Xtenuating Circumstances 9-14

                      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.  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."

                             THE END


