The Promised LandPart TenAfter a few days, Q assumed he was being monitored constantly. He could actually hear the camera whirring. At the first, he had had diarrhea because of the water; the next day he was fed a very bland diet of chicken and rice. Another time he woke up crying and Kivas was right there. "Let me lie next to you. It will make you feel better." And they lay there for a while. Q was terrified. He heard Kivas' breath light as a moth. Then Kivas reached over and touched Q's chest. He ran his hand over Q's right nipple. "Odd, isn't it, that you can't talk, but you make want to say things," Kivas whispered. "I think of words like ‘come' when I get near you. ‘Come.' ‘Come.'" Then Kivas sighed and got up and left. They fell into a routine. Q would eat breakfast alone and do his ablutions and then go back to lie in bed in one of his beautiful robes, while Fajo would come in and give that day's lesson. Fajo liked to deliver little lectures to Q. His face gleamed as he made very abstract philosophical points. He had a little tic with his eyes; they shifted constantly, appraising whatever they saw. They appraised Q a lot. One day, Q was lying down with one leg slightly inclined. As he talked, Fajo walked around nervously and watched Q more intently than ever. The next day the maids brought Q a robe which was the most beautiful yet, a quilted silky fabric, cobalt and black. When Q came out of his marble bathroom, Fajo was sitting on the bed waiting for him. He didn't speak for a moment. He merely looked Q up and down, his sad eyes lingering on the front of Q's robe. Then he patted the bed beside him. "Q. Let's think about getting you ready to talk again." Q looked away; he had nothing to say. "Talking is a bridge. Talking is a key. If you make yourself relaxed enough to talk, you can do it. I want to teach you how to relax." Q had no idea what Fajo meant. "Tonight I want to you dine with me in my great paneled dining hall. Afterwards, I have some extremely rare art works I want you to see. I promise they will . . . relax you." "I know you're blue, boys, and I sympathize. I loved Q as much as anybody." "He's not dead, Quark," Jean-Luc growled menacingly, and Quark ducked. "I'm aware of that, Jean-Luc. But listen. We have been handed a new contract from DCA. They know Maiden Records is after you. Look at this." Data was the default Q. He took the contract. "Is that a lot of money?" he asked. Jean-Luc and Worf exchanged glances. There were going to be problems with Data that there had never been with Q. "See that advance? Look at that: an interest-free loan of three-quarters of a million dollars. Now, I want you to listen to me carefully. You guys have been living out of a bus for years and it's time to make yourselves some kind of life here. I want you to find a nice house to rent! A house where you can heal! A house where you can start to move towards recovery and acceptance. Then we can move into the studio and make a platinum-selling CD! Boys, we've barely touched the overseas market and they're gonna love you once they hear you. Oh, that reminds me. The studio likes that live CD from the last tour. That's why the advance is so big. Now I got the names of some real estate agents here, so Q, you get on the phone this afternoon and..." He paused abruptly because Jean-Luc had hissed as if he were in pain. Quark looked at him curiously, and then remembered. "Data," he amended. "I meant Data." Q got ready for supper. The maids had laid out another new robe – still nothing but a robe and some sort of nice footwear which fit as if they had been hand made for his narrow aristocratic feet. This robe was very short and rather tight, but Q knew it was no mistake. Before he put it on, he brushed his hair. Since he had been with Fajo, he had nothing to do all day long but groom himself. Q knew Fajo was right; he was prettier than ever. He was tan and relaxed, and the scuttling Dr. Nicholopoulos must have been a good doctor because Q was glowing with health. He patiently worked with Q on a treadmill, on a weight set, stretching his wounded shoulder to give him back his mobility. Making him beautiful for his new owner. He stared at himself in the mirror. He would not think about Jean-Luc. When he did, he cried, and Fajo hated that. Fajo scolded him for it. He said crying ruined Q's beauty. Q understood that his survival depended on Fajo. He forced himself to stop crying and went to eat his supper. Fajo made a very elaborate show of seating Q. He watched Q's thighs carefully as he helped push Q's chair in. Fajo always had organically-grown fruit and exotic nutty grains for them; he kept them both on a very healthy diet. Tonight for dessert, he had huge strawberries dipped in a very fine chocolate. "From France," he remarked as he served them to Q. His eyes lingered on Q's lap. Q did not know what to make of this. Fajo had stolen him. Fajo had guards who could have held him down while Fajo raped him and he wouldn't have been able to do a thing about it. Fajo could probably kill him and nobody would be the wiser. Yet here Fajo was courting him with slow deliberation. Q was being pampered to a ridiculous extreme, and, in spite of himself, he felt a little flattered. He mattered to a rich, powerful man. Fajo looked him over. "Did you have enough supper?" Q nodded once. Fajo's expression was ambiguous. "Let's go into my other gallery, the secured one." He led Q down a corridor to a locked room. "It's lined with steel so it won't burn. These are one-of-a-kind artifacts that I value more than anything else. Come on in. You'll be the first of my friends to see this room." Q stepped in. It was a very dark room; there was a powerful hum from a air conditioning unit which clearly kept the air at a very specific temperature and humidity level. Fajo took out two pairs of white cotton protective gloves. "I can't wait to show you my collection. It's quite varied. Put these on; some of these items are over three thousand years old." No diamonds? No gold? Fajo went to a curtained case and took something out. "Look at this. It's an ancient papyrus scroll. Actually, it isn't all THAT rare, except for the subject matter. It's a visual record of a visit to a Theban whorehouse." He carefully unwrapped it. Line drawings of pretty naked brown-skinned girls with elaborate kohl-rimmed eyes sitting with their legs apart as they applied make up. A more casual sketch of a couple -- at first it seemed they might be wrestling. Many enigmatic hieroglyphs. Fajo drew other things out of the case. A small, beautifully-detailed phallic statue of Bacchus. Smiling gently, Fajo let Q touch it. "Now look at this. The past is so amusing." It was a Louis Quartorze mantle clock; on the clock face was a painting of a sweet-faced naked cupid. Whoever had made this device had fashioned the hour-hand a nicely-sized erection springing from the cupid's pink loins. Fajo smiled again. "This tells us when it's time for love," he said, translating the French motto over the cupid's curly head. He handed Q something that looking vaguely like a seashell. It was a tiny ceramic depiction of a Japanese couple, very proper in their ornate robes. "Turn it over." The underside was even more detailed, showing their aroused genitals in sexual congress. Q was overwhelmed. "I also collect erotic films from all over the globe. But the film must be of superb quality, and I must have the only copy. It goes against my grain to share ownership of a rare and beautiful object." He paused. "Q, I would like very much to show you my favorite." He pushed a button, and purple curtains parted showing a silvery screen. Fajo then pushed another button, and a film started. "Patience. Great erotica takes time," Fajo whispered. The soundtrack had insect sounds and every now and then a few notes from a wind instrument. It was an exterior, done in deeply saturated colors at dusk or dawn, Q couldn't tell. The camera started panning a huge, beautifully manicured yard butted by a huge magnolia tree beside a line of dense cedars. Then it found a tree stump. Q jumped. A small, muscular bald man, completely nude, was tied to the stump. The man moved his face towards the camera. Oh, he was very young with a plump face, not what Q had been thinking at all. The soundtrack continued its haphazard-seeming tweeting. Now another character entered the scene; it was a taller man wearing a very peculiar mask. His entire face was covered by a stag's head complete with vast horns; Q could barely see the eye holes in the stag's neck. The actor was wearing shiny leather trousers which laced in the front and nothing else. Q could tell that the actor was somewhat aroused. The stag-man put his hands on the naked man's ass. Massaging. The camera moved in a bit. And Q watched in fascination as the stag-man took a small alabaster jar and knelt behind the other man, carefully placing the jar right where he could easily reach it. He dipped his bare hand into the jar and pulled it out; it was dripping with clear gel. With a slow, dreamy smile, he began to probe between the bald man's legs. The camera showed the bald man's face in close-up. It showed his adam's apple bobbing. It showed the way his chest heaved and heaved again, his rhythmic hypnotic breaths, his heavy-lidded eyes so calm that he might have spent the previous hour in an opium den. As the stag-man probed the other man's ass, small droplets of sweat began to drip from beneath his mask and run down his bare chest. Sometimes he seemed to need to calm himself down. Every once in a while, he reached his other hand into the jar for more gel, which he then smoothed over the crack of the other man's ass. When the bald man sighed and pushed himself back on his hand, the stag's chest shook as if with laughter. He rubbed his free hand in careful circles on the bald man's sweaty back. The gratitude and delight on the bald man's face was plain to see. And then the camera cut close to the man's pink backside to display something that Q had never imagined possible. The stag-man's hand was invisible to the wrist, firmly buried up inside the man's ass. Q was shocked. He'd never imagined such a thing, and his deep gasping breath made Fajo look up at him sharply, concern and amusement on his features. Q looked back at the screen. The two men seemed to be doing some sort of kneeling dance, nothing but erotic satisfaction in their motions. The bald man seemed engorged with pleasure, gently backing against the stag-man's fist and moving in small, rhythmic circles. He had a beatific smile on his face. Q heard himself gulp. Fajo cut his tiny eyes to Q. The stag man withdrew his hand, and the bald man yelped. Q wiggled a bit. The stag man was quite aroused, but he did nothing but turn around and walk toward the distant cedars. A flock of starlings flew up as he walked near them. The soundtrack magnified their calls. The film flickered to an end. "Isn't that beautiful? An Iranian woman directed it. Imagine! A woman from that repressed society! I can't imagine what her family must think. Of course, I have the only copy." Fajo shook his head. "I could never fist anyone. But if I did, I'd be very gentle." The evening ended with Q going alone to his bed; Fajo had asked him if he felt relaxed. Q nodded again. He had become . . . relaxed. "We'll watch more movies later," Fajo said. His eyes went over Q's body. Q's little robe really hid nothing. In his room, Q took off his robe and lay it over the back of a chair. Now he was left naked and aroused. Well, he had to sleep. But when he lay down, if he lay on his back, his big hard cock stood up distractingly from his body, and, if he lay on his stomach, he was pressing it down in an enticing way against the mattress. He touched himself. He had not felt any hint of sexual desire since the shooting. Now, however, he was beginning to heal, and his sexual appetite was returning with a vengeance, spurred on by the things he'd just seen. He felt . . . Those two men. Fucking one of them. Fucking both of them. Getting fucked by them. Having something hard inside him the way it should be. Tears came to Q's eyes; he was coming. He was wet. He said nothing. He thought, Johnny. On the bus, there was no food on the bus and no clean clothes either. Jean-Luc was very quiet, very calm, but he was losing weight. And whoever talked to him noticed that he would often look away during the conversation. And almost all the sex stopped. Data and Geordi kept their couplings quieter than before, and Worf took Will to alleys and parks and made him suck him quickly and then return before Jean-Luc missed them. At night in the bed on the bus, they gripped each other without satisfaction. "Find a Laundromat," Jean-Luc said, his eyes staring unseeing before him. "Go to the store." So Data and Will went shopping and Geordi and Worf did the laundry. And Jean-Luc sat on the bus with his hands clasped in front of him. (This was not a successful arrangement; Will and Data did not agree on what to buy and then bought foods simply to spite one another. "I cannot eat only marshmallows and cumin," Worf told them sharply. And Worf and Geordi were not natural laundrymen; everybody ended up wearing strangely-dyed underwear because no one bothered to read the detergent box. Data ended up wearing Will's underwear which fell off his body, and Will got Jean-Luc's underwear which cut off his circulation so much he could barely walk. And so a furious Jean-Luc bought everyone new boxers and briefs until they realized Q's system, which was to neatly label the underwear "Wi, Wo, D, G, Q, J." After the Boys discovered this, life got a little easier. But the underwear still came out green and purple because Q was the only one of them who ever really understood laundry.) "Do you know right from wrong?" the lawyer asked again. But she was just making him angry. Of course, Madred knew right from wrong. And he had done the right thing in trying to destroy the tide of filth that threatened America. It had turned out wrong, but that was not his problem. And now that he had so much time on his hands, he could figure out how it went wrong. Oh, he cursed himself. This public assassination had been such a dopey thing to do. Utterly beside the point. It was clear he should have kept his original plan. Which had always worked so brilliantly. And incorporated so many elements he loved. That first one, oh, the first time was always so sweet. The runaway boy with the big pretty eyes who said he'd do anything for fifteen dollars. So John Mack feigned an interest in him. Brought him back to Mother's. Mother was sound asleep (no wonder: John Mack had put two tabs of Tranxene in the Earl Grey). Then John Mack, for the very first time!, had tried out his rigging or scaffolding or whatever it was. Oh, the boy looked luscious, his arms pinned above his head, writhing as he realized he couldn't get free, his huge eyes even larger when he realized no one could hear him down in the cellar. And then John Mack had taken out Dad's big service revolver. Oh, those thin arms, that heart-shaped, weak-chinned face, so helpless and therefore so giving. John Mack had loved seeing him pinioned like that. If only he could have done that with . . . Jean-Luc . . . now the very name disgusted him. No one understood! No one understood the passion that helplessness breeds. If he could have had Jean-Luc helpless and muttering and suspended from the cuffs he'd screwed into the beams in Mother's cellar and if he could have kept him there for days, oh, oh, John Mack closed his eyes. Oh, he loved the slack way a hopeless body looked as it hung from a rafter. "I don't think the asshole can hear me," the lawyer muttered to the jailer. She spoke more loudly. "Do. You. Know. Right. From. Wrong." John Mack opened his eyes. "Is that a trick question?" he drawled. Fajo had a natural rock swimming pool which overlooked the wild dark sea near his home. Q liked sitting near this pool. And so Fajo would join him, lying on a comfortable wicker chaise longue as he made important phone calls and Q watched the water. "Dr. Nicholopoulos says swimming is the best sport. The most recuperative one," he told Q. Q said nothing. "Swim, Q. Get better. That's what this is all about." Q knew what Fajo wanted. Q stood up and took off his robe. Fajo was secretly beside himself. He couldn't breathe. Q put his arms above his head and stretched and then dove in the water. Fajo was in paradise. It was as if a light had suddenly been turned on in his life. Then, he became aware of an angry noise coming from his telephone. It was his man in Zurich. "Fajo, you fool," he said in Italian, "you just lost a chance to make three million! Why didn't you answer me!" Fajo shrugged and hung up the phone. He spent the next half hour waiting for Q to emerge, and finally Q swam to the side of the pool and brought up his hands to smooth his long hair back. Then he got out of the pool. And walked towards Fajo. Where his robe was. The water streamed lovingly down Q's smooth and sculptured body and he was naked and Fajo knew it would be worth another three million. Easy. The Boys rented a nice new house. It cost three thousand dollars a month, which stunned them all, but it had three big bedrooms and lots of spare rooms that could be fixed up any way they liked. For weeks and weeks the house echoed with the sound of their footsteps because they owned almost nothing in the way of furniture. They bought three kingsized beds, a TV, a dining room set and a living room set; the place sort of looked like shit, but none of them knew or cared. Geordi and Data's bedroom was filled with plans and specs and catalogues. They were already planning their new home studio. Will and Worf slept together in another room, big, overly air-conditioned. The first night in their new house, Jean-Luc slept on the big new sofa. He made them return the bed they bought for him because he said he didn't like it. He said he would pick a bed out later and he didn't care where he slept. But then he woke up with a huge hard-on and, still half asleep, curled his hand down to it. He shook himself. This wouldn't do. He undressed and went to Worf and Will's room. They were asleep. Jean-Luc stood at the foot of the bed. "Will, get up and suck my cock," Jean-Luc shook Will's leg. There was barely enough light to see by. Will sat up drowsily. "I want my cock sucked." "What?" Will said sleepily. Jean-Luc slapped him. Hard. Worf sat up like a shot. "Your pussy won't behave," Jean-Luc said to him. Will was moaning and holding his face. Worf was in an awkward position. Jean-Luc had given Q freely; Worf had been able to do anything he wanted to do with Q. He'd buttfucked Q, he'd made Q blow him, and he'd slapped Q, hard. So why wouldn't he want Jean-Luc to do the same to his woman? Because Jean-Luc ... was different. Because Jean-Luc didn't love Will the way Worf loved Q. Because Will wasn't Q. Q was there to get fucked and beaten, and Will was also there to get fucked and beaten, but, when it happened to Will, it was something he had simply fallen into. When you fucked or beat Q, it was part of Q's grand design. It was what Q was meant for. "Make your worthless pussy suck my dick," Jean-Luc insisted. "Will, suck his dick. Now." And so the whimpering Will got down on his knees. Jean-Luc kept hitting the side of Will's head, not hard, but with his closed fist. That thumping sound made Worf uncomfortable. But what could he say? Jean-Luc brutally beat himself against Will's throat until he came, and then he lay back gasping. It was clear he wasn't satisfied. "Move over. I'm spending the night here," he said, burrowing between them. "Okay." So that was how it was going to be. With Q gone, all those tasks he had taken care of fell to the others. Data ineptly helped Quark handle their business affairs. Geordi led the band. And Will was now the band sex object. Too bad. Worf really liked Will. He'd straightened up a great deal since he'd arrived, and he always smiled at Worf with a calmly trusting expression that Worf had come to value greatly. But that was changing. Well, okay. Because any fool could see Jean-Luc was in pain. Worf told no one that he'd found Jean-Luc on the bus one day, beating an iron he'd found against the walls, the chairs, the beds, anything he could reach. Worf understood. That iron had belonged to Q. He had always prepared their stage outfits with it. He grabbed Jean-Luc's flailing arms and wouldn't let go even though Jean-Luc fought him. Jean-Luc screamed against his chest. Screamed. Had he been an innocent animal screaming like that, Worf would have shot him to put him out of his misery. As it was, he let the screams die down and then took Jean-Luc to his bunk and held him there for a long time. After a while, Jean-Luc said, "You know he might be dead." "I know." They lay folded around each other, feeling the impact of that statement. There was nothing to say. "If he is, you have to help me kill Fajo." But Jean-Luc's voice sounded tired and weak. "Most definitely," Worf assured him. He didn't tell Jean-Luc that he often thought of how good it would feel to kill Fajo. He didn't have to. After that Worf took Jean-Luc to his bed any time he wanted. He told Will, "We will have to do this for quite some time." Will nodded. Anything Worf wanted was aces with him. Q masturbating! Q swimming naked! Fajo was so pleased that he went out and bought Q a present. After all, that was what you did with pretty distractable bits of flesh like Q. You give them pretty things when they pleased you. It had happened with the cowboy and the blonde, and it would happen now. Fajo liked to give jewelry. He liked the idea of covering the one he loved almost completely in gold and silver and diamonds. Like a modern Midas, in a way. The first piece was a bracelet made of silver and turquoise because that reminded Fajo of the American West. "I got you this to help you feel better," Not long after that, Dr. Nicholopoulos subjected Q to a particularly grueling physical therapy session. Q was panting and sweating. Fajo brought him a glass of lemonade. Q drained it, and, when he put the glass down, Fajo was holding two more prettily wrapped packages for him. "I am quite pleased with you," Fajo told him. More turquoise jewelry. Q looked at Fajo and Fajo said, "I thought it looked so nice against your skin that I got one for the other wrist and one for around your neck. Put them on." The bracelet was a twin of the one he had previously been given, a chain of rough stones. The necklace consisted of big one-inch links around a centerpiece of ornately smithed silver framing a giant rock. Heavy. Masculine. Expensive. Fajo said, "Here, let me help you with that," and Q lifted his hair and bent forward over Fajo's lap, and Fajo could barely choke back a groan as Q's pale neck was exposed to his hungry gaze. Q looked up again and Fajo had turned pink. Q smiled at him, thanking him with his expression. Fajo lowered his eyes. "That can't come off, you know." The catch had locked into place. That night Q slept in his jewelry; what choice did he have? As usual, Fajo watched Q sleep on a monitor for a while, and then went to Q's room. Q was sleeping with his legs open, and he was slightly aroused. Fajo could not quit gloating. "That jewelry is impossibly becoming to you, " said Fajo. He reached out to Q's necklace and then let his fingers trail down to Q's left nipple. He left his hand there. And then he gently pinched it. They both were breathing heavily. Q did not move away. He knew how this deal worked. That was all right. Kivas had bought that caress with his jewelry and patience. Then Kivas sighed: "I wouldn't mind if you ran around naked, but we probably need to get you some clothing." So Q got a new wardrobe. Expensive tooled Moroccan slippers, and thongs, and, over the thongs, diaphanous harem pants in very masculine colors. Browns, dark blues, sheer black. A pale poison green both Q and Fajo loved. And dressed like this, Q had nothing to do all day but work out on the machines Dr. Nicholopoulos so assiduously lead him to every morning after Fajo's lecture. And swim naked under Fajo's hawklike eyes. Fajo went away for a good part of each day to work on making his fortune even more imposing that it already was. He had an nice office with all sorts of electronic tracking devices and there he nestled making more money for himself and Q until he was bored with it. Because Q was changing things for Fajo. Making Fajo dream. Fajo would be making money in some leveraged buyout or merger and suddenly something would come up which would remind him of Q. Perhaps the letter Q. Perhaps the word ‘dream'. Perhaps the figure three million, which he regarded almost as a fetishistic reminder of Q. And he would find himself . . . indulging himself. Once or sometimes twice. Afterwards, he always looked at himself in the mirror. Could anyone tell what he'd done? One day, he was making a minor fortune and he saw the ordinary brace of words, "silver futures", and he put down his phone and said to the air, "this has got to stop." He went to Q's room. Q was lying on the bed in his new clothes. His legs were apart. He was startled to see Fajo. "We need to intensify your therapy. You will have to speak some day. You need to learn to relax your muscles." He put one hand on Q's tit and rubbed Q there. And then he let his hand drift down Q's body. "Relax, Q. Are you relaxed?" He moved his hand lower on Q's body. He could smell its sweet perfume. "Relax. The golden key to wellness is relaxation." His hand was on Q's flat stomach. He looked at how small his hand was against the rosy wealth of Q's long body. He sighed heavily. He moved his hand between Q's legs, slowly trailing his hand over Q's stiffening penis. He kept his hand on Q's testicles for a moment. Then he took his hand away. "Let me get some nice ointment for you. To help you relax." He came back with a small jar. "Isn't this nice? My God, your legs are tense. Spread them so you can relax." He returned his oiled hand between Q's legs. Q's huge eyes looked at him with an unfathomable expression. "Please take your clothes off. Let me check to see how relaxed you are. If I check, maybe I can tell if you're ready to talk." Q was a bit frightened, a bit aroused. But what would be the worst that could happen? And it wasn't as if his body would be a surprise to Fajo. He slid those odd sheer pants off and then he sat on the side of the bed and pulled the thong off. Sitting right beside him, Fajo watched Q, saw how aroused he was. Fajo shuddered a little. Then he put rubber gloves on both of his hands. "Lie down," he said. Then he said, "This is very therapeutic. I myself feel very good about this," and he put more ointment on his fingers and spread Q's perfect legs and very gently put his index finger in Q's ass. The sky did not fall. Fajo moved his finger around and around, very gently. Q breathed as noisily as any man who could talk. Fajo then moved to a different part of the bed; with his finger still in Q, he took Q's erection in his hand and began to gently stroke him to climax. Q made very human "ugh" sounds as he came, and he came quickly. Trembling. Putting his gentle hands to his face. Lying there with his eyes closed. "You'll get a special present for that, Q." Q was not fooled. Fajo moved so his cameras could get a clear view of Fajo jerking him off. Still, Q wouldn't mind doing it again. Whoring was familiar to him. Q had been the band leader, the man who did the arrangements, who listened to the instruments, who picked the music they played. Now that task was Geordi's and the other Boys had to put up with his slight arrogance when it came to music. Geordi was so musically gifted that he had a hard time being gentle and conciliatory. Jean-Luc and Worf were self-taught; what they did they did intuitively. Geordi did not quite relate to that. Besides none of them could write songs like Q. Fajo became obsessed with Q's ass, and played with it constantly. When he worked up to two fingers, he was clearly addicted. He had an assortment of creams and unguents and he carried them to Q's bedroom on a little tray. Q would nod. He would take off his pants and the little thongs Fajo provided and lay back on the bed with his legs wide open. Fajo always smiled at his evident willingness. Q wondered if Fajo remembered that he didn't have a choice. It was just what he did, that was all. He'd been a whore since prison, and Fajo was paying a high price for him. 'Get hard,' Q commanded himself. Sometimes it worked, and he could simply will himself erect. Often he thought of Worf fucking him in that hotel room in Tennessee, or his night in the woods with the virgin Data, or the time on the bus when he'd bent over for Geordi. He very carefully did not think of Jean-Luc because the one time he did, he almost cried out his name, and that would never do. Afterwards, he would drowse through more of Fajo's lectures. The Americans had invented AIDS. They killed innocent children in South America. It was a sort of social control. Like spraying drug crops. Q looked up. Is that where they were? South America? Fajo misinterpreted, as usual. "You want some more, do you?" He got another glove. Jean-Luc tore off his headphones and glared at them. Then his eyes lit on Data. "Come here," he ordered. Data approached him willingly enough, but, when Jean-Luc wrapped his hand around Data's ass and began to nuzzle and bite at Data's neck, Data stiffened and pulled away sharply. Jean-Luc pulled back too, astonished by Data's resistance. They all watched, and Geordi listened, to see what would happen. Will quickly prayed that Data wouldn't get too badly beaten, but all that happened was that Jean-Luc threw his headset down, wheeled around and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Will and Worf glared at Data. Then Will spoke first. "What's wrong with you?" "Yes, isn't that what you wanted, motherfucker?" Worf said. "No," said Data. "That is not what I meant at all." "You worked hard enough to get it. Nothing would do for you but to replace Q." Worf was furious. "And now when Jean-Luc needs you, you pull away." He was building a full head of steam. "You won't even go with him for one night. You hide in your little studio with Geordi and leave it up to Will to take care of him. Every night. Every night!" Data was speechless. Then he said, "Worf, you are implying that I am to blame for much, if not all, of our current woes. I do not believe that is a fair assessment of our situation." Geordi and Will were gripping their instruments and listening. Then Geordi sighed. "Maybe we should give up the group. What's the point really?" Worf wanted to dismember both of them. "If I recall correctly, Geordi, without this group you would still be wasting away in an institution. When I first saw you, Data, you were about to be killed over a fifty dollar bet. Jean-Luc and I were the ones who saved you." His eyes turned to Will, softening only slightly. Will held his breath. No one had to tell him what a major loser he'd been. And still was, except for their generosity. Worf lowered his head. "Jean-Luc has single-handedly led us to this point. None of us would have gotten here alone. And now you want to leave Jean-Luc. When he needs us most." He took a moment to get hold of his rage. Geordi could hear it disappear from his voice, and he clearly heard the menace that replaced it. "I suggest there be no more talk of leaving. I suggest we help Jean-Luc through this. Til Q comes back." Worf leaned forward. "I suggest this with extreme ardor." At this point, Worf was far more terrifying than Jean-Luc. All of them nodded. They would stay. It was a miserable task, this business of trying to build a normal life. Jean-Luc was out of their reach now. Q's whole existence had been dedicated to making Jean-Luc happy, but the only thing that ever made Jean-Luc happy had been Q. The Boys tried to learn by trial and error how to keep house. They posted an elaborate cleaning schedule so that the kitchen would be usable most of the time. They all knew how to cook eggs and make sandwiches, and they stumbled onto a simple shopping list. Eggs, bacon, bread, juice. More bread, lunch meat, chips, sodas. Most nights they ate carry-out. They tried to do things the way Q would have done them but with mixed results. They simply did not know how he did what he did. And, after their discussion, if Jean-Luc made the least overture, the Boys took it. Whenever he wanted to fuck one of them, they patiently endured his nighttime thrashings and mumblings as best they could. You could tell where Jean-Luc spent the night by looking to see who needed a nap the following day. Q was swimming in Fajo's salt-water pool, and Fajo, sitting in the sweet warm sea air, watched him. Up to now, Fajo had always worn the Mediterranean Millionaire get up of open print shirt and tight little shorts when he was poolside. But Q had made him feel the vulgarity of this look, so Fajo had decided to restyle himself; he bought a black wet suit, short in the sleeves and legs. The suit was very nice, tight like a glove or girdle, with a strong tang of polyurethane. There was a genuinely stimulating quality to wearing it. He watched Q swim forward and back til he could stand it no further, and then he jumped in the water. "Q, let's relax here in the water." Q gave Fajo a wary look. "Come over here." Fajo was resting against the pool side. Q swam over and bobbed in the water in front of him. Q looked good wet. His head was nicely shaped, his long eyelashes beaded prettily with water. He used his braceleted hands to smooth back his hair. "Let's relax," Fajo said. Q knew what that meant. He paddled over to the poolside and clutched the side. His back was obediently facing Fajo. "This pool is admirably equipped for relaxing," Fajo told him. He put his hand on Q's ass and rubbed it up and down, around. Then he took his index finger and worked it into Q. Q stiffened. "Relax," Fajo hissed. He moved his finger around. He put his lips on Q's shoulders. Tasting the salt water on Q's skin. Q's braceleted hands held on to the rocks as Fajo pinioned him there. Fajo slipped in another finger. The sky was heavenly blue. Pink clouds gathered prettily over the horizon. Fajo caressed the little rise of flesh that drove Q wild. Q's back was flushed. Now Fajo put his other hand around to Q's front. Q's tits. He loved to pinch Q's nipples, to feel his smooth hairless stomach. His hand moved down to Q's erection. Q sighed. "Here comes a step forward in your therapy." Fajo put a third finger in Q. "Think of what kind of present you want." Q was backing against him now, fucking himself on Fajo's hand. Fajo bit Q's shoulder and gripped his erection harder. The new rubber suit was a miracle-worker. Q would have preferred for Fajo to get it over with. He knew what Fajo wanted. He had known for weeks. And Q didn't mind; by now, he wanted a big thing inside him – even Fajo's three fingers felt wonderful. He just didn't want to listen to Fajo was all. But Fajo was keeping him alive. And now Fajo was gripping him in both the front and back. Okay. Q closed his eyes. He thought about Worf fucking him as Will watched and jerked off. He had been bent over on his knees, head touching the earth, and Worf was big, nearly as big as Q himself, and naked, and the slap of flesh, and the salt water around him and Fajo's little hands and the action in his ass and he made sounds and came. "You are relaxing very nicely," Fajo said in a strangled voice. "If you relax, you won't get hurt." Q was permitted to walk around the island. It was about two miles in circumference and consisted mainly of Fajo's lovely complex and some lemon groves. He layered himself in two or three pairs of pants against the constant wind and strode through the trees, pretending he was free to go anywhere he wanted. Once Fajo came tooting up in his little golf cart. "Hi! What are you doing?" The golf cart's engine disturbed the beautiful silence; its wheels crushed some wild flowers. In fact its entire presence, and Fajo's, was noisy and disruptive. Even Fajo's expansive smile was intrusive to Q. Q turned to look at Fajo. He could barely keep his sense of feeling trapped off his face. Fajo did a double-take. Q smoothed his features into blandness and smiled, but Fajo continued to scowl at him. Q reached out to stroke Fajo's cheek, and Fajo relaxed again. "Get in," Fajo ordered, "I'll ride you around." It was a struggle this time, to do what Fajo said. Nonetheless Q got in and let Fajo ride him around and pinch his nipple and fondle his dick. Fajo appeared very pleased. Jean-Luc's eyes opened. He was sweating. Sleeping alone on the sofa. His mouth was dry. He knew it. He could tell. The air was saying someone was dead. He sat up. Someone was dead. It was still dark out. He buried his head in his hands. The phone rang. He got up to get it. Walking slowly. The air between the sofa and the telephone seemed to telescope; he felt he was walking in a long breathless tunnel. He reached the phone. Will was standing there. Plump. Naked. Rubbing his eyes. Watching Jean-Luc get the phone. "Stay here," he said to Will. He was furious. "Jean-Luc, I got to pee!" "Stay," he said between clenched teeth. Then, into the phone. "Who's this?" "Jean-Luc, Tommy here. Now don't freak out. Don't get jumpy." "What the fuck is it, Quark?" "Well . . . " Will was shaking his head no. "You leave, motherfucker, and you'll never pee again." "I got to pee," Will whimpered and fled. "Goddam. I hate all of you. What is it?" "Jean-Luc, calm down, we can handle this. Madred's dead. He hung himself in his cell last night. The press has been calling like crazy. I bet film crews are outside your house already. He left a suicide note and it's a doozy. The Midnight Orb already bought the rights to it. Now, I want you to sit tight until I get there to plan the publicity strategy. Is someone with you?" Data came in. "Data's here." "Good. Sit tight and I'm on my way." Quark hung up. Data was naked too, slender and dapper. He gave Jean-Luc a sleepy smile. Jean-Luc gave Data a look. "Madred hanged himself. One less problem." "Cool!" Will rushed back, having peed, presumably. "See, I wasn't gone long!" "Okay, you can go back to sleep." Will padded off. Data came towards Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc felt the fabric of his underwear most keenly against him. "Jean-Luc, I'm sorry for the other night. I'd like to make it up to you. I've been thinking of some little things I could do to make you feel better. I've been doing some reading." Jean-Luc leaned in. One of the assholes responsible for this current shit was down. A Viking sense of triumph flooded him, and he grabbed Data by the elbows. "Did you ever read about fathers and sons any? Fathers teaching sons? I can teach you some hot fuck action, and that's no lie." The cameras of Fajo worked constantly. Fajo liked to start off his mornings seeing what Q did, and he was currently keeping a record of Q's morning ablutions. He wasn't into scat, no, not at all, but he did want to know Q's business. As their relationship became more intimate, Fajo wanted a minimum of surprising unclean factors. (He had also consulted with Dr. Nicholopoulos although, at first, Fajo had not known how to approach him on this topic. But Fajo's mastery of Greek was nearly as good as his mastery of English, and Dr. Nicholopoulos was greedy, so they ended up communicating quite clearly. "We are both men of the world," the good doctor said. Proper diet, herbs, and a good German nurse. That was what Dr. Nicholopoulos prescribed.) What the camera saw was always provocative. And it was somehow touching to view the elegant Q's more squalid animal needs. But the fact that Q always started his morning in tears drove Fajo crazy with jealousy. Frau Marouka also gave massages, so, when she finished giving Q his regular cleansing session (he was so embarrassed), she would rub him down with sea salt and olive oil. She took special care with his shoulder, manipulating it gently, stroking it, stretching it back into full use. She never spoke to Q, though, never looked him in the eye. He was clearly just another artifact. Still, Q liked Frau Marouka because she was consistently there. He began to look forward to her massages and her enemas. Even if there was nothing to do afterwards but shower off the massage oil, then rub on tanning oil, then maybe rub another oil on, then do more exercises for his shoulder, then think about massaging his feet, then maybe go for a walk. Brushing his hair was an event. Showering was an event. Putting on whatever whore's costume Fajo provided for him was another bright spot in his long days. He spent a lot of time staring at himself in the mirror, or walking from one end of the house to another, looking out at the sea, sitting on a rock and thinking, eating lunch, going for a walk after lunch, taking a nap after the walk, getting up from his nap, taking off his whore's costume so Frau Marouka could give him a rubdown. Getting in the pool, swimming, rinsing the salt out of his hair, deciding which oil he wanted to rub on his body, rubbing oil on his body, walking back through the house, looking for Fajo, staring at the sea, wondering what the local word for 'guard' was, sitting in front of his mirror brushing his hair and thinking about what they might be doing back home. His life had a certain fullness. He eavesdropped on the maids sometimes. He learned the words for cloth, dinner, water. One night at supper, after they had dined in silence (except for the shuffling feet of the maids), Fajo indicated he wanted to go Q's room. Once there, he sat in a comfortable chair while Q sat on the bed. "Q," Fajo said. "Q, Q, Q," and he shook his head. "I want so much for you. You deserve the best." Q's eyes never left Fajo's face. "But, Q, your therapy isn't moving along as fast as I wish it would. And it's not that you're resisting me. I know you're trying. And I appreciate that." He sighed. Where was this leading? "Perhaps I've misjudged. Perhaps I'm not the therapist I want to be. I have a lot of baggage, you know?" Q listened intently. "My own background," Fajo shook his head again. "Well," he stood up suddenly, nervous, "well, the problem was . . . my father . . . see, I have rather a . . . thing . . . about cocksucking. It scares me." He have Q a sidewise look from under his eyebrows to see if Q were buying this. "It's probably why I never married." Q moved off the bed to his knees. Fajo gave a little smile and moved closer to him. "You don't have to do this, you know." Q understood; Fajo could get blowjobs anywhere anytime. But he would pay handsomely for the fiction he was indulging in with Q. Q unzipped Fajo's expensive wool gabardine slacks, undid the lizardskin belt, found the slit in Fajo's silk boxers and brought it out. Then he leaned back and looked at Fajo. He tried to make his eyes desiring and innocent; that was what Q did, after all. He created hot little worlds for himself and all his johns. All his Johns. He lowered his eyes. "I hope this isn't too horrible," Fajo said hopefully. "Here, I'll put on a safety." He pulled the rubber on. Q put his mouth around the head of Fajo's good-sized cock. He tried to move like a child or a virgin, a talented child or virgin. Fajo was breathing like a man in a race. Q made a few minimal caressing motion. "Oh, my Christ, that's enough for tonight," Fajo said. But Q intuited that Fajo wanted him to continue and he did, sucking gently and gingerly, as if he'd never sucked cock before. Soon enough, Fajo was coming. "Stay back, Q! I don't want to hurt you!" It seemed as if he might collapse. His eyes rolled back in his head and his fists were clenched. Then he leaned back and looked at Q. And smiled. "Not bad! You have a lot to learn, but we have all the time I the world. I'll make sure you get plenty of opportunities!" This was good. Jean-Luc and Data were roughly the same height so Data could lean against a dresser or even just stand against a wall and Jean-Luc could fuck him that way. Jean-Luc had forgotten how he liked to fuck little men standing, their compact asses presented a certain way, himself gripping their arms, in and out for a long time. He liked to hold off on coming; he wanted to put Data through the wringer. Something told him Geordi was very gentle. Well, fuck that noise. He loved the wet feeling, he loved the sweat pouring off Data, he loved to see his dick disappear and reappear and disappear against Data. And Data was small and tight and whimpering. At times Jean-Luc brought it almost all the way out so he could move just the sensitive head in and out, and Data was groaning and sweating, and now Jean-Luc grabbed Data's neck and pulled him back and he pushed himself all the way in and Data said something inarticulate and Data was just a fuck toy, just a stupid little fuck toy, and Jean-Luc was pleased with not coming. "Let's change positions. Get back on the bed. Lay down on your back. Spread those legs. Make yourself come. I'll fuck you from right here." And drawing Data's thighs up against his shoulders, Jean-Luc kept up a bruising level of fucking as Data pulled at himself, lost in the sensations Jean-Luc was giving him. Pulling. Pressing. Data knew how to make himself feel all right – he looked at Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc pulled out and let Data drop. "Put on a little show, Data. Make that thing come." Jean-Luc was standing there, his slick cock still erect, springing from his body. Data spread his legs far apart on the bed and arched his back – and that was all it took. He was coming, he was coming. He shuddered and convulsed. Then he closed his eyes. He was aware of the chill in the room now. "You don't want to come, Jean-Luc?" "I'll save it for Geordi. I like fucking both of you boys. Let's get cleaned up and eat something and come back here." Will smiled his broad hopeful smile. "Look what I did!" Earlier Will had fixed supper, and it had been surprisingly good. Pasta. Marinara sauce. Pears. Simple things. Geordi turned his head towards Will's voice. The rest all looked at what he was holding now. "It's something I invented! Worf, you do the honors." Worf smiled and took something crumbling and brown from the pan and put it in his mouth: "Mmm!" Then he took another handful. "Well, what is it?" Jean-Luc said impatiently. "A surprise! Will Riker's Brownie Surprise." "What is the surprise, Will?" Data said dubiously. "Just taste it." The rest of the Boys were wary; Will's cooking was often full of surprises. "I'll bite," said Geordi. He took a small nibble. And jumped. He wasn't . . . unhappy. "Give me more." "The secret is adding a little instant coffee. They're kinda mocha-like. I saw it on the television." Soon, everyone was eating Will's brownies. "You know who would really love these?" said Will. Worf turned on him. Jean-Luc decided to ignore that. "Geordi, Data, eat all the brownies you want, but I'm going upstairs. I'll be waiting." Their master's voice. "Did Data tell you I haven't come yet? I want to come." Geordi pulled his clothes off; Data gathered them up. "Remember the Impala, Geordi? Your ass sticking out of the car. That was pretty nice. Get on the bed and get it in the air. I like your big ass." And soon Jean-Luc was sweating and fucking Geordi who was pressing against him and moaning, and Data had meant to leave them alone, but it was so beautiful. Jean-Luc's pale perfect body gleamed like silver in the faint light, as did the surprisingly large muscles of his arms and his beautiful thighs, and Geordi looked like a sweet old brownie himself, a big man-shaped brownie, his ass beating against Jean-Luc's body. But the most beautiful thing was Jean-Luc's face. When he fucked, it lost its haggard look and became serene in the search of pleasure. A tight smile played with the corners of his mouth. "Geordi," he said, "this is no good." Data's hand went to his mouth. "Turn over. Data can tell you. I like to see dick. And that big Dixie cup of yours always amazes me." And when he saw Geordi turn over and grip his cock with one hand and his balls with the other, Jean-Luc fucked more deliriously than before and they both began to come and Jean-Luc was frantic to kiss Geordi's wide pretty mouth, a wet wild open-mouthed kiss, and Geordi pulled Jean-Luc to him and they both lay panting together. Both Geordi and Data knew what they had to do. Like children, they begged: "Spend the night with us. We can do things. And we won't make a peep when you want to sleep. Not a peep!" Jean-Luc's eyes softened a little. "Everybody take a shower, and maybe I'll test that out." When Jean-Luc came out of the bathroom, the other two were waiting for him. Data was in the bed with a sheet over him, and Geordi was sitting up, softly strumming his guitar as usual. "I'm tired of sleeping on the sofa," he told them, "but I don't want to be in a big bed by myself. I've got to rearrange my life." "You're always welcome here," Data said. Jean-Luc nodded and lay down beside Data; he seemed relaxed for once. They all three sat there in a companionable silence. "Jean-Luc, you want to hear a song I wrote," Geordi said. "For the new album?" "All right, but I'm not up to much business now." "It's just a pretty little song: it'll probably put you to sleep." As Geordi sang his songs about broken toys and broken promises, he could feel Jean-Luc's sad and sleepy smile. "Okay, boys, best thing I've heard in a long time. Good for you. Now sleep." Jean-Luc slept in Geordi's arms all night long. They both liked that even when Jean-Luc writhed and made inchoate curses. Now Fajo got his cock sucked almost every night; he seemed obsessed. During the day, Q wore the little thongs and harem pants which only emphasized the round allure of his ass. Often he was naked except for his bright bands of jewelry. Then he would sit naked on the boulders the gardeners placed in artful positions around the pool and his legs were open and he would lift his arms to stretch, and all the revealed dark curls made Fajo's heart race. "You look nice," Fajo said. Q nodded his thanks. "I want you to start wearing eye make up. Eyeliner. Kohl." Q froze, his face set in lines of refusal: nothing doing. "Yes, you will." They looked at each other. Q's demeanor did not change. Fajo looked at him and then took a tiny black walkie-talkie out of his shirt pocket and spoke into it. In less than a minute, four of Fajo's private militiamen marched onto the veranda. Fajo gave them some instructions; they nodded. No one looked at Q. The maids came and clustered behind the guards. They looked confused and frightened. Some of them stole glances at Q. Fajo led everyone away. Q was left lying there. Q had thought he was acting like the kind of courtesan Fajo would pride himself on possessing. He thought Fajo liked it when Q gave him a little show. But this life took its toll. He didn't even know why he refused to wear eyeliner. But Q hadn't missed the look of satisfaction in Fajo's face when Q silently refused him. It was unnerving. Maybe Fajo wanted a fight. A fight that only Fajo could win. If Jean-Luc had ever wanted Q to wear eyeliner, there would have been slaps, tears, a fuck, then an order to wear eyeliner or face more slaps. But Fajo was very different. He played games. He had guards. Q was a prisoner. He hoped Fajo wouldn't have him thrown over the side of the cliff. |
