Summary:  Q's obsession with Picard's penis threatens his
          relationship with Vash.

Eja-Q-lation, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)

     Precisely six and one-eighth inches long when erect.
     Circumcised.
     A slight sway to the left.
     Beautifully pink and brown.
     Protruding, half tumescent, from the gray-white pubic hair, a
slight bobbing motion moving the large head.
     And the musky, delicious odor. 

     Q's form shimmered, the blanket falling through him onto the
bed.
     His lover stirred.  "What is it, Q?"
     Q pulled his disintegrating form back together.  "Nothing. 
Just a bad dream."
     "The Q have dreams?  I didn't know that."
     Q did not respond, and his lover took the extra blanket from
the foot of the bed and draped it over him.
     She snuggled close to him, and said in a drowsy voice, "Go
back to sleep.  It'll be all right in the morning."
     Q did not bring up the fact that he needed no sleep.  Vash was
already unconscious, her breath warming his naked chest.
     And he still could not stop imagining Picard's penis,
imagining staring at it, touching it, worshipping it with the
technique he had learned from Vash, his mouth surrounding it, his
tongue on that blessed flesh.

     In the morning, the bed disappeared, leaving Q and Vash
standing in the midst of the lush rainforest which they had been
exploring for the past few days.
     Huge trees stretched their limbs to the gradually purpling
sky.  Like the captain's penis, the trees were untouched by the
hands of men--
     Q shifted uneasily.  
     By rummaging through Picard's mind, he knew that the penis had
been exposed to others' touch -- women and aliens all -- and the
thought made him uncomfortable.  Long, manicured fingers --
touching what should be *his*! -- with their red polished nails,
the hand stroking that smooth shaft, the pre-ejaculate hanging on
the tip of that rougher head -- and the tongue flicking out of
those red lipsticked lips licking and tasting that precious drop.
     "No!" Q shouted.
     Vash turned around, tying the ribbons of her broad-brimmed
straw hat.  "No to what?  Do you have a problem with my hat?"
     She said it in that half-challenging manner that had so
intrigued him originally.
     Her lips were red, and her fingernails gleamed red -- the
cosmetics courtesy of the minor Q powers he had given her to
prevent Vash from bothering him over small details.  *She* had had
sex with Picard.  She had touched The Penis.
     "Ah--" Q said intelligently, then took himself out of the time
flow so that he could think of an adequate response.
     Just what had that ruby-lipped she-devil said anyway?
     Did he have a problem with her hat.
     That was it.  And how ridiculous a question.  Of course he
didn't have a problem with her hat.  Who cared about hats anyway?
     Well, he did, sometimes.
     But that wasn't the point.
     The point was currently tucked into a pair of Starfleet
uniform trousers, nestled warmly against a muscular thigh.
     Q quivered, like a solar flare spitting out from a star, at
the feeling.
     Because he *was* feeling it.
     His omniscience allowed him the knowledge of whatever he so
desired, and right now, the thing he most desired was Picard's
penis.

     In this case, thinking was being, and Q found himself abruptly
hurled from the primordial jungles of an unnamed planet that would
later become famous for its rock collections of all things -- and
into that snug space inside Captain Jean-Luc Picard's pants.
     At first it was a trifle uncomfortable.  He hadn't *quite*
willed the transition.  Oh, all right, he wanted to be here, but it
was just a teeny trifle of a shock to suddenly *be* the object of
his desire.  It was everything he'd been longing for.
     So naturally the first thing he did was to stretch himself
luxuriantly out in that close space -- in the process, giving
Picard a raging erection.
     Q wondered if the captain would reach down and adjust him. 
That would be too much -- a hand on his straining flesh.  Why, he
might explode right here.
     Q stretched a bit more.
     There was no response from Picard except for a slight shifting
in his seat.
     Damn.
     Where was Picard right now, anyway?
     Q sent a questing tendril of his powers out.
     Picard was seated at the desk in his ready room.  They were
alone.
     So why wouldn't the man *do*anything?  Q fumed.  He wanted to
be touched.  To be fondled.
     To have everything done to him that he had ever imagined doing
to Picard's penis.
     He knew that Picard masturbated.  He had rifled Picard's
memories of his sexual activities, first hesitantly, then eagerly,
and finally with frantic thoroughness, wanting to experience every
scrap of sexuality that still remained in Picard's aging mind.
     Q replayed those tantalizing memories now.
     Picard standing in a water shower at his family's home in
France.  Frantic early-morning urgency rushing him forward.  His
penis fully erect, the skin stinging as the hot drops of water hit
it.  And the hand, Picard's masterful, experienced hand stroking
that lust made flesh.
     That memory ricocheted away, and Q relived another of Picard's
stolen thoughts.
     Early morning.  Picard was dressed in light shorts and a robe. 
Seated at a table in his quarters aboard the Enterprise, an uneaten
breakfast for two on the table.  The cotton fabric rubbing against
his nakedness.  A hand reaching to free that penis, the other hand
restlessly pulling at his chest, while all the while aware that
Beverly could walk in at any moment and find him there...
     Q scowled, breaking off from the memory collage.  That wasn't
what he wanted.  He wanted to hear about Picard's penis, how Picard
had roughly -- or gently -- handled it.  How The Penis had
performed.
     Not about Picard's excitement about possibly being discovered
by a *woman*.
     Q fumed.  In his present shape, that meant pulling his
testicles tightly in, and swelling himself even further.
     Penises did *not* like being ignored; a quality they shared
with the Q.
     *Why* wasn't Picard touching him?  Couldn't the man feel how
good that hand would be wrapped around Q's aching shaft?
     Wait.
     Ooh, yes.
     Groping fingers readjusted the fabric around him, giving him
more room.
     Damn.
     He wasn't *really* hard yet.  He'd just thought he was because
of the limited space.
     Well he'd show Picard.  He'd *get* harder.
     Two minutes later, the fingers returned, and Q dribbled in
triumph.
     Yes!  This was it!
     Perfection.
     The attainment of all his fantasies.
     Air moved across his silken skin as Picard undid the
fastenings of his trousers and reached inside to pull his penis --
Q! -- out where those practiced, familiar fingers could fondle the
hot skin.
     Q nearly burst on the spot when his sensitive head was
brutally pinched.
     Ouch!  That hurt!
     Q was tempted by the thought of Picard's body writhing and
squirming while Q, in the form of a raptor, re-enacted the
Prometheus myth.  Only it wouldn't be Picard's *liver* that he was
tearing out.
     It would be The Penis, and Q would take it away in his claws,
to feast upon it at his leisure.
     And since the Prometheus myth included the regeneration of the
stolen body part, Q would be able to do it over and over again.
     Q considered the idea seriously.
He could do it.  It wouldn't even cause any... *lasting* harm to
Picard, unless you counted possible psychic damage.  He could do
it--
     He could come all over Picard's hand.
     Q's attention snapped back into the confined space he was
currently occupying in Picard's trousers.
     *Ooh, yes, baby, just like that.*
     Picard was gently rubbing the underside of his penis, a slow
stroking caress with the tip of his index finger along that velvety
smooth, slightly damp skin.
     *Oooooh, yes... more, more more more...*
     The index finger was joined by the rest of the hand, lightly
fondling Q, hand wrapping around his shaft, then down to his
testicles, groping tentatively at first, but then more firmly.
     Q felt a rush of blood, of power as his testicles were
fondled.  *So that's what they're for!* he thought before
descending into self-indulgent pleasure as Picard's hand slid
upward again, finding its particular resting point on his penis.
     Picard's hand settled into place, and then began moving
authoritatively.
     *Oh Q, why didn't I try this ages ago?* was Q's thought.  He
was throbbing now, both from the raw, exciting notion that this was
finally happening, that Picard's hand was there -- and that *he*
was The Penis.  He got to experience this, to be jerked off by
Picard's own hand.
     His veins pulsated, their rhythm matched by Picard's own. 
Heat rose inside his core, heat that demanded an outlet.
     His skin was stretching even more as he became longer.  The
skin was thinner now, and exquisitely sensitive,  Picard's hands
seemed rougher and more thrilling somehow.
     His passion mounted.  He had to release it, had to do
*some*thing with the elemental life force raging within him.
     Shuddering trembling waves of some indefinable feeling went
through him.  Was that...?
     Picard's hand suddenly moved faster and Q felt a sense of
purposefulness in his movements that hadn't been there before.  It
was as if all of Picard's earlier movements were mere preparation,
a countdown to this, the real thing.
     The penis seemed to suddenly fill with fluid and Q was
impressed with its size, at how large he'd gotten.
     And then he didn't care anymore.
     Picard's hand was moving so fast and Q felt the tension in him
building to what could only be described as a climax.
     Ejaculate spurted out of Q's tip.  Picard's hand moved with
the spurts, slowing down, following them.
     Q was being skillfully pumped.  Picard's hand knew the feeling
of his penis well.
     Then the hand moved up, the tip being rolled between a thumb
and forefinger.  Q felt the hole at the tip of his head open wider,
and a delicious feeling of satisfaction rolled through him as the
final drops of semen were milked from the penis.
     Picard's hand dropped then, and Q nestled there between his
thighs, happy and flaccid.

     It was several hours later before he remembered Vash, stuck in
a time pocket back in the tropical jungle they had been exploring.
     Q felt more genial about joining her now.  After all, he could
always come back to Picard.  Could always savor him later, like one
might savor a particularly fine delicacy.
     And he would.  Oh, he would.
     
     "It's a lovely hat," Q said to Vash.  "It's too bad really
that it doesn't suit your coloring."
     "And what would you know about fashion?"
     "Everything, my dear," Q said with a lazy smile, not talking
about hats now.  "I've been taken in hand by an expert."

-the end-