Mother, May I?

This takes place in the same universe as "Mommy's Bad Little Girl," but
is an alternate prequel to the one written in "When Baby Met Mommy."

Warnings and Disclaimer: Sex in other than missionary positions, use of toys, arbitrary pronouns (thanks, AN!), possible Jack-bashing and bad taste in clothing all appear in this story, as do some of Paramount's property.
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Mother, May I?
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She couldn't remember, afterwards, exactly when the idea struck her, just as she couldn't recall exactly when the idea of sex with Jean-Luc slipped from the "yes, maybe someday" list to "things to do this week," but in retrospect, like that other matter, it was probably a slow build up, a gradual adding on of hints.

There had been that time he had squirmed away from a hypospray and she had chided, "don't be such a fidgety little boy," to which he had protested, "I am not a little boy." Her snickered, "Well, what are you, a little girl?" got no response. And when, some other time, he had done something outrageous and she casually said she ought to spank him, he didn't protest, saying only, "I don't think you would."

And then, months later, after that sex thing slipped from "things to do this week" to "things to do today," she thought she caught Jean-Luc pawing through her closet. At the time she dismissed it, thinking that she had erred, or perhaps flattering herself that he was so obsessed he had to be near her clothes when he couldn't be near her. And once, after sex had gone from "things to do today" to the urgent list, she could have sworn she saw him hold a dress of hers up against himself in the mirror. He moved too fast for her to be certain, and what he did after she caught him made her head spin too fast for recall.

But the next time she caught him, she couldn't ignore it. After all, he shouldn't have been in her quarters at all. She shouldn't have been there, either, but she had forgotten a PADD of research on her nightstand. Who would have ever guessed that she'd find Jean-Luc standing there, preening in front of her mirror, wearing that godawful frilly sundress she'd bought in a particularly nasty fit of
hormones? And who would have ever guessed how adorable he'd look in it?

Under normal, rational conditions, she knew how to control her mouth, but conditions were beyond any logical thoughts. "Looks better on you than it did on me," she said from the doorway.

Jean-Luc whirled around, startled, the dress twirling out around him. "Beverly! I..." To his relief he saw she wasn't angry. In fact, she seemed amused. And an amused Beverly Crusher was easy to deal with. "Yes. It does."

"Playing dress up in Momma's closet?' she teased, unsure where the words
and the steady tone were coming from. For god's sake, here was Jean-Luc Picard, hero of the known universe, standing in her bedroom, wearing more ribbons and frills than Lwaxana Troi.

His heart was pounding wildly, but the only way out of this was through.
If he pretended there was nothing strange here, she might be persuaded never to mention this again--or maybe he could persuade her to mention it again and again in the privacy of their beds... "I'm sorry. I've been a bad girl."

Beverly's eyebrow arched in surprise. She was always telling Jean-Luc to
loosen up, to stop being so glum and responsible, but she had no idea how far he'd take the idea. On the other hand, if he was finally listening to her, who was she to discourage him? Time to put a few of Deanna's techniques to work. "Yes, you have been. What do you think I ought to do about it?"

"Punish me?" It was stated as a question, but she knew him well enough to discern the command behind the words.

"This is your first offense," she said, considering her own inexperience as well as her through-the-looking-glass sensation, "so maybe I'll go easy on you." She
almost smiled at his disappointed frown. Well, two can play games, sweetheart. "I'll let you choose your punishment--this one time."

It was adorable to watch Jean-Luc try to hide his smile, try not to sashay his hips as he moved closer to her.

****

She had never spanked Wesley. It didn't seem the proper way to bring up
a child, not the kind of child she wanted to raise, free of fear, open and generous. So Beverly Crusher had never learned the power that could come with administering a good spanking to a squirming behind. But Jean-Luc wasn't her
son, and was no child, no matter how he whimpered as she hit him. No
child of hers would get aroused by being hit (at least she hoped not--Wesley's sex life was not something she chose to speculate about), and she would never have been so sorely tempted to relieve that arousal for a child of her own.

This was Madame Yvette's child, but still, she was on duty; they both were. It was only happenstance that they had both been in her cabin in the middle of the day, and so she did not give in to temptation.

The picture of Jean-Luc, lying face down on her bed, frilly dress pushed up over his back and sore, red posterior sticking up, his briefs bunched down around his knees, made it very difficult for the doctor to concentrate on her work the rest of that day. She was not accustomed to being distracted and wasn't sure she liked the sensation--Jean-Luc would have to pay for that, naughty child that he was...

****

For a long while, things did not progress. Oh, of course Beverly spanked Jean-Luc every once in a while, when he particularly deserved punishment, and sometimes, in the heat of passion, he called her "maman," and there were a few times Beverly allowed him to play dress up in her closet (and many more, she suspected, when she was in sickbay), but anything more than that seemed, to Beverly, to require planning, and planning required thought. She didn't think she could handle the thought of Jean-Luc Picard as a naughty little girl. Her naughty little girl.

All that changed the next time she surprised him in front of her mirror.

Somehow he had managed to find the one dress in her wardrobe even frillier than that godawful sundress. And he was wearing it. Well, almost wearing it--the skirt was flipped up around his waist, exposing his naked legs. She stepped a little closer, still unnoticed, and saw what he was doing, standing there, staring at himself in the mirror, wearing her most infantile dress.

She remembered the time she had caught Jack masturbating. How ashamed she had been, and how angry. It was as though he had been cheating on her. Wasn't she enough for him? Didn't they do anything he had ever mentioned wanting? Who the hell could he be thinking of when he touched himself? After all, he was married now--he wasn't supposed to have to satisfy himself, unless she wasn't able to. She was pregnant--was that the problem? She felt ashamed, ugly, disgusted. Beverly had left their quarters and slept at a friend's for a week, refusing Jack's calls. A week later she returned with no explanation to either of them and never mentioned the incident again.

All those feelings came rushing back at her, watching Jean-Luc watch himself masturbating. All the uncertainty, the anxiety which had plagued her younger self, plus some new inadequacies and doubts. How dare he humiliate her like this, dress in her clothing, stand in her bedroom, and pleasure himself? She was beyond angry, beyond furious. He would have to pay for this. And she would have to be ruthless. But how? A slow smile spread over her face when the answer occurred to her, and it wasn't a pretty, loving smile. It wasn't even vaguely the smile of a lover, or that of a mother. But it would have to do.

Silently, she moved to stand behind him, but he was so involved, she doubted he would have noticed had a herd of Klingons stomped up behind him. Leaning over his shoulder, she whispered in his ear, "Like that?"

He turned his head toward her, startled, but not moving his hands.

"Like the feel of a hard cock in your hands?" she insisted.

His eyes widened in fear, both at the look on her face and her choice of words. He knew when her body was rigid in righteous indignation, and knew she didn't ordinarily indulge in vulgarity. He had no idea how to calm her, except for playing along with her scheme. "Yes."

"Slut."

He lowered his eyes in shame, but she was having none of that. She placed a finger under his chin, almost gentle, forcing his eyes back to the mirror. "Look at yourself, whore."

For a moment he wondered what well of bitterness she was drawing from to make her sound so uncharacteristically harsh, but then he was caught, entranced by his own appearance. For the briefest of moments he saw himself as a small girl, dressed up in her Sunday best, but then reality intruded and he saw himself for what he was--a man on the verge of dotage, dressed in something his best friend (a woman not known for her exquisite taste in clothes) had rejected, masturbating in front of the woman he supposedly loved. He could feel the blush rising from the back of his neck.

"What a nasty little thing you are," she whispered in his ear. He closed his eyes against the shame of it all, but couldn't stop his erection from twitching. He hoped Beverly hadn't seen that, but of course she had--she had always been the one to witness his humiliations.

"You like that, do you?' she sneered. "I wonder how you'd like it if I invited all your little playmates--Will, Deanna, Data--to come and see you like this."

He opened his eyes, suddenly, widely, shocked. She wouldn't really do that, would she? Wouldn't she? "Please, I'll be good."

"You wouldn't know how to."

Oh, but that hurt. He had tried to be so good, do everything to please her, had always tried, and she was so cruel. And so correct. "Please, Mommy, teach me," he pleaded.

Mommy? Her mind reeled. Yes, Mommy. And she would teach him to behave, as no one had ever taught her or her own mother. She would teach him to rein himself in, discipline himself, hold himself in check and in silence, how disappointing people could be, and love. She would do all this for him, for this beautiful little girl he was, because she loved him. To do so would mean to risk losing his love, but if she did this, she wouldn't deserve it anyway.

But little girls love their mommies unconditionally, she had heard, and mommies loved their babies because of their flaws, not in spite of them.

"Of course I'll teach you, baby. Mommy will make it all better. Mommy will make everything right," she crooned, marveling at the way he turned his body in to meet hers, seeking the warmth and comfort she never really believed she had to give.

They stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, for several moments, until Jean-Luc's growing erection reminded her of her promise. "You were a very bad girl. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"You went into Mommy's closet and took Mommy's things."

"I'm sorry."

"Well, it's almost your birthday, and every little girl needs dress up clothing. Would you like the dress?"

"Really, Mommy?" Beverly nodded, and Jean-Luc felt tears of gratitude wet his eyes. But it wouldn't do for Mommy to see him crying, especially since he knew there was still a punishment to be endured. Instead, he jumped up to her face and kissed her all over. He could feel her smiling, right up until he made the mistake of touching his lips to hers.

His face was so close to her own that he never saw her raised hand until it hit his cheek. "Slut! Since when do little girls kiss their mommies on the lips? Who's been teaching you all these nasty things?"

"No...no one, Mommy," he sobbed.

"First I catch you playing with a cock, and now this. I can see I have a lot to teach you, young lady."

He hung his head in shame.

"Do you know what people do to little girls they find out like big, hard cocks?" she asked. He shook his head, curious. She took him by his hand and led him over to her bed, pushing him down on his knees facing her.

"It's not nice, baby. They'll take you and use you and make you feel bad. And they'll make you think you like it, just because they do." Beverly fell silent for a minute or two, staring off into space, into the past. Her little girl grew restless, with Mommy nattering on about things she didn't understand; and Jean-Luc knew that later on his adult mind would pity whatever Beverly must have gone through to make her speak so.

Bored, the little girl returned to the earlier game which had made her feel so good.

At the movement of his hand, Beverly snapped back to attention. "I told you not to do that! You're such a stupid little slut. There's only one way you'll learn, isn't there?" She sighed as though this responsibility were too much for her, and leaned away from him, toward her nightstand.

Her body was angled away from him, her voice muffled, so he wasn't entirely sure she was speaking as gently as it sounded. And if she was, it was only her tone which was soft. "You're so little, baby, my precious little girl. You just don't understand, do you? I'm going to have to teach you, show you what all those nasty, awful creatures out there would do to a pretty little thing like you. And then, maybe, you'll stop being so bad."

"Yes, Mommy, please teach me." Hadn't he wanted to learn her secrets for so very long?

She sat up, something in her hands. When he finally got a clear view of it, his eyes went wide in a combination of fear, shock, and desire, startled by the sight of a slightly larger than life sized, realistic dildo attached to some sort of pillow. The way Beverly held it, it seemed to be weighted, too. What was she planning to do with that thing?

"Kiss it," she ordered.

He stared at her, still shocked.

"Kiss it," she demanded. He leaned forward, tentatively, to touch his lips to it. As soon as his lips were near, she pushed it all into his mouth, forcing it in, forcing him to gag. He had an instant of panic when he thought the weighted pillow would smother him. "Don't you want to be a good girl?" Beverly taunted. He tried to nod, but it was difficult to move his head. "Then you have to do whatever Mommy tells you." He tried to please her, he really did, but it was so difficult, and so hard to breathe. He sobbed quietly, hoping she wouldn't hear, but of course she did.

She reached over, one hand still pushing the pillow into his face, and stroked his head with the other. "I know it doesn't feel nice, baby, but you have to learn so you can be a good girl again. Mommy's little sweetheart."

Desperate to please her, to be her good little girl, he sucked at the dildo the way she had sucked on him so many times, speeding up and slowing down to the sound of her encouraging murmurs, pulling his head back to peer up at her, and forward again into the pillow she cradled between her legs.

The little girl could have stayed like that forever--Mommy's hand on her head, face cradled in Mommy's lap, but Mommy pulled her away roughly. The little girl began to whimper in confusion--had she done something wrong? But no, Mommy was kissing the top of her head, whispering that she was Mommy's little slut. Jean-Luc smiled a little too soon.

Beverly pushed him away, sliding off the bed, taking the pillow with her. She ran her hands over his back. "What a pretty dress. What a pretty little girl. Do you know what people do to a naughty, pretty little girl?" This time she didn't even wait for his answer, flipping the dress over his head.

It was hot, and it hurt when she pushed him against the bed, but not as much as when she put that...that thing...into him, wet only from his own saliva. He screamed and his muscles tried to reject it, but she had the force and the weight on her side. When she crooned, "Soon you're going to be such a *good* little girl," he stopped resisting altogether.

It hurt and it burned, and the little girl was confused and terrified, and the grown man was confused and ecstatic, and Beverly kept pushing at him and pushing, and crooning in his ear that he was all hers, every part of him, that she would teach him and protect him and punish him because he was her little girl, and when she finally touched him, he exploded all over the side of her bed.

She moved off him and went to get something to wipe him off. When she returned he was on his knees, facing her. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile, though she didn't look particularly happy.

He excused himself, sidestepping her proffered washcloth, and when he stepped out of the bathroom he was no longer wearing the borrowed dress.

Beverly was at the viewport, hugging herself and rocking gently. Jean-Luc stepped up behind her, wrapped his arms around her arms, kissing the side of her neck. He could feel the wetness of tears on her cheek.

"I never really had a mother," she confessed.

He turned her toward him, held her tightly, possessively. "It's all right, my angel." He stroked her hair. "My beautiful little angel."

She lowered her head to his chest and began to sob.

"Shh. It's all right, baby. Mommy will make it all right." He took her hand and led her to the bed, vowing to be the best mommy a lost, lonely little girl ever had.