of the worst hours of her life as their prisoner, suffering
humiliating abuse at the hands of sadistic guards after
temporarily losing her powers.
   "What the hell is this, Gambit?" Rogue demanded.  "Some
kind'a sick joke?"  He recoiled in surprise, raising a hand in
supplication.  He had known this would take some explaining, but
he now feared that he might have made a serious mistake.
   "Please, Chere, it ain't no joke.  Maybe Gambit made a big
mistake, but he only tryin' to make you happy.  See what's in da
box."  She continued to glare at him for a long moment; but
curiosity finally overcame her other feelings, and she lifted the
lid.
   Inside was a strange, circular object about 8" in diameter,
with several small, electronic control keys, a complicated latch,
and a hinge.  Rogue recognized it immediately: an inhibitor-
collar, capable of temporarily suppressing almost any type of
mutant powers.  The Genoshans had developed the specialized
technology in order to control their corps of mutant slaves and
prisoners, and the hated objects had become a symbol of the
regime's brutal policy of oppression.     Rogue's first impulse was
to slap Gambit so hard that his stupid head would spin clear
around at least twice, and he recognized the look of cold fire in
her eyes.  Well, Remy, he thought to himself; ya sure blew it
this time.
   Fortunately, however, Rogue restrained her violent initial
reaction long enough to think a bit further.  Turning the collar
over slowly in her hands, she told herself to calm down. 
Whatever he was thinking, Gambit surely hadn't meant to insult
her with the bizarre gift.  After all, he hadn't even joined the
team until some months after her terrible experience in Genosha;
and it was something she had never yet told him about.  Anyway,
the collar was just a piece of metal and plastic, and there was
no need to get all worked up about it.
   "Well, Cajun," Rogue said finally, "It's a pretty odd
souvenir.  Can't say ah like it much, but ah s'pose ya'll didn't
mean nothin' by it.  Where'd ya find it, anyway?"
   "Gambit know some folks dat can find mos' anything," he
answered, somewhat evasively.  "Thieves' guild not just in
Louisiana, ya know."
   "Huh.  Well, ah s'pose Hank and the Professor will want to
look it over an' maybe see if it still works."
   "It still work, all right," said Gambit with quiet
certainly.  "Dat's da point."
   Rogue suddenly, belatedly realized what he meant.  Lord, she
thought; how could she be so dense?  She looked lost in thought
as she considered the implications.
   "Gambit don' know if it such a good idea to try it," said
the Cajun.  "Tried it out on himself, an' den it work okay. 
Should be safe; but it might work different on you, an' if
anythin' was to go wrong, ol' Gambit never gonna forgive himself. 
But he wanna give you da choice, Chere."
   "Ah . . . ah just don't know what ta say, Remy," Rogue said
after a long pause, still holding the collar.  "Ah don't know why
*ah* never thought'a somethin' like this.  But now, it's so
sudden, ah'm almost afraid ta try it.  What if it doesn't work?"
   "Only one way ta find out," Gambit replied with a
conspiratorial grin.  "But da real test gonna take *two*
volunteers, non?"
   Rogue grinned back at him, suddenly making up her mind. 
Part of her wanted to wait, to take some more time to think about
this, and to be sure she was really ready.  But if not now,
another part of her asked, then when?  With the kind of lives
they were leading, there was no telling when another opportunity
like this might present itself; and the mood was right.  She
opened the collar, reached up, and closed it around her neck. 
The latch clicked shut with a decisive snap.

                         CHAPTER NINE

   Wolverine was still lying awake more than an hour after
Jubilee had crawled into bed with him and gone to sleep with her
head on his shoulder.  He could imagine what Charlie, Cyke, or
most of the others would assume if they caught him like this. 
Christ, the kid sure had put him in a spot.  That, however, was
only part of what finally prompted Logan to get out of bed,
moving slowly and carefully in order not to wake her up.  Rogue
and Gumbo still had not returned from their little outing; and
while he knew they probably were still just out having a good
time, Logan was suspicious by nature.  He reckoned folks tended
to live longer that way.
   Quietly donning his black, blue, and gold uniform, including
the mask with its strange, tapered, wing-like sides, Wolverine
glided out of the room as silent as a phantom.  The whole mansion
was dark and still; even the dogs in the distance seemed to have
called off their raccoon-alert and gone to sleep.  He moved down
the hallway, avoiding the familiar creaky floor-boards, and
continued down the staircase.  Pausing at the door to the
underground levels, he decided instead to take a quick stroll
around the grounds outside, just to look things over.  Besides,
he figured a little fresh air might do him good; that nutty
business with Jubes seemed to have left his head all mixed up and
full of cobwebs.
   Wolverine had covered about half of the distance around the
wooded perimeter of the school property when he began to sense
someone was following him.  It was only a vague hunch at first,
but the feeling grew steadily stronger until he was almost
certain of it.  Whoever it was, he realized, was pretty damned
good, keeping down-wind of him and never so much as rustling a
leaf.  So much the better, he thought; it had been a while since
he had been in a decent scrap, and he always liked a challenge.
   Picking up his pace since the shadower obviously knew where
he was already, Wolverine headed for what he knew would be a
convenient place to turn the tables.  Ducking suddenly behind the
trunk of a massive oak, he proceeded to disappear into the
undergrowth, slithering low on the ground, senses keyed-up to the
limit, adrenalin beginning to flow.  He reminded himself he'd
better not get carried away until he was sure who he was dealing
with; but anybody snooping around the grounds like this was
likely up to no good.  He caught a faint whiff of a scent; but
before he could quite place it, he felt an arm clamp suddenly
around his throat from behind.  Christ!  He'd been had!
   Wolverine's instincts took over, and he slammed an elbow
backward into his attacker's abdomen before whoever it was could
clamp the choke-hold on him properly.  Then, in an automatic
follow-through, he took hold of the arm and went for a reversal. 
His opponent twisted with him, however, refusing him leverage and
trying to keep behind him.  All right, he thought; time to quit
jerkin' around.  His left leg snapped out in a lightning-fast
side-kick, slamming the interloper backward against a tree and
gaining some separation.  In a fraction of a heart-beat,
Wolverine had unsheathed his fearsome claws and was poised to
lunge for the kill--when he found a glowing, smouldering blade of
pseudo-physical psychic energy staring him in the face,
indicating at last who had jumped him.  Each had one hand clamped
around the other's throat, the other hand poised to strike.
   "Psylocke!" he barked.  "What in blazes do ya think you're
doin', muckin' around like that?  I coulda killed ya."
   "Just keeping you on your toes, old man," she replied with a
nasty grin as they both sheathed their weapons.  "And for the
record," she added, "I *could* have killed *you* when I had the
drop on you."  Logan realized she had a point; his mistake had
been to assume that he could use his superior knowledge of this
particular patch of terrain to double back unseen.  Psylocke,
however, knew these woods as well as he did and had anticipated
his ploy exactly.
   "Fair enough, Betts," he granted.  Her looks, he reflected,
certainly weren't the only thing about her that had changed as a
result of her transformation in Asia.  Betsy Braddock had always
had plenty of guts and a taste for adventure, but he didn't think
her old self ever would have pulled a stunt like this.  It
occurred to him that there would be serious trouble if her new
ninja-side ever came to the fore and she turned pro.  But at the
moment, he reminded himself, they might have a more immediate
problem.
   "I just happened to be awake and saw you wander outside,"
Psylocke explained.  She was wearing her typical, revealing black
costume again, which struck Wolverine as a bit skimpy for an
autumn night like this.  "What brings *you* out for a stroll in
the middle of the night?" she asked.
   "Couldn't sleep," he said simply, carefully excluding
Jubilee from the level of surface thoughts that Psylocke might
pick up more-or-less by accident.  Jean Gray and Charlie always
had made a big deal about never reading anybody's thoughts
without good reason, but Logan felt he could never be quite sure
what Betts was up to.  Still, he figured, might as well tell her
what else was on his mind.
   "Love-birds ain't home yet," he observed.
   "No," she agreed.  "What of it?"
   "Ain't like Rogue to stay out all night.  Could mean
trouble."
   "Perhaps.  I assume you have a course of action in mind."
   "Yep.  Figured you could try checkin' up on 'em with
Cerebro, just to see where they are."
   "Why, Logan!" Psylocke replied with mock surprise.  "Are you
suggesting that we *spy* on them?  Don't you suppose they deserve
a little privacy now and then?"
   "Course they do.  But if they were takin' the whole night
off, they shoulda told us.  With all the crazies tryin' ta do in
the X-Men these days, we gotta keep track o' people."
   "All right then," she agreed.  "Cerebro it is."
   As they began walking back toward the mansion, Wolverine
examined her scent more carefully and noted that he had not been
the only one feeling horny tonight.  She seemed to have taken a
recent shower, but was that a lingering whiff of Cyke he smelled
on her?  Had they been gettin' it on?   Maybe.  None of the
others seemed to have noticed so far, but Logan had seen her
little tease-act quite plainly.  Old Scotty sure did reek, too,
when she got him all horny like that.  A hyper-senses were, after
all, a mixed blessing.
   "Little cold out tonight for a get-up like yours," Logan
said, by way of idle conversation.
   "Perhaps you would prefer if I covered up my body with some
thick, baggy clothes, then?" she replied.  He only grunted,
thinking that he had walked right into that one.  Nothing wrong
with a little innuendo between consenting adults, though; fending
off the kid must be turning him into a regular basket-case.  They
arrived back at the mansion and descended directly to the control
room, where the helmet for accessing Cerebro hung amid a web of
power and control cables.
   "Now that I think of it," Wolverine said as Psylocke settled
her derriere into the padded chair, "maybe we oughtta check with
Cyke about this.  He gets kinda touchy about anybody else usin'
Charlie's private gizmo."
   "Don't bother.  He's sound asleep."
   "Oh?"  Logan arched an eyebrow, but she only smiled;
looking, he thought, just a trifle smug.  For perhaps the ten-
thousandth time, he thought what a rare set of knockers she had,
as she reached up to draw the helmet down over her head.  Betts
had always been a looker, even before all this weird, body-
swapping business with Kwannon; but now--well, what could he say? 
He just had this thing about Asian women.  He realized she was
staring at him, still smiling, the smugness now mingled with
amusement.  Was she skimming his thoughts?  Well, she couldn't be
in much doubt about what he was thinking, anyway.  He folded his
arms.
   "Let's get on with it," he told her; and she nodded, closing
her eyes.  Her face took on a more serious look of concentration,
and for a moment, nothing seemed to happen.  Only the bank of
digital display panels surrounding the chair gave any visible
indication of the amplified telepathic energy crackling through
the psychic ether around them, as Psylocke's mind reached out to
locate their wayward team-mates.  Before long, however, another
smile crept slowly across her face.  Then she opened her eyes,
raised the helmet, and leaned back in the chair.
   "Well?" Logan prompted.
   "I'm sure they would appreciate your concern," Psylocke
laughed.  "But in this case, it seems to have been misplaced.  Do
you really want to know where they are?"
   "Nope.  Long as they're safe."
   "Perhaps not from each other, but otherwise . . ."  Psylocke
laughed again and crossed her legs, drumming her fingers lightly
on the arm-rests of the chair.  "Anyone else you'd like to check
up on tonight?  Jean, perhaps?"
   "I don't care much for your sense o' humor sometimes,
Betts," Wolverine replied darkly, and her look of amusement faded
immediately as well.
   "I'm sorry," she said with apparent sincerity.  "I had no
right to say that. . . . Will you have a night-cap?" she added,
seeing him turning to leave.  He turned back and looked at her
again, his face a mask, arms still crossed.  "If memory serves,"
she went on, "there's an unopened bottle of Chivas Royal Salute
in my wardrobe upstairs.  It might help you sleep."
   "All right," he said finally.
   Psylocke smiled, rose smoothly to her feet, and led the way
to the elevator.

                          CHAPTER TEN

   The inhibitor-collar wasn't exactly comfortable; but a small
light on the side of it changed from red to green, indicating
that its power-suppression circuits had activated automatically. 
Rogue realized she was holding her breath, and exhaled deeply.
   "Ah guess it's workin'," she said tentatively.
   "Yep," the Cajun agreed.  "See if you can fly," he
suggested.
   Sitting up straighter, Rogue tried to levitate herself,
using the power she had permanently absorbed from Carol Danvers
(a.k.a. Ms. Marvel) on that terrible night several years before. 
Since then, flying had become almost second-nature; but now, no
matter how hard Rogue focused, nothing happened.
   "Well ah'll be," she mused.  "The darn thing really does
work.  Ah s'pose ah ain't so strong anymore then, either."  She
pursed her lips for a moment as if deep in thought, then raised
her eyes slowly to meet Gambit's, one corner of her mouth showing
the ghost of a grin.  "It's a good thing ah know ah can trust you
then, ain't it?" she told him.
   "You wanna arm wrestle?"
   "No thanks, sugar; Ah might wup your butt anyway, an' Ah
wouldn't wanna hurt your ego."
   "You a funny one, Rogue," he said, enjoying the laughter in
her eyes.
   "But what ah'm really wonderin'," she said, "is . . . well,
are we gonna put it to the real test?"
   Gambit reached out, took her by the forearms, and drew her
gently to him across the bed.
   "Like he say before, Chere; Gambit been lookin' forward ta
dis for a *long* time.  But dere's one other thing he gotta tell
you first; dat collar only gonna last a little while--maybe four
or six hours.  Don' know if we gonna find any more of 'em, or if
we find any way ta recharge dis one.  Might be dangerous to wear
it too often, anyway."
   "Well, it ain't like you could get me to wear this thing
every day even so.  Ah feel pretty silly.  But right now, all Ah
wanna know is, are ya gonna kiss me, or just sit there makin'
eyes at me an' thinkin' about it?"
   The two of them both leaned closer at once; and as their
lips slowly came together, both their hearts beat faster. 
Please, Rogue thought silently; don't let it happen again this
time like before.  It didn't.  All that happened was that she
melted slowly, deliciously into his arms, their mouths locked on
one another, savoring, refusing to end that first kiss that both
had dreamed of and waited for, with so little real hope, for so
many months.  It was no disappointment.
   Rogue wrapped her slender arms around his ribs and ran her
hands up his spine, delighting in the feel of his well-muscled
back and shoulders.  It dawned on her that for once, if only
tonight, she could get rid of those *damned* gloves.  Reluctantly
breaking their kiss, she pulled away briefly, just long enough to
peel them from her hands and toss them on the floor.  The act of
stripping off the gloves seemed somehow suggestive, a symbolic
falling of barriers and defenses.
   "Oh, Remy, ya'll don't know how bad ah've wanted to do
this," she told him, slowly reaching out to touch his face with
her bare finger-tips.
   "Couldn'a wanted dat any more dan Gambit want da same," he
replied, touching her face as well.  "Din't think it could be,
but you feel even more beautiful dan you look, Chere."
   With sudden impatience, Rogue tugged loose his tie and began
quickly unbuttoning his shirt.  In a moment she had him naked to
the waist, and she ran her hands eagerly over the delicious
shapes of his biceps, shoulders, pecs, and abdomen.  He seemed
exactly like one of those beautiful beef-cake boys in a blue-jean
commercial, she thought, unable to contain a small giggle.
   "What's so funny now?" Gambit asked with a bemused grin; but
the only answer he got was that she wrapped her arms around his
neck and began another long, boldly exploratory kiss.  The
inhibitor-collar bumped awkwardly against their chins, but they
both did their best to ignore it.
   Lebeau at that moment felt extremely happy, but a part of
his mind remained anxious.  He had a furious hard-on that was
struggling to peek over his waist-band and escape the confines of
his tight-fitting pants; and he urgently wanted to see Rogue
naked.  It was not his style to hold himself in check this way,
and had it not been Rogue, he already would have been tearing her
clothes loose with wild abandon.  Under the circumstances,
however, he was still afraid of spooking her, imagining how she
must feel on such unfamiliar ground.  If she was nervous, though,
she certainly was hiding it well, as her tongue began darting
between his lips.  Before he even realized what she was doing,
Rogue had unbuttoned the front of her own blouse, which he
discovered only when she broke their kiss, shrugged the garment
smoothly off her shoulders, and let it fall on the bed behind
her.
   "Feast your eyes, wild man," she teased, as he did exactly
that.  She was wearing a lacy black brassiere; and for a long
moment he could do nothing but stare, riveted by the sight of her
full, up-thrust breasts, straining against the silky fabric and
rising and falling with her deep breathing.  He had never seen
anything, anyone, so sexy in his life.  He could have told her
so, but that wasn't his style, either.  Instead, he simply
reached out, cupped her magnificent globes in both hands, and
began gently massaging them again, now running his thumbs in
little circles around the nipples.
   "Oooh, that's sooo nice," she sighed, closing her eyes and
leaning her head back.  She arched her back slightly and pulled
her shoulders back, thrusting her chest more firmly against his
constantly-moving hands.  Suddenly he removed them, reached
behind her, under the lovely, flowing mane of her hair, and
deftly released the clasp of her bra.  She opened her eyes to
find him grinning at her again.
   "Ah didn't s'pose a clever ol' thief like you would have
much trouble with that," she giggled.
   "Dats right, Chere; now Gambit got da goods!"

                        CHAPTER ELEVEN

   With Rogue's generous, perfectly-formed breasts bared to his
hungry gaze at long last, the Cajun's previous sense of restraint
began to crumble; and his attention to her became a matter of
more urgent business than light-hearted banter.  Placing his
hands on her hips, he nudged her up onto her knees, bringing her
breasts level with his face, and began tantalizing her taut,
blushing nipples with his hot, slippery, wildly agile tongue. 
She clutched his head with both hands, running her fingers
through his long, reddish-brown hair, and he noted with
satisfaction that she was breathing faster.  A warm, delicious
feeling of pleasure began coiling deep inside her.
   With his tongue still busily attending to her breasts,
Gambit began slowly, stealthily sliding the hem of her skirt up
along her thighs, past the top of her stockings; and he was
delighted to find she was wearing an old-fashioned garter-belt. 
Rogue felt a breath of cool breeze on the dampness between her
legs, and she realized in a strangely detached way that this was
it: finally, after so long, she was going to find out what it was
like to make love.  Yet now, for some ridiculous reason, she
suddenly felt a twinge of shyness.  It was all happening so fast. 
She shivered slightly, having almost forgotten what it was like
to be affected by temperature this way.
   "Let's get under the covers, Remy," she said.  "It's gettin'
cold in here."  Although reluctant to let her go even for an
instant, Gambit backed off and turned down the top of the sheets
and blankets.  Then he got up and strode over to shut the balcony
doors; and while his back was turned, Rogue quickly removed her
ear-rings and shimmied out of her skirt.  Before she could
disappear under the covers, Gambit turned and caught a fleeting,
priceless glimpse of her strong, beautifully-rounded backside in
the soft candle-light, and of her smooth, shapely legs in those
marvelous silk stockings with the seams running up the backs of
them.  It would have been nice to have a picture of that, he
thought; but he knew he would never forget it anyway.  He blew
out the candles, then stripped off his pants and slid under the
covers beside her.
   With only a reflected shaft of moonlight to illuminate their
faces now, Rogue felt her confidence return and smiled at herself
for being so silly.  Despite all her previous worries about what
the first time might be like, it now felt perfectly natural and
easy.  Except that now, she supposed, they were getting to the
serious part . . . but that was okay.  She had no doubts--only a
sense of pleasant desire and anticipation.  And yes, somewhere in
the background, that damned little twinge of awareness that she
had better remember this, because it was quite possible it would
never happen again.
   Suddenly, however, all Rogue was aware of was Gambit's mouth
tugging gently at her ear and his long, clever fingers stroking
the inside of her thigh.  And then she felt the hot, quivering
shape of his penis poking against her tummy.  She turned her head
to kiss him again, gently wrapped her hand around his member, and
began slowly, carefully stroking her fingers up and down along
the length of it.  She hardly considered herself young or
innocent anymore; but in fact, apart from a few naughty pictures
some other girls had once shown her at school, she had never
really gotten a good look at an erect penis, and she wasn't sure
what was normal.  She had a pretty active imagination, though;
and it turned out Gambit's manhood was a little bit thinner than
she had pictured it . . . and a lot longer.
   As a matter of fact, a whore in New Orleans had once
measured Gambit's cock for him and found that it was just a
smidgeon over nine inches.  But that was one little story Gambit
was determined that Rogue would never hear.  By this time, she
might have had a difficult time counting to nine anyway, because
his fingers had now wandered up between her legs, nudged aside
the crotch of her panties, and begun teasing her in that most
special, private place.
   "Oooh, REMY!" she moaned.  "What're you *doin'* to me?  Ah--
ah cain't think!"
   "Don' try ta think about it, Chere," he told her, kissing
her on the mouth, and then again on her breasts.  "Jus' enjoy." 
He decided that as much as he liked her stockings and garters, it
was time for them to go.  He unhooked the belt as deftly as he
had her bra, then unclipped the garters and tossed the dainty
little garment onto a chair beside the bed.  The stockings, he
felt, deserved a little more attention.  Rolling her gently onto
her side, he resumed stroking her between the legs with one hand,
causing her to gasp.  With the other hand he raised her leg
slightly, and then slowly slid the top of the stocking down along
her thigh, savoring the alluring contours of her limb as his palm
glided over her knee, calf, and ankle.  Then he repeated the
process on her other leg, still stroking her crotch with his
other fingers, pleased to find how wet and slippery she was
getting.
   "Eyk!" Rogue squeaked in sudden, delighted surprise when he
brushed a finger fully, deliberately across her clitoris for the
first time.  She had grown so enraptured with what he was doing
that her hand had gone limp on his penis; but as it nudged
insistently against her belly she grasped it again and began
tugging on it rhythmically, still gently, but with increasing
determination.
   Listening to Rogue's ragged breath in his ear, almost
panting now, Gambit found himself breathing heavily as well; and
he realized he had better be careful if he didn't want to come
too soon.  He wanted this to be perfect, but the way Rogue was
writhing and moaning and stroking him now, he felt like he could
lose it at any moment.  Scooting himself lower on the bed, he
regretfully nudged her hand away from his dangerously pulsing
cock.  Grasping the waist of her well-soaked panties, he tugged
them off her hips, down her thighs, and past her knees, where she
caught them with one toe and pushed them off the rest of the way
herself.
   For a moment, Rogue wondered what he was doing when he
didn't slide back up beside her or climb on top.  But then she
felt him grasp her knees, spreading them wide apart; and that
crazy, wonderful tongue of his began lapping at the inside of her
thigh, working its way inexorably upward.
   "Oh, *Remy*, she breathed in a husky voice.  "You're not
gonna . . . you're not gonna do what ah think you're doin', are
you?  You don't . . . Oh!"  She inhaled sharply as Gambit lifted
the back of her knees over his shoulders and began licking her
right where it counted, driving her farther and farther beyond
any pleasure she had ever imagined possible.  Now he was lapping
rapidly, giving her clitoris firm, regular little flicks with the
tip of his snake-like tongue . . . and that was all it took to
drive her over the edge.
   "Uuuuuuggggghhhh--UGH!!!" she grunted, gasping for breath as
every muscle in her body suddenly went rigid at once.  Her back
arched, her fingers dug into the mattress, and her thighs clamped
hard around Gambit's head.  Unfortunately he couldn't see her
face; but at that moment, it was contorted in a strange,
wonderful grimace--lips parted over clenched teeth, eyes closed,
nostrils flared, brow twisted, a fine sheen of sweat glistening
in the moonlight.  It would have been another nice picture.
   Rogue's orgasm seemed to last forever, and Gambit was
actually getting short of breath when she finally began to relax
again, releasing his head from between her legs.  She gave a
final, delicious shudder, and then fell totally limp.  Gambit
wiped the corners of his mouth on the sheet, crawled up between
her legs, and bent down to kiss her on the cheek.  She stared up
at him, eyelids heavy, mouth half-open, eyes gleaming with a look
of distant wonder.

                        CHAPTER TWELVE

   "If you don' mind, Chere," said Gambit, "Dis ol' Cajun gonna
go crazy if he don' do somethin' else now."  Rogue glanced down
and saw his penis, long, hard, and twitching, poised between her
legs.
   "Yeah," she sighed weakly.  "Ah think *ah'm* the one who's
gonna go crazy if you keep touchin' me down there . . . but go on
now and do it.  Only . . . you *do* have some kinda, well,
protection, don't ya?"
   Gambit's brow suddenly knitted together, and a look of
dismay crept over his face.
   "You *ain't* gonna tell me you *forgot* any, after settin'
up all the rest o' this?" Rogue demanded, suddenly sounding more
like her normal self again.  Gambit gave a small, helpless shrug,
then nodded sheepishly.
   "Yah dumb Cajun!  Ya bayou-brain!  What're ya tryin' to do,
get this girl pregnant?"  Gambit's penis wilted to half-mast.
   "Gambit just plain forgot," he said, mentally kicking
himself with a vengeance.  "Sure didn't mean to, Chere."
   Rogue propped herself up on her elbows, staring at him with
a look of exasperation.  Of all the rotten luck, she thought. 
She could have brought something herself, if only she'd had the
slightest notion that something like this would happen; but of
course she'd had no idea.  Well, who ever said life was fair? 
Then the hang-dog look on Gambit's face, plain to see even in the
dim light, reminded her that he must be feeling mighty
disappointed, too; and Rogue suddenly realized she was acting
pretty selfish.
   "Well, that's okay," she said mildly, feeling her own sense
of frustration abate somewhat even as she spoke.  "Ah don't
s'pose I have any reason to complain about anything after what
you just did for me," she mused, as an echo of her recent ecstasy
sent another shiver down her spine.  When she saw him beginning
to get up from the bed, she quickly grabbed his wrist and pulled
him back.
   "Hold on, Remy," she told him.  "We ain't quite done here
yet, ya know."
   Gambit eyed her quizzically.
   "What you got in mind, Chere?" he asked.
   "Well, ah don't know," she said mischievously.  "But ah'll
bet we could think o' somthin'.  Ah couldn't let you go runnin'
off like that, still all hot 'n' bothered, now, could ah?"  She
nodded toward his penis, which had never quite entirely lost
interest even during the insults, and was now rapidly climbing
back to attention.
   "Better watch out," Gambit warned her.  "Dat one-eyed
trouser snake can be dangerous.  Might make a big mess if you
ain't careful."
   "Ah'm sure ah *don't* know what you're talkin' about," Rogue
giggled.  "Now suppose we just turn on this little light here,
just so ah can see what this is all about."  She reached over and
switched on a small lamp on the bedside table, providing just
enough light to see clearly, and propped her head up comfortably
with a couple of pillows.
   Gambit merely watched curiously, enjoying the way her bare
breasts shifted as she moved.  Then she reached down to where he
was still sitting between her legs, grasped his cock with both
hands, and began stroking once again.  It was well-lubricated
with pre-cum by this time, and it slid smoothly, easily through
her hands as she made them into fists and pumped them up and
down, faster and faster.  His breathing soon grew rapid and
shallow, and he clenched his fists at his sides, a look of
increasingly desperate concentration on his face.  Rogue watched
him closely, fascinated.
   "Dat's . . . 'bout all Gambit can take," he groaned at last. 
Did he mean that as an invitation to stop? Rogue wondered, but it
didn't matter.  He obviously liked what she was doing, and she
wasn't about to stop now.  She felt him begin to throb in her
hands, and gave him several more good jerks.  Then Gambit threw
his head back, uttered an odd, strangled little croak from the
back of his throat, and began to spurt.  Rogue stopped tugging
but continued to grip him tightly as his ejaculation continued,
sprinkling his warm, white fluid over her belly, breasts, and
even her face.  What a strange sight it was, she thought, as she
felt a drop land on her lips.  She tasted it experimentally, and
decided it was not unpleasant.  Finally Gambit was finished, and
he quickly fetched a towel to clean her off before crawling back
into bed beside her.
   "Ah hope ya'll liked that as much as I liked what happened a
little while ago," she said warmly, kissing him on the cheek.     
"No words to describe it," he answered, "'Cept to say thank you,
Chere.  Gambit always gonna remember dis."  He turned out the
light, pulled the covers up around their chins, and wrapped her
snugly in his arms.  It felt so natural, and so nice, that as
Rogue drifted off to sleep, she actually managed to forget about
the collar.  Little did she know that it would awaken them both
with a piercing alarm when its batteries ran low, just before
dawn.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, dear readers, it's already been a long night
for some of the X-Men; but we're almost to the end of this tale. 
If you're still following the story after this long, I suppose I
must be doing something right!  Seriously, though, I'm very
grateful for all the kind comments and encouragement I've
received from many of you, not least the gentleman who pointed
out that Jean's last name is Grey, not Gray.  I do like to keep
such things straight; but if that's the worst glitch that crops
up, I'll be pleased indeed.
    Chapter 14 will be the last of this series; and you will
find that after what was perhaps a slow start, things in these
final two installments get pretty wild, and perhaps even--dare I
say it?--politically incorrect!  :-)  At the end of Chapter 6, as
you may recall, Betsy wished, "If only there were someone ..."
Well, perhaps next time, after what follows, she will remember
the saying, "Be careful what you wish for ... !"  Enjoy.

                       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    As Logan followed Psylocke out of the control room, he found
it impossible to keep his eyes off the bobbing shape of her tight
little ass.  She glanced at him over her shoulder, her face half-
hidden by her hair, a knowing look in her eye.  When they were
inside the elevator and the door slid shut, she moved toward him,
as if testing his buffer of personal space, to see if he would
back away.  He stood his ground, watching her warily, until her
face was only a few inches from his and her breasts brushed
lightly against his chest.  She was somewhat taller than he, and
he found himself looking directly at her mouth.  Parting her
lips, Psylocke ran her tongue slowly along the upper one . . .
and then the door opened.
    Wolverine followed her out of the elevator, up the stairs,
and down the hallway to her room, which lay at the far end of the
mansion from his--a good place for it, he decided, hoping Jubes
was still sound asleep.  Betsy paused with the door to her room
half-open, looked at him again, and then beckoned him inside with
a curl of one long, elegant finger.  Her bedroom was spacious,
with a great, antique four-poster bed and a large, intricate
oriental rug on the waxed wooden floor.  She leaned back against
the door to close it behind them, giving him another significant
look, and then sauntered over a tall wooden cabinet, from which
she produced the promised bottle of Chivas Royal.
    "Didn't know there was any good liquor in the house,"
Wolverine commented as he watched her break the seal and pour
them each two fingers in a pair of heavy crystal glasses.
    "It's been waiting for some special occasion ever since I
hid it from my brother last year," she explained in a
conversational tone.  "He sometimes drinks too much, you know."
    "Not a good idea for somebody strong enough to derail a
train," Logan observed, knowing that the brother she referred to
was in fact Brian Braddock, a.k.a. Captain Britain, a veritable
powerhouse with an occasionally dangerous temper.
    "Quite," she agreed.  "Cheers then."  Their glasses clinked,
and Logan savored the liquid fire of the well-aged whisky in his
throat.  Too bad for her brother, he thought; a fella sure could
acquire a taste for this stuff.  Psylocke drained her glass with
neither a grimace nor any particular relish, and they stood
looking at each other.  Logan realized she had somehow drifted
toward him again, although not yet quite so far as in the
elevator.
    "You figure this is some kinda special occasion, then?" he
asked at length.
    "Do you want it to be?"  She raised an eyebrow.
    "You know what I want."
    "Why don't you take it, then?" she replied, setting down her
glass on the table beside her bed.  She inhaled deeply, causing
her breasts to rise provocatively; and Logan felt a familiar
stirring in his loins.
    "Better not start somethin' you don't mean to finish,
Betts," he warned her, feeling his blood running hot.
    "You don't think I'm serious?  All right.  Take off that
silly mask of yours, and I'll show you."
    Was she going to strip for him?  Well, he certainly meant to
find out.  As he pulled off his mask and tossed it on the carpet
between them, Elizabeth untied the sash about her waist and let
it fall to the floor as well.  Then, staring him straight in the
eye, she raised her arms, reached behind her head, and worked a
small zipper at the back of her neck.  Although it only ran down
a few inches, it provided just enough slack in the tight-fitting
leotard for her to pull it forward and down over her shoulders. 
Logan watched with rapt attention as she slowly tugged it lower,
revealing more and more of her cleavage, until her nipples peeked
into view over the edge of the retreating fabric.  They were
large, brown, smooth, and perfectly round, just as he had often
imagined them; and he allowed himself a small grin of
satisfaction at the sight.
    Elizabeth paused to caress her breasts slowly with both
hands, teasing her nipples erect, and then hooked her thumbs in
the leotard and pulled it steadily further downward, revealing
her flat, muscular abdomen and navel . . . and still lower, down
over the smooth, curving flanks of her hips, revealing a small,
dark, closely-trimmed tuft of fine black hair nestled between her
legs.  He had half-expected this to be purple, too; but that
would have looked vaguely ridiculous, and that was one word he
would never associate with Psylocke.  The leotard dropped down
her legs to fall around her sandalled feet, and she stepped out
of it, depositing it on top of his mask with her toe.
    "Jesus Christ," Logan muttered as he ran his eyes hungrily
over the full length of her naked torso.  His throat felt
constricted, and his hard-on had stiffened against his trunks
like a tent-pole, demanding release.
    "You're in for it now, girl," he growled, grabbing the hem
of his shirt and whipping it off.
    "Oh?" she said curiously, hands on her hips, resting her
weight on one leg and bending the other knee slightly.  "Should I
be worried?"
    "Maybe.  Depends on how much sleep you were plannin' to get
tonight, and how much you mind bein' sore in the morning."  As
Logan kicked off his boots and began unfastening his belt, he saw
Elizabeth begin to remove her gloves and arm-bands.
    "Leave those," he told her.  "And the sandals."  She cast
him a look of mild surprise and amusement, but did as he asked.
    "As you wish," she murmured.
    "Yeah," he said as he stripped off his pants.  "That's the
right attitude."  He now wore only a pair of thin, tight black
speedos, and the head of his angry cock had pushed into view.
    "Allow me," Psylocke offered, hooking her thumbs in the
waist-band.
    "Suit yourself," he said, crossing his arms over his chest
as she tugged the speedos off, allowing his penis to spring free. 
It was not especially long, she noted, although perhaps a bit
longer than she would have expected for his height; but it was a
fat one.  It was also rock-hard and extremely hot to the touch,
she discovered when she brushed her fingers along the underside
and gave the twitching purple head a gentle squeeze.  His entire
mid-section, like all the rest of him, was covered in coarse,
curly black hair, which she supposed some women might find a bit
repulsive; but fortunately she did not mind it at all.  In fact,
she found it savagely arousing.
    Deciding that all this eye-balling had gone on long enough,
Logan grabbed her firmly, almost roughly around the waist and
pulled her to him, clutching her sculpted ass with both hands. 
She bent her head slightly to meet his lips, and their tongues
immediately began probing one another.  Reaching down between the
two of them, she took hold of his cock and began stroking it,
finding it already slick; and with her other hand she began
touching herself, feeling how wet she already had become as well. 
His hands gripped her butt harder, kneading the cheeks, fingers
probing her cleft.
    Logan suddenly pushed Elizabeth backward, pinning her
against the door of her wardrobe.  Feeling him lifting her by the
hips, she raised her legs and wrapped them around his waist,
crossing her ankles in the small of his back, and curled one arm
around the back of his neck.  With her other hand, she guided the
head of his probing cock firmly against her moist, expectant
gateway; and she felt it slide smoothly inside her.
    Fortunately, she had taken other, previous precautions that
made it unnecessary to worry about contraception at this point. 
He apparently had similar thoughts, raising his eyebrows in an
unspoken question; and she gave him a reassuring nod.  In this
age of safe sex, she mused, it was also nice to know that his
incredible mutant metabolism made him immune to any possible
disease; for he had, after all, been around the block several
times in his day.
    Now that everything was where it should be, Betsy brought
her other arm up around his neck as well.  Logan gave a low growl
of raw pleasure as he lowered her slowly with his hands and
twisted his hips up against her, pushing his thick prong steadily
deeper; and Betsy felt herself stretching to accommodate him
until he was lodged fully inside.
    "Ah!" she gasped in his ear.  "I feel so full!"
    Logan said nothing, but clamped his teeth down on the side
of her neck, causing her to gasp again, more loudly.  Then he
began pumping against her, thrusting steadily in and out,
supporting her and controlling her movements with his powerful
grip on her backside.  She felt herself rapidly heating up toward
the boiling point, and her thoughts became clouded, her
consciousness submerging in a rising sea of liquid passion.  Her
legs clamped tighter around him, and she began writhing, rubbing
her breasts urgently against his hairy chest.
    Suddenly Logan's hips bucked hard against her, and she felt
his penis throb, jetting long, powerful bursts of semen deep
inside her, while his eyes rolled back and a low, animalistic
gurgle issued from somewhere in the back of his throat.  The
sensation triggered Psylocke's own climax, and her head jerked
backward to bump against the wardrobe door as her entire body
clenched with a powerful shudder, back arching, legs locked,
nails violently raking Wolverine's neck and shoulders.  She made
no sound other than a tiny, choking gasp; and time seemed to
stop.
    When Elizabeth at last managed to draw another breath, she
realized she had scratched Logan's skin hard enough to draw
blood; and he was looking at her with mild surprise.  Then he
devoured her lips with another kiss.  He seemed to have no
intention of putting her down, keeping a firm grip on her rump;
and it was a long time before their mouths parted.
    "You're . . . an animal!" she laughed, fighting for breath.
    "Yup.  An' you ain't seen the half of it."  She realized his
penis had remained as hard as ever inside her, even after he had
pumped out what felt like a huge amount of semen, which she
supposed must now be dripping on the floor beneath them. 
Fortunately they were not standing on the carpet.  Oh, God, she
realized; why hadn't she thought of this before?  With his mutant
healing factor, he would of course recover almost instantly after
an ejaculation, just as the scratches she had inflicted were
already fading.  What have I gotten myself into? she wondered?


                 CHAPTER FOURTEEN: CONCLUSION

   Allowing Psylocke no respite, Wolverine began stroking in
and out of her again, starting out slowly but gradually
increasing the pace until he was practically hammering her
against the wardrobe, all the while tongueing and biting at her
ears, lips, and throat.  In a matter of a few moments, it seemed,
Betts felt herself drawing toward the brink of another orgasm--
and then it crashed upon her, racking her sobbing, sweating body
with such force that she lost all control and again dug her nails
into his flesh.  He growled at her but kept his tenacious grip on
her fanny, skewering into her faster and faster until his cock
again erupted with a load of his plentiful juice.
   When his orgasm had passed, Logan lifted her off him,
carried her over to the bed, and laid her on her back.  She felt
limp and wondered dimly whether he was finished now; but his
still-rigid penis showed no sign of relenting.  He bent down to
pick up something from the floor, then turned back to her and
rolled her over on her stomach.  Psylocke submitted passively as
she felt him grab her wrists, pull them behind her back, and
quickly tie them together with what she realized was her own
sash.  In a moment she was bound.
   "Wha- what are you doing?" she asked weakly.
   "Fixin' things so you won't scratch me to ribbons next time
around," he answered, grabbing her ankles and flipping her again
onto her back.  She tugged experimentally at her wrists and found
that he had tied them securely.  He hastily stripped off her
sandal-boots, unwrapping the bands around her knees and thighs,
and paused a moment to run his hard palms appreciatively over the
smooth, flawless length of her magnificent legs.
   "Does this turn you on?" she taunted him.  "Would you like
me to pretend it's rape?"
   "Don't matter to me none," he muttered, nudging her knees
apart and drawing her long, athletic legs over his hips.  "How
'bout you, Betts?"  Kneeling on the edge of the bed before her,
he grasped her hips and slid his indefatigable cock back into her
molten depths, feeling her muscles clench tightly around him. 
"Does it turn *you* on, havin' somebody else in control for a
change?"
   "I . . . I . . . uh!"  She found it hard to speak again as
he began rutting into to her without mercy, driving the breath
from her lungs with every thrust.  Yes, she admitted to herself:
it *did* turn her on, being dominated this way; and she dug her
heels into his brawny, hairy buttocks.  After a while he paused
briefly to grab her legs behind the knees and force her thighs
back against her chest, bending her double and increasing her
feeling of helplessness, before resuming his persistent, plunging
attack.  She planted her feet flat against his chest, pushing
feebly against him with the half-formed thought of gaining some
breathing-space; but he would have none of it and gripping her
firmly around the waist, allowing her no escape.  Wet and
slippery as it was, her vagina was beginning to feel rather
tender from his relentless stroking and pounding.
   But the line between pleasure and pain is, after all, a fine
one; and Psylocke's thoughts soon began to dissolve in a familiar
flow of ecstasy.  She was dimly aware that he had raised her
calves over his shoulders, giving himself even fuller access to
her helpless, writhing body, pistoning in and out of her, in and
out, grunting, sweating, penetrating her, using her . . . and
making her come.  Again.  And again.  And . . .

                             * * *

   Logan had just begun gushing yet another goodly load of his
potent mutant spunk deep inside his partner when he realized she
had passed out.  Reluctantly slowing his thrusts to a halt, he
lowered her legs to the bed on either side of him, but did not
withdraw from her.  Cupping one hand around the back of her head,
he raised it slightly and brushed a strand of her damp,
bedraggled hair from her eyelids.  Her mouth hung open, jaw
slack.
   "Betts, you okay?"  He slapped her lightly, twice, and her
eyes fluttered.  She drew a deep breath.
   "Logan?  Wha- oh.  Oh my.  How long?"
   "Dunno."  He gave another tentative thrust of his hips,
moving slightly inside her.
   "Ah," she gasped, closing her eyes.  "I'm getting sore."
   "Okay," he said, regretfully pulling out of her tight,
slippery warmth.  He had known it would only be a matter of time,
and she already had shown more stamina than any other woman he
could remember.  But damn, if he wasn't still horny!  Looking at
her, sprawled there on her back, looking helpless, breasts thrust
up and apart by the way her arms were bound behind her, made it
hard to hold himself in check.
   "You're still hard," Psylocke observed, her voice weak,
betraying a mixture of exasperation and awe.
   "Yup.  Tough to stop once I get started.  Mind if I try
somethin' else?"
   "Go ahead."  She looked up at him dumbly as he climbed over
her legs to straddle her chest, with his knees planted on either
side of her, and slid his slippery, twitching, insatiable cock
between her breasts.  Taking the latter in both hands, he pushed
them together to embrace his member, stirring her nipples with
his thumbs as he began thrusting his hips forward and back.
   "You're somethin' else, Betts," Logan told her, beginning to
sound just a bit winded himself, after he had spilled still
another load of pearly drops all over her chest, throat, and
face.  She didn't seem to hear him, however; and he saw that her
face was screwed up in a look of far-away concentration, eyes
clamped shut, breathing short and sharp.  He felt how hard her
nipples were, and continued brushing, teasing, twiddling them
with his thumbs and fingers, until her jaw clenched tight and she
uttered a strangled sort of croak, shuddering heavily beneath
him.  At last she seemed to relax, breathing again, and opened
her eyes.  He began sliding his cock along her warm, slippery
cleavage again.
   "My God," she breathed.  "I didn't know I could do that--I
mean, just from being touched there."
   "Don't say I never taught you nothin', then," he grunted,
feeling the makings of another numberless orgasm beginning to
coil tightly in his loins.  "Like I was sayin' . . . (grunt);
you're somethin' else.  I don't think even I've ever felt like
carryin' on quite this long.  Don't know what it is--you just do
somethin' to me, I guess.  I can't stop."
   Psylocke looked up at him with a sense of amused, frustrated
wonder as he closed his eyes and continued plugging away, lost in
his own animal pleasure.  Lord only knew what time it was now. 
What was she going to do with him?  If she suggested she'd had
enough of this, she had a feeling he would just want to have a go
at her bum instead--which might be interesting, she thought; but
not right now.  She wanted to sleep.  Then, suddenly, she knew
what to do.  It involved some risk; but that, after all, was what
made life worthwhile.  She gave a secret little smile and began
focusing her concentration for the task.
   Among her many other talents, Psylocke was an accomplished
escape artist.  Consequently, now that she had decided to do so,
it was a simple matter to slip Wolverine's knot and free her
wrists from the sash.  Spearing madly between her breasts in his
latest bout of hyper-virile frenzy, he took no notice of what she
was doing.  She kept her hands beneath her until she was ready,
then reached up suddenly to lay her long, sinuous fingers on his
temples.  He opened his eyes in surprise; but even had he tried
to stop her, it was now too late.
   When Psylocke struck people with her "psychic knife", what
she actually did was to disrupt their synaptic functions, making
them lose control of voluntary motor functions.  This involved no
inherent discomfort, but in the process she usually stimulated
their pain-centers as well, which could inflict hideous agony if
she so chose.  Having experienced her power before, Wolverine
instantly recognized what was happening as he suddenly lost
control of his muscles.  Christ, he thought; maybe he had been a
little rough on her tonight, but he didn't really deserve this,
did he?
   Instead of inducing pain, however, this time Psylocke used
her power in a careful, precisely-controlled manner to prod
directly at Logan's neural pleasure-centers; and the resulting
sensation defied any possible description.  Already at the brink
of orgasm, he felt himself washed away in a cataclysmic torrent
of raw, overwhelming, hedonistic rapture, unlike anything he had
ever known.  His body, it seemed, had dissolved into liquid, and
with it his mind and soul, becoming one with a universe where
everything was right.  Before she could grab him, he keeled over
backwards, landing on the floor with a heavy thud.
   For a moment, Betsy worried that perhaps she had missed her
mark and caused him harm; but when she sat up and crawled to the
edge of the bed to look at him, she saw that she had done exactly
what she meant to.  His face was slack, a thread of spittle
leaking from his mouth; and his eyes seemed to be staring off
into the infinite distance--more or less how people looked when
she "knifed" them the normal way, but somehow she could tell this
time that the trip she had sent him on had carried him to bliss. 
And at long last, his penis had gone limp.

                             * * *

   Unfortunately, surveying the gooey mess Logan had made of
everything, including her, Betsy decided she would have to tidy
up a bit before she could go to sleep.  First, she pulled off the
soaked bed-covers and cast them into the laundry hamper.  Then
she stepped over his prostrate form and into the bathroom to
attend to herself.  When she emerged a few minutes later, wrapped
in a thick, soft terrycloth robe and winding her long, wet hair
in a towel, she saw that he had managed to struggle up to a half-
sitting position, propped against the bed; but his arms still lay
limp at his sides, and he couldn't seem to speak or focus his
eyes clearly.
   "Poor dear," she murmured, and dragged him into the shower
to clean him off.  He finally managed to stagger unsteadily to
his feet again about ten minutes later, with the support of an
arm wrapped around Betsy's slender but strong shoulders.
   "Guh- God, woman," he managed to mumble with difficulty. 
"Never dreamed you could do that."
   "I seem to recall someone saying once, `Don't say I never
taught you anything.'"
   "Touche," he grinned weakly.  "Hand me those pants, will ya,
Betts?"  She did so, steadying him has he pulled them on.  "I'd
like to stay an' snuggle," he explained, "but I figure I'd better
get outta here if we ain't lookin' ta start any rumors."
   "I suppose you're right," she yawned.
   "You know," Logan said, pausing with his hand on the door-
knob, "I normally make it a rule not to take up with anybody I
gotta work with later.  Tends ta complicate things on a job, an'
that can be dangerous."
   "Well," said Elizabeth, "I suppose that's generally a wise
policy."  She leaned against the door-frame beside him and gave
him a final, lingering kiss.  As she withdrew, her robe fell
partway open, irresistably drawing his eyes back to her
astonishing breasts.  "But just this once," she suggested,
"perhaps you could say there were extenuating circumstances."