As soon as the turbolift doors opened Picard heard the music. The other crewmen
followed him out of the car and were hanging back respectfully until he waved
them ahead with a quiet, "Please," whereupon they hurried off down the curving
corridor out of sight.

Picard strolled after them: simply being free to waste time was a rare luxury to
be savored.  True, the Federation was currently at peace (merci a Dieu) but the
absence of major disasters seemed only to breed minor ones.  For almost eight
months the Enterprise had been rushing from one planet to another, delivering
emergency food to this planet, lending expertise to fend off a plague on that
one, showing the flag at yet another potentially obstreperous one, and on and on.

Normally the Enterprise was able to follow at least loosely a pattern of orbital
stays at planets with extensive maintenance and recreational facilities between
periods of active missions, but the constant stream of petty crises had put paid
to that. None of the crew had been able to take shoreleave in over a year. In
fact, with maintenance having to be done on a catch-as-catch-can basis, many had
been drafted to work additional shifts providing extra hands and sweat to
substitute for the lacking drydock equipment.  His was a good crew, but overwork
and boredom was hurting morale.

Picard paused at an opening to admire the transformation that ingenuity had
wrought.  He KNEW this was the entrance to Holodeck Five, but what he SAW was
ten-foot marble columns twined with garlands of greenery and flowers flanking the
entrance to a amphitheater.  Since the programming of the Holodeck restricted its
contructs strictly to within its own walls, he knew what he was seeing was real. 
Someone had fabricated those columns using the heavy duty replicators down in
Engineering, and then managed to set them up here.  Intra-ship beaming?  Or
anti-gravs and a careful haul through an empty turboshaft?  Either way, a tricky
job well done.

He stepped through the opening and surveyed the rest of the transformation.  A
large semi-circular stage, capped by an ornate gilded headpiece and complete with
footlights and curtains, was snugged against the far wall where he knew the
secondary entrance was located.  Between it and the main entrance where he stood
were about two dozen concentric arcs of stone benches.  Several tiers of steps
led down through gaps in the benches to the stage. The Roman-esque flavor of the
seating was in wild contrast to the rather Victorian proscenium, but the over all
effect was pleasing none the less.

Judging by the swelling music, the action was building to a climax.  Picard
spotted an empty aisle seat a couple of rows down and slipped quietly into it. 
On stage twenty tap dancers had formed themselves into a line.  They were
costumed all in gold and the stage lights made them blaze as they began to strut
and kick in unison.  Even before the last note the audience was applauding as
they cheered on their friends' performance.  Just as the red curtains swept
closed Picard spotted the gold band crossing the face of one of the men, almost
unnoticeable amongst all the other gleaming gold.  "I didn't know Geordie could
dance," he said in surprise, as the house lights came up.

"Beverly had been coaching them, sir."  The Betazoid accent was unmistakable.  He
twisted around half-way, and found that seated directly behind him were not only
his Ship's Counselor but his First Officer as well.

"I know, I saw her," Riker put in.  "Once when I went down to Engineering I came
in on the entire shift kicking and bumping into each with her perched on a
catwalk, beating out the cadence on the railing with a wrench."  Riker chuckled
at the memory.  "I must say, it's a good thing they got in some extra practice."

"Will, what is important is that they enjoyed performing," Deanna reproved him.

"And the audience enjoyed it, too," said Picard.  "This was an excellent idea of
yours, Counselor."  He glance about at the half-full theater.  "A good turn-out,
especially since Second Watch isn't over yet."

"Nice that the Third Watch can see at least part of the show," Riker concurred. 
"They get left out of so much."

"I didn't miss Data, did I," asked Picard.

"No, sir.  In fact, he's up next."

"Good.  He especially wanted my opinion."  Just then, as the lights started to
dim again, his communicator beeped.

"Acting Ensign Crusher to Captain Picard."

Picard tapped his badge and whispered into it, "Picard here."

"Incoming dispatch from Starfleet Central Comm."

"Blast it," Picard muttered.  "The Curse of the Captaincy--"

"Is never seeing both ends of anything," finished Riker.  "Let me take it, sir. 
I'm sure it's just more official busy work, and it means so much to Data."

Picard hesitated, glancing at the slowly opening curtain, then said, "Thank you,
Number One.  Signal me if it is important."

Riker nodded then hurried up the aisle, passing a cluster of newcomers filing in
to take seats.

* * * * *

Riker skimmed the final screenful of text then keyed in his official signature
macro.  "Wonderful thing, bureaucracy," he murmured.  "A 50k report from
Starfleet Personnel informing the Enterprise's captain that there have been no
personnel changes aboard the Enterprise worth reporting over the last report
period."  He glanced up in time to spot the grin on Wesley Crusher's face.  With
mock severity he added, "That doesn't mean you can ignore any regulation, Mr. 
Crusher.  Always remember, they MAY be stupid regulations, but they are OUR
stupid regulations."

"Yessir," Wes said, with grin still intact.

"Now that that crucial paperwork has been dealt with, I believe I'll catch the
rest of the show -- unless you want to change your mind, Wes?  It's a shame for
you to miss it all."

"Yes, sir, I mean, no, sir, I haven't changed my mind," Wesley paused to collect
his thoughts.  "I am content to continue the watch, sir," he stated formally.

Riker smiled understandingly.  "You have the con, Mr. Crusher." After a final
glance around the bridge he strode to the turbolift and left.

Wesley turned slowly and surveyed his domain.  All the seats were empty.  The
main screen showed an undistinguished starfield as motionless as a painting.  All
the station screens showed near blank, "situation nominal", read-outs except for
the secondary life-support one which had been dismounted.  The most junior of
Chief Engineer LaForge's chiefs was sitting on the deck with the screen in his
lap, tinkering with its settings in a bored manner.

_Nothing_ at all was going on -- which, of course, was the only reason he was in
charge.

Still.  He WAS in charge.  Wesley straightened his tunic in conscious imitation
of his captain.  If anything happened, he was ready to react in an instant.  He
walked over to the Center Seat. As the Officer of the Bridge, he had every right
to occupy it. For long seconds he stared at it, thrilling to the mere idea, a
chance to live out his most persistent fantasy.

And then his nerve failed him.  With a sigh, he turned and headed for his usual
forward station.

* * * * *

Two Andorian women occupied the stage when Riker re-entered the theater.  Their
act involved dozens of hoops that they tossed and spun and juggled and exchanged
in complex patterns.  An occasional hoop would elude their grasp and fly off the
stage but the nearest person would simply catch the errant ring and pass it down
until a crewmember in the first row could roll it back across the stage to one of
the performers.  The act finally ended with both women looking flustered but
happy as the sympathetic audience applauded loudly.

Riker looked around when the lights rose between acts.  There had been a good
turnout before, but now with both First and Second Watches free the place was
jammed.  He had planned to rejoin Deanna, but from the number of people standing
at the rear it was obvious that his previous seat would have been long since
filled. It had been less than a minute but the lights were already dimming again,
so with a small shrug he leaned against the back wall.

This time the curtain parted to reveal just a shallow stretch of stage before a
white inner curtain.  Nothing was to be seen except for a single thick cushion
close to the left wing. Nothing happened for over a minute and the audience
gradually became restless.

Finally a figure emerged from the wing.  It was clad in layers of colorful
floor-length robes and its face was hidden in the shadow cast by a pulled-forward
hood.  After walking to the center of the stage and bowing deeply to the
audience, it seated itself cross-legged upon the cushion.  Again nothing seemed
to be happening.  The silence stretched out until the audience was taut with
tension -- and then it spoke.

"Gentlebeings.  I am sure that all of you have heard of Scheherazade."  The voice
was female, mellow and low pitched, but carried clearly to the back of the
theater.  "She was a lowly serving girl at the court of a great Caliph who, in
order to be assured of his wife's fidelity, each night married a virgin and the
following morning would have her executed.  Hundreds of the most beautiful young
women in his kingdom had already met this fate when the Caliph's eye chanced to
fall upon Scheherazade.

"There was no way she could escape the deadly honor of a royal wedding, but
Scheherazade was not an empty-headed well-born girl but an orphan who had had to
make her way by her wits.  Knowing of the Caliph's fondness for stories she
conceived a clever plan. That night, after the Caliph had gathered the first
fruits of her loins, she begged to be allowed to tell him an amusing tale she had
heard.  This story she related so well, and at such length, that the cock crowed
before the end was told.

"The Caliph decided to make a small exception and allow her to live until the
next evening so that he could hear how the tale came out.  As Scheherazade had
planned, though, the end of that tale was simply the beginning of another and so
she was allowed to live on to finish it in turn.

"And so it continued, for one thousand and one nights.  By then she had born the
Caliph three fine sons and he had come to love her.  He demonstrated his trust in
her perfect fidelity by lifting her sentence of death and making her his sole
wife for the rest of his life.  And that is the end of Scheherazade's tale.

"At least as it is usually told.

The figure shifted slightly to face the audience more directly, but still all
that could be made out beneath the hood was a pool of darkness.  "What almost no
one knows is that Scheherazade was not just a clever woman, but a lusty one, not
to be contented with the perfunctory pleasures granted all too rarely by an
elderly husband more interested in hearing a tale than using his.

"As the years passed she took dozens of lovers, and sported with them eagerly. 
Eventually her youth faded though, and her looks with it, until the handsome
young men she craved became hard to attract and hold.

"To overcome this problem, Scheherazade once again turned to spinning her tales. 
Many a young man found himself returning to her rooms night after night to hear
the end of an intriguing story -- and Scheherazade felt herself amply repaid when
the young men would expend between her thighs the lust her racy tales aroused.

"This is one of those Lost Tales of the Elderly Scheherazade:

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Please don't send requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. If
you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the archive is
available on disk.  Send a blank email to adultarc@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org for
more information.  Authors wishing to have files added to or removed from the THC
Public archive should contact me at: tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Wesley adjusted the program again.

The swaying six inch tall figure froze as the computer gave the hologram
different facial features.  Now the body had eurasian features, and the wavy hair
had become straight as silk.  Once again it began to dance, and once again it was
stripped bare to dance nude upon his bedside table.  Soon it approached a seated
masked man and offered her breasts to his caresses--

Wesley snapped it off.

Funny.  When he'd overheard those crewmen in Ten Forward discussing the talent
show and learned what he'd missed by being on duty the mere idea had aroused him
so much he had run right back to his quarters to beat off.  And when he'd thought
to check the computer files, on the off chance that there might have been a
recording made-- why, he'd had a hard-on watching just the moire pattern as he
downloaded the file.  And now it bored him.  The fact that he was lying there
nude was pretty good evidence that he wasn't after intellectual stimulation --
but his cock had barely stirred as the Butterfly started her long ago memorized
movements.

Weeks ago, when he gotten over the first stunned pleasure, he had started
manipulating the image.  By cross-referencing the bodily measurements of the
butterfly with the medical records in the personnel files (supposed to be
access-limited to superior officers on a need-to-know basis, but when had details
like that ever stopped him?) he had quickly learned that the woman dancing for
his solitary pleasures was Deanna Troi.  This he found off-putting rather than
erotic.  Sure, she was beautiful, and that she would do something like that was
an unexpected twist, but because of her empathic snooping he'd trained himself
out of any erotic attraction to her soon after he was allowed on the bridge.  How
could you lust after someone who reacts with a superior, knowing, *forgiving*
smile??

So he had the computer manipulate the image, giving it in turn the face of every
girl in his classes, then every cute woman he'd ever passed in the hall.  He'd
enlarged the figure and shifted its point of view, and beaten off dozens of times
as one of those phantoms stroked her cunt above his face-- but that had paled,
too.

Lately he'd started altering the man's appearance, too.  That it was Worf hadn't
been a surprise:  the swarthy skin and massive size had cut the list of possible
suspects drastically.  A little editing, though, and the ghostly woman sucked his
balls instead of Worf's. That kick, too, had quickly faded.  He could do what he
like with the images, but they still remained insubstantial, untouchable.  (Damn
his youth, anyway!  What he could do with the holodeck if he hadn't known all his
programs could be reviewed by his teachers and any superior officer who cared to
run an eye over them!)

Wesley sighed, and accessed the computer again.  He had the mask put back on the
dancer and told the computer to assign the figures appearances generated at
random.  A split-second later, the show began again.  This time the woman had
shorter, red hair, and the man was much smaller and fairer skinned.  Wesley
leaned back against his pillows and started to stroke his soft cock determinedly.
 He *would* get it off, no matter how boring-- but was it?  He found himself
watching the show intently.  Something about it was familiar, in a strangely
back-of-the-mind way . . . As if he'd seen it before . . . .

*  *  *

Beverly Crusher rubbed the sponge over her breasts.  It had been a long hard day.
 And not the satisfying, use all of her ability, type of hardness, either, but
the mind numbing boredom of inventory and paperwork and more mountains of
tedious, useless paperwork.  (The incongruity of the word paperwork failed to
amuse her even slightly. The paper may have been long gone, but the work
remained, and amassing heaps of statistics was no more stimulating for being done
on a screen instead.)

With a sigh she picked up the glass balanced on the tub rim, drained it to the
tinkling ice cubes, then reached for the flask stashed handy beside the tub for
another refill.  What a waste of time, she thought.  And, what's worse, I have
nothing better to fill the evening ahead.  Here I lie in a tub full of Jungle
Gardenia scented foam, making myself beautiful, and for what?  How long had it
been since she'd had something exciting to look forward to?

Beverly rubbed the sponge around one breast.  Or should that be, someONE?  A new
man, someone to get to know, to reveal myself to.  She pressed harder with the
sponge as she contemplated this attractive stranger.  Her nipples stood up
perkily as she brushed the sponge across them.  Or maybe not get to know.  Maybe
a brief, passionate encounter, two unknowns pleasuring and parting--

Her thoughts broke off as she realized what she was doing.  She was a mature
woman, not a horny young boy to masturbate in the bathroom.  And thinking of
young boys, should she be getting worried about Wesley?  He seemed to be spending
an inordinate amount of time alone in his room with the door firmly shut.  Was
something wrong with him?  He works himself too hard.  Why, any puzzling new
problem can become a near obsession with him.

Beverly shook herself from her reverie.  She drained the water, gave herself a
brisk but brief rub down with a turkish towel, and wrapped a silk kimono about
her rosy from the bath body.

She knocked on Wesley's bedroom.  There was no response.  She knocked again and
called, "Wesley?  Are you all right?"  When he still didn't answer she keyed the
door and walked in.  Wesley was lying nude on his bed, staring intently at a
holographic display.  "Wes?" she repeated.

Wes started, and quickly flipped the sheet over him.  "Oh, hi, I didn't hear
you."

"What are you watching," she asked, as she crossed toward him.

"Nothing," he stammered, and instantly snapped it off. "I was just . .. " his
voice trailed off and he stared at his mother.

"That's it!" he breathed.  "I woke up crying, because dad was dead, and I came
downstairs, and you and Captain Picard were--"  He broke off and stared at her. 
"You were lying there naked and he was on top of you."

Beverly stared at him in shock.  She remembered that night, would remember it to
her death, but hadn't known he'd witnessed it.

"How could you, Mom?  You just found out that dad was dead and there you were
letting him fuck you-"

"Oh, Wes!  You don't understand!"  Beverly paused for a long moment, then sat
down beside him on the bed.  "I loved your father very deeply.  I felt very alone
and lost, I needed someone to comfort me.

"Jack wouldn't have minded.  He wasn't possessive, he was always willing to
share."

"Share!" Wes exclaimed.  "We aren't talking about a candy bar!"

"I know, Wes.  We're talking about love.  And sex.  And I knew Jack wouldn't mind
my taking comfort and pleasure with Jean-Luc," she drew a deep breath and
continued, "because he'd shared me with him before."

Wes stared at her.  "You mean you'd had an affair with Captain Picard?  You
cheated on dad with-"

"No, Wes, not an affair.  It was what I said, sharing, not cheating.  Jack and
Jean-Luc and I became very close on our first voyage together, we worked together
so very well as a team.

"And then the mission was over.  Jack and Jean-Luc would be going out on the next
voyage but I was going to Nyreal 5 for specialized training.  Our last night
aboard we had a farewell dinner together, just the three of us in Jean-Luc's
quarters.

"It was a wonderful evening."  Beverly's voice had become softer, a reminescent
smile on her face as she gazed blankly at a bulkhead, seeming to watch those long
ago events unfold.  "We sat around the table for hours, sipping Saurian brandy
and reliving the whole mission, with each 'Do you remember' reminding someone
else of another story.

"Finally I started to cry a little.  It was so sad -- we had been so close, and I
would be leaving and wouldn't see either of them for two whole years.  Jack
pulled me into his lap and kissed me, trying to cheer me up.  And he called for
Jean-Luc to kiss my tears dry, too.

"It felt so right, being held in Jack's arms, with his hand in my hair, holding
my head still while Jean-Luc kissed me, little butterfly kisses all over my
cheeks, until he reached my mouth where he lingered and lingered."

"When Jean-Luc finally lifted his mouth I looked at Jack -- and he was smiling. 
He kissed me, too, then he helped me to my feet and gave me a litte push towards
Jean-Luc and said, 'it's your turn to hold her' and so that's what Jean-Luc did.

"That kiss seemed to go on forever, as our tongues probed and stroked each other.
 Jean-Luc was crushing me to him, grinding his hips against mine.  The feel of
his hard cock against my stomach was the most real thing in the universe --
except for Jack's hand stroking over my hair and rubbing my ass.

"That became the pattern of the evening: Jack and Jean-Luc shared me, turn and
turn about."  Beverly's eyes had brightened as she told her story to the
bulkhead.  Wes, a forgotten but avid listener, was hanging on her words.

"It was wonderful.  The two of them undressed me -- and four hands stroked my
breasts and belly.  And then we were all naked, and stretched out on Jean-Luc's
bed.  I held a stiff cock in each hand as they suckled me at the same time.  I
had never felt anything so wonderful!

"Jack lay back against the headboard, and pulled me over to lie face up between
his spread legs.  He hooked my legs up over his bent knees, leaving me spread
wide open before Jean-Luc.

"Jean-Luc stroked his hands along my inner thighs, then bent to my vulva.  I felt
glorious, cradled warm and secure in my husband's embrace with his hands playing
with my breasts while our lovely friend licked and kissed and sucked on my cunt
-- I started to come almost at once.  I felt like I had to move but I couldn't, I
was pressed so firmly between them and my orgasm seemed to go on forever!

"Finally it ended, and Jean-Luc moved to kneel between my, no OUR legs. His cock
was so stiff it was almost purple and it was already weeping fluid but he paused
anyway, as if he wasn't sure Jack would let him fuck me, but Jack reached out and
grasped his cock.  All three of us stared down to watch the marvelous sight of
Jack's hand guiding Jean-Luc's cock into me.  And then Jean-Luc was thrusting
into me wildly, with no control, forcing my body back hard against Jack, rubbing
my back against Jack's cock.  Within minutes he stiffened and shot into me, then
collapsed to lie in both our embraces.

"Jack, though, hadn't come, so in a few seconds he stirred, and we shifted
positions, so that Jean-Luc held me while Jack in turn ground his cock into my
vagina.

"We spent the whole night together, cuddling and kissing while they shared me in
perfect accord and friendship.  Each of them fucked me repeatedly, the thrusting
of one man's cock forcing the other's semen deep within me as he built to his
next climax -- and I loved every second of it.  I'd come and come, and then when
I was so satiated I couldn't come anymore I lay there drifting blissfully as one
or the other worked within me, feeling so cherished and loved I never wanted to
have to leave their embrace.

"Six weeks later, at Nyreal 6, I realized that I was pregnant.  My yearly
contraceptive shot must have worn off a little prematurely. The genetic scan
showed that Jack was my baby's father, but I like to believe that I got my child
the night the three of us shared."

Beverly's voice had gotten husky as she said the last few sentences, and her eyes
filled with tears.  She jumped as Wes put his arm around her shoulders and said,
"Don't cry, mom."

"Oh, Wes!" her face was still flushed, but she was no longer lost in the past. 
"I shouldn't have said, I got carried away and forgot who-"

"It's okay," said Wes, as he clumsily patted her shoulder. Beverly looked down
and saw that the sheet was tented over a jutting cock.  Wes followed her gaze and
blushed, and started to turn away guiltily with a mumbled, "Sorry."

Beverly touched his shoulder to turn him towards her again. "It's all right, Wes.
 It's perfectly normal to be, er, stirred by, ah, erotic, ah," her voice trailed
off uncertainly.  Then she gathered him into her arms, intending a reassuring
hug.  Wes clutched her, and burrowed his face into her -- but her kimono had
started to slip and he found his cheek pressed against bare warm flesh. 
Instinctively he rubbed his face over the silken skin, his senses swimming in the
heady scent of gardenia.

"Wes," she started to remonstrate, then his mouth touched her nipple, and opened
to suck it in with an infant's greedy avidity. "Wes," she started again, then her
voice tailed off as her other breast was seized.  Her body had become fullly
aroused as she relived that past night, and this stimulation was achingly
delightful. She looked down dazzedly.  She knew she had to stop this, but having
that mouth tugging on her right nipple stirred long remembered feelings, both
maternal and erotic mingled.  This was the same little boy-- but then she looked
at the hand kneading her left breast.  It was large, and long fingered: the hand
of a man.  The hand moved to brush that side of her kimono further aside, and she
allowed the weight of his body to press her down upon the bed.

For long minutes the only sound was her increasingly ragged breathing as Wes
sucked hard on her breast.  He lifted his head to stare at her body as he pulled
her kimono completely open.  The interuption gave Beverly a few seconds to come
to her senses, but her clutch for her robe died away as Wes's mouth fastened over
a nipple again, and the hard, fast tugs resumed.  Beverly closed her eyes and
gave herself over to the tingling sensations.  When that strong supple hand
slipped down past her waist, over the smooth belly to her nest of titian curls
her thighs relaxed and parted seemingly without volition. The sheet had long
since fallen away so the bare flesh of her thighs was soon pressing against
equally naked skin as the full length of her son's lanky young body forced itself
between them.  Once again she said "Wes," but this time her voice was nothing but
a sigh of pleasure.

Wes released her nipple, and crawled up her body to thrust his hard cock blindly
against her crotch.  Beverly started at the new contact, and began to shake her
head and tried to draw her thighs together but Wes was too lost in his own
arousal to notice.  His continuing thrusts were clumsy but blundered at last upon
the right spot.  Beverly's vagina was slick and wet from both the bath and her
arousal.  With a groan Wes sheathed himself fully in her body.  The novel but
exquisite sensation of velvet wet skin clasping his cock drove him to an
immediate partial withdrawal so he could repeat the thrust, again and again and
again.

At last Beverly was fully aware of the situation, as her muzzily vague arousal
focused down to the sensation of her son's cock filling her vagina.  It was
shocking, appalling, forbidden-- but bodies respond greedily, blindly to erotic
stimulation.  Her mind tried to deny her participation in the shattering of one
of mankind's oldest taboos, but her hips were rocking avidly in time with
Wesley's increasingly wild plunges.  Wes's chest and shoulders hadn't yet filled
out fully, but his cock was full grown, and massive as his father's had been, and
as he drove it in and out of her it tugged and pulled her lips, providing the
final spark to the conflagration.  Even though her mind said it was taboo, or
perhaps because it was, Beverly climaxed, embracing Wes tightly as her vagina
spasmed and clutched his cock repeatedly.

Wes was thrusting desparately when her spasms drove him over the brink.  One last
thrust brought him as deep in her body as he could force himself.  He gasped "Oh,
mother," over and over as he spurted his seed within her.

Beverly lay there stunned for long seconds with Wes's sweaty body pressing down
on her.  Her mind was repeating "This is awful" even as the last pulsations of
her prolonged orgasm fluttered against her son's softening cock.  "That was
wonderful," Wesley murmurred, and deep within her a treacherous part of her mind
agreed.

*  *  *

Minutes later, Beverly confronted herself in the bathroom mirror. How could she
have let it happen?  It was all her fault!  She had been aroused and hungry and
looking for satisfaction, but would she just pleasure herself in the bath?  Oh,
no -- that was shallow, mildly shocking, that was beneath her!  But exciting
Wesley by telling him every graphic detail of his conception, and fucking her son
-- THAT she was capable of!

Oh, god.  He had drifted deep asleep within seconds of his orgasm, and had barely
stirred as she shifted his body off her.  He was laying there, now, sleeping the
sleep of the innocent -- with his cock still wet from his mother's vagina.  How
was she to face him in the morning?  How to make him understand that it shouldn't
have happened, would NEVER happen again, but that it wasn't his fault?  How to
make sure he wasn't crippled by the guilt that already was sweeping her?

As Beverly paced in the bathroom she started as she felt Wes's semen start to
trickle down her leg.  The immediacy of the sensation pulled her mind from its
guilty obsession, and she straddled the bidet to clean up.  She adjusted the
water and started to soap her crotch. She caught sight of herself in the mirrored
wall:  a slender, naked, creamy skinned woman with auburn hair waving on her
shoulders and both hands rubbing between her legs.  Her breasts were nearly as
high as when she'd been a teenager but that innocent young virgin had never had
such deep-red nipples, swollen and tender and tingly from a man's sucking.  And
her fingers had never stroked a vagina slick and slippery with a man's sperm--
With a shudder Beverly realized her washing had turned to caressing as her body
reveled in the afterglow of (admit it, dammit) the strongest orgasm she'd had in
years.  It hadn't been 'a' man's sucking, it wasn't 'a' man's sperm:  it was
Wesley's!  What kind of a monster would wallow in sensuality over such a
perverted act??

With a strangled cry she turned the water all the way to cold, and scrubbed her
crotch as harshly and hurtfully as possible, to punish herself and banish the
last pleasurable tingles.

Tomorrow, she vowed, she would go see Deanna first thing.  How she could bring
herself to admit to the auful thing she had done she didn't know, but somehow she
would, and Deanna would see that Wesley didn't suffer psychological harm from his
mother's disgusting actions.


As it died down, the Butterfly dropped to her knees before the prince.  "Oh most
great and marvelous prince, Princess Mirania will be fortunate above all other
women!" She reached out slowly and touched his shins.  "Let this humble dancer
give you what pleasure she can," she begged.  She waved a hand toward the other
princes.  "They will all bear witness that your oath is not broken."

The pause before Prince Caspian nodded was longer this time, but his proudly
standing cock belied any true reluctance.

The Butterfly began to caress the Prince, sliding her hands over and around his
lower legs, stroking and kneading the flesh of his calves.  Slowly she proceeded
up the muscled columns of his legs to his knees, where she allowed her fingers to
linger and flutter on the soft skin behind them.  Caspian's hands were again
clenched into fists as he strove to keep still.

Still her hands trailed up, over the long swelling muscles of his thighs.  As her
hands rose she began to rub her cheeks against him, and kissed and gently bit at
the muscles which clenched and shifted as the Prince tried to remain regally
aloof.  Her movements became ever slower and more tantalizing as she approached
the top of his legs.  The prince's cock, always hard, had seemed to swell and
stiffen even more as she worked her way up, until now it almost pressed against
the hard muscles of his belly.

The Butterfly breathed, "My prince, what a man you are!"  Her fingers slid the
last inch and stroked the heavy balls within his sack.  He shuddered and swayed,
then planted his feet further apart, though whether to steady himself or allow
her freer access, who could swear?

Her hands continued to play with his balls, sliding the skin gently over them,
cupping them warmly in her palms, dancing her finger tips all over them with
butterfly light touches.  Then she moved her mouth closer to her toy and,
sticking her tongue out as far as she could, slowly drew the very tip of it along
the seam of his sack, from bottom to top and back again.  Prince Caspian gasped
but then crossed his arms resolutely across his chest.

The Butterfly opened her mouth and sucked one of his massive balls entirely into
her mouth.  Prince Caspian moaned.  She allowed it to pop out only to suck in the
other.  A drop of clear fluid could be seen gleaming on the head of his cock. 
She repeated her action several times, then attempted to draw the entire sack
into her mouth.  By now Prince Caspian's hips were working involuntarily,
thrusting his straining cock forward as if to fuck the very air.  With a helpless
groan he started to reach towards his cock, but the quick hands of one of the
other dancers prevented the touch.

"Lady, let us make him more comfortable," she said.  The Butterfly drew her head
slowly away from his body while still sucking as hard as she could on one of his
balls, so that it strained between them until it popped free, wrenching another
moan from the Prince and causing his knees to nearly buckle.

She rose from her knees and watched impatiently as her maids silently urged him
down to lie on the divan, and pulled his trousers free of his feet.  They
arranged him with limbs spread-eagled, eagerly stroking his arms and legs and
chest and belly as they did so.  The Prince cooperated silently.

The Butterfly spoke to her maids, "I charge you with preserving the Prince's
oath.  Each of you will hold one of his limbs, thus preventing both you and him
from accidentally touching his cock."

At once the maids shifted to kneel and hold a limb.  She stood there looking at
him for a long moment, as if to admire the sight or to allow the watchers that
pleasure.  The two main figures were a beautiful, matched sight indeed: spread
upon the divan was the massive body of a strong, perfectly formed male with his
cock rampant as if demanding worship.  Before him posed the perfect curves of a
voluptuous woman.  Each was masked, he with his leather half-hood, she with her
golden butterfly wings.  Each was nude, with every inch proudly displayed.  His
arousal was clear. Hers became so when her fingers slipped to, then within, her
hairless crack.  For almost a minute she openly caressed herself while Prince
Caspian, lifting his head, watched.

"Forgive me, Lord," she entreated.  "I ache for the pleasure you have reserved
for your bride."  She walked to the head of the divan, then knelt atop it,
straddling her knees wide across his head. From the distance of less than a foot
he stared directly up into her slit as she stroked it.  He strained his head up
but the maids holding his shoulders to the divan prevented him from reaching her.
 She dragged her hand from her cunt and drew a shuddering breath.

"Forgive me, Lord," she repeated.  "You excite me so much I forget that I am to
pleasure you, not my unworthy self."

She got off the divan and walked to its foot.  She knelt between his spread legs
and began to stroke him again.  Her hands were bolder now, and slid swiftly all
along his legs and over his belly up to his chest then back, avoiding only the
tautly erect organ that silently pleaded for her attention.  All that could be
heard were hoarse moans as the Prince writhed beneath her hands, twisting and
turning, his swollen cock striving for some, any, release. She firmly placed her
palms flat on his belly, one on each side of his cock, surrounding its base but
not touching it. She began to rub her hands back and forth rapidly, causing his
cock to twist and jiggle wildly.  Not even the four maids could hold him still
under this stimulation and he thrust his hips up repeatedly, arching his body off
the divan from shoulders to heels.  Drops of clear fluid appeared at the eye of
his cock and were shaken free by his gyrations, leaving glistening trails as they
slid down his cock.  The Butterfly lifted her hands from his body and he groaned
more loudly then collapsed back onto the divan in frustration.

She lifted her head and spoke to all assembled. "I charge you all to watch and
witness that his oath remains unbroken."  Once again she bent over his body, this
time spreading just her left hand near the base of the prince's cock while the
right hand burrowed between his legs and out of sight.  The Prince jerked once,
then the Butterfly lowered her head and once more sucked his balls into her
mouth.  Prince Caspian was tossing his head from side to side, then threw it back
as far as possible and roared as his overstimulated body finally achieved
release.  Spurt after spurt of cream shot from his cock, falling in white dollops
onto his belly and chest.  Every ear, of cast and crew, was filled with his roar
and each eye, on both sides of the curtain, watched raptly as that jutting cock
spasmed forth its lava.  This time the applause had no obvious start as all the
onlookers clapped and shouted their approval with one mind. The waves of noise
rolled over the stage as the light began to dim and the white curtains slowly
drew together.  In the deepening gloom the audience could just barely make out
that the Butterfly had moved to the prince's side and was starting to lick his
body clean.

"And the next day the wedding of Prince Caspian and Princess Mirania was
celebrated with much feasting and joy, and the Prince took the Princess to her
wedding bed with his vow unbroken."

The audience was startled to hear the quiet voice of the narrator again, having
been so caught up when the story she'd been telling came to life that they'd
forgotten her existence.

"The Prince kept his promise to the Vizier and made him wealthy, and gave him the
Princess Tamsin as wife, to cement the bond.

"The Princess Mirania, though, cursed the Vizier for being a liar, since she grew
aged and wrinkled at the same rate all women do."

The woman rose to her feet.

"Or as most women do.  For, though none know for certain what goes on in another
man's harem, it was rumored that the Princess Tamsin remained radiantly young and
beautiful, and greatly pleased the Vizier through her love of dancing."

The narrator paused, then added, "But that's a story for another day."  Then she
made obeisance, and walked off into the wings.

There was a minute of silence, then the applause started again, though a
perceptive person might notice the audience tended to avoid looking at each
other.  Riker was clapping as loudly as the rest when he noticed the captain
making his way up an aisle.  As Riker hurried after him the curtain rose again,
to reveal a trio of singers.  He caught up before the turbolift left.

"Ah, Number One, uh."  Picard cleared his throat and started again.  "A
surprising variety of acts in this show of yours."

"Yessir," grinned Riker.

"Do you think that last, er, tale was entirely appropriate?"

Riker laughed.  "They didn't clear it with me, sir.  Anyone who wanted to perform
checked in with the computer and it assigned them a slot."

"Hrmmph."  The doors whooshed open and they walked out onto the bridge.

"It seemed to go over well with the audience," pointed out Riker.

"Yes, well, it's done now."  Picard paused, then added "Have Counselor Troi feel
out the crew, see if there are any, er, undesireable reactions."

"Yes, sir."

* * * * *

The next day, Troi reported to Picard in his ready room.  "You wanted to see me,
Captain."

"Ah, yes.  Did Riker tell you . . ."

"Yes, sir.  You wanted to know how the audience felt about Scheherazade's tale."
She smiled, "The short answer is, they loved it.  I think even non-empaths could
tell that."

"Well, yes," admitted Picard.  "But after the immediate, ah, pruriant
appreciation wore off, how do they feel about having, ah, ..."

"Watched a sex-show?" Troi filled in helpfully.  "The crew has mixed feelings
today, but none of it is negative, sir.  Those who weren't there are envious, and
those who were are mainly curious. According to the computer, that slot was
assigned to "Ensign Secret and the Unknown Players" -- and of course there isn't
anyone by that name aboard.  There are debates going on all over the ship, over
which of the characters were real and which holodeck constructs."

"Which were constructs--," Picard stared at her.  "I assumed they all were,
except the narrator!  Surely no crewmember would--"

"That's one main school of thought," Troi agreed.  "The other holds that the two
lead characters MUST have been real people, otherwise why would they have been
masked?  The first school counters, misdirection, so we WOULD wonder." Troi
smiled.  "Even those who agree on WHICH characters are real can't agree on who
played them.  The debates are doing more to take the crews' minds off their
missed shore leave than anything else ever could."

Picard stared at her for a few moments, then said, "So it is your professional
opinion as Ship's Counselor that the show was a successful effort in raising
ship's morale."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, the matter is closed."  As Troi turned to leave, Picard added,
"Surely you know.  I mean, an empath can tell the difference between people and
constructs?"

"Of course, sir.  But I would never tell."

Picard looked at her curiously.

"If the truth were known, the interest raised by the uncertainty would be gone."
She hesitated, "Unless you are ordering me to tell you?"

"No, no." Picard waved her away.  "That will be all, Counselor."

"Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

A nude man lay sprawled across a rumpled bed, watching as a nude woman twisted
before the three-way mirror in her cabin admiring her body.  "Was it all you
expected?"

She turned to him with a radiant smile.  "Yes.  Oh, yes!  All those eyes upon me,
I mean us, sharing, enjoying our bodies, our pleasures!"  She cupped her hands
under her breasts and started to rub her thumbs across her nipples.  "The hardest
thing was to stop stroking myself on stage, I wanted them to see me come, to have
an orgasm with all their eyes burning into me ... "

"They why --"

"But I wanted the other even more!  I've told you, as far back as I can remember,
I've always fantasized about sucking a man off in front of an audience!" She
smiled.  "And you let me make my fantasy come true."

"My pleasure," said the man with heavy irony.

"No, don't belittle your cooperation!  I know exhibitionism isn't your turn-on,
but you performed with me anyway.  Do you know how rare that is?  Most men would
never consider it."  She slid one hand down to her hairless crotch and began to
stroke it as she continued, "I started to tell my fantasy to Will once and he was
so threatened I had to turn it into a joke and change the subject.  That show
will always be my most thrilling memory. When I'm two hundred years old, and
confined to bed, and no one is interested in touching me, I'll roll the details
over in my mind as I roll my clit between my fingers."  She turned back to the
mirror and watched her fingers passing over her crotch.  "I can't get over how
different it feels.  I'll have to stay very healthy until my hair grows back."

The man grunted.  "Would it be so awful if they knew?"

"Oh, not really, though it would weaken my image as the cool, controlled
counselor if they knew that they'd watched me perform, no, LOVE performing
fellatio in front of them."  She turned to smile at him again.  "Even though THEY
loved watching it.  Did you know that Captain Picard asked me how the crew
reacted?  I was tempted to tell him, 'They were so turned on some of them came as
they watched.'

"Late at night, after the show, I walked through the ship and I could feel the
waves of lust.  I'd swear half the men on this ship were having their balls
sucked and thinking of the 'Butterfly'!"

"Not just thinking," the man said as he rolled onto his side.

"What do you mean?"

"Riker came to me a few hours before the show and told me to record the whole
thing so nobody would have to miss any of it."

Deanna stared at him.

"Then today he suggested that I 'edit' the record.  His suggestion came a little
late, though.  According to the computer, forty three crew had downloaded copies
of our act to their private files.

"All over the ship people are watching little 3-D copies of you sucking little
3-D copies of me."

Deanna flushed and rubbed her crotch harder. "Oh! oh!"  She was leaning back
against the mirror with her legs bent and widely spread as she rubbed
frantically.  "It's too much, I can't stand it!"

The man watched her with an impassive face, though his cock was standing stiffly.
 "You really love it, don't you?  The thought of people watching you, over and
over, doing enlargements, bringing your image up to full-size, close enough to
touch."

Deanna moaned and slid down along the mirror to sit with her ass on her heels and
her knees spread as wide as possible.  "Who? Which of them?"  She had three
fingers of one hand working in her vagina while the other hand continued to rub
her clit.

The man rose and tangled his fingers in her hair, forcing her face up to look at
him.  "I set up over a dozen lenses at all angles, to allow the best possible
recording.  Do you realize that right at this instant you may be straddling the
faces of twenty men, masturbating inches from their noses as they whack
themselves off?" he demanded harshly.

Deanna could only moan.

He put his face close to hers and said, "Who?  Riker has a copy. So does LaForge.
 So does Wesley."  He whispered in her ear, "And so does the captain."

With a cry like a strangled cat Deanna climaxed over and over, to finally
collapse, spent, on the floor.

"Get up," he ordered, and watched without helping as she scrambled up.  "Kneel on
the bed.  With your legs apart."

Deanna quickly obeyed.  He put his hand on her back and pushed her down til her
chest touched the bed while holding her ass up. Roughly he rubbed his palm over
her cunt then thrust his fingers up her vagina.  Deanna gasped, "Gently, plea--"

He slapped the other hand across her ass with the sound of a whip crack.  "Be
still, bitch!" He pulled the fingers from her vagina and began to rub them
against her asshole, working first one, then two, then three deep into her anus.

Deanna was clenching her muscles, trying to prevent his entry, "Please, you need
more lubrication!"

The man chuckled, "You've already made more than enough."  He rubbed his cock
between the gaping lips of her slit until his cock glistened with her juices,
then drew back to lodge the head against her anus.  She gasped as he forced the
knob within her. "Do you love it, bitch?  You know you do.  Just imagine that
half the ship is watching!"  With a growl he lunged forward, sheathing himself
until his balls slapped against her cunt, then froze. Deanna sobbed out, but
calmed as he stayed still.  "Remember your promise."

Her voice was muffled from being pressed against the mattress, but it was clear
enough. "Yes, I remember.  I promise.  I will let you act out your fantasy on me
when you find another Klingon."

Worf slapped her ass again.  "Not fantasy, bitch.  The joining rite!"  He drew
partway from her ass then thrust in again, "When two Klingon warriors share a
woman." He stroked in her steadily for several minutes, with gradually increasing
rhythm. "When each thrusts within her body at the same time," he was slamming in
and out of her ass now, his voice hoarse, "and feels the other's cock pushing
back at him!"  Then he could no longer form words and simply shouted as he forced
his cock as deeply as possible into her asshole, and shouted and shouted as he
came within her.

For several minutes neither moved or said anything, then Worf slowly drew his
softening cock from her ass.  "Are you all right?"

Deanna stood up and turned to face him.  "Yes," she assured him. "Betazoid women
are not as fragile as humans."  She took his hand to lead him to the bathroom.

For a second he held back.  "You will enjoy the rite, I know, even though the
woman is not considered a person but just a vessel to demonstrate the new
warrior's acceptance into the band."  He stroked her cheek gently with his free
hand. "It is traditional for all the other members of the band to witness the
ceremony." He looked down into her widening eyes and smiled. "Then each of the
others probes the woman's ass and cunt to check for himself that the warriors
indeed shed their sperm together." She was flushing rosily.  "Yes, Deanna, every
male on the ship, as many as fifty on a Bird of Prey, rubbing their fingers up
you fore and aft."  She shivered. "Something new for you to dream about," he
murmured, then started kissing her deeply.

Copyright ©1998 by SIC