The Promised LandPart ElevenThe cameras were still as soon as they saw they would only have Little Tommy Quark to photograph. He read the statement, a carefully prepared mixture of pity and terror concerning the late John Mack Madred, and asked if there were any questions. Quark was honestly astounded by the explosion of words. He shot out answers as rapidly as the questions flew. "Yes, the Magic Mountain Boys are hard at work at their latest album." "No, Q has not left the group." "The esteemed businessman Mr. Kivas Fajo has long been a fan of the Magic Mountain Boys. He is providing a quiet comfortable place for Quentin McConn to recuperate." "Now, sir, would YOU like people asking so many pointed questions about YOUR sex life?" "According to the sovereign state of Kentucky, Mr. Picard, Mr. Rodshenko, and Mr. McConn have paid their debt to society. Any other answers will have to be answered by a lawyer." "They are in seclusion now. It is a time for to heal. We hope you will keep the Magic Mountain Boys in your prayers. And spare a little prayer or two for the family of John Mark Madred. We could all use some prayer." Then Tommy nodded at the reporters and left. The way he played those losers, he should have been the musician. When Q woke up, everyone was gone. He didn't believe it. The house was still. But the hot tub was still bubbling. The toilet flushed. The lights came on. The waters ran in all the taps. There were bits of food in the fridge, not much. Q really didn't believe Fajo was gone for good. But he shivered; he was Fajo's entertainment on the island. So he better entertain. Q spent the whole day alone, and the night and the following day and the following night. He lay on his bed and thought to himself, 'Okay, Fajo, olly-olly-oxenfree. You can come out now.' He was half annoyed, half terrified. Fajo returned on the third day. His eyes were triumphant and amused. His arms were full of presents. Fajo's amusement was insulting; Q frowned, and his hand came up and swept across Fajo's face. The maids squawked in outrage. The guards roared, and their guns came up. A sharp word from Fajo quieted all of them. Then he got up off the floor. Q turned away and stalked off to his room and slammed the door hard. Please let it work! And for a moment, he thought of Worf, wishing Worf were here. Worf could teach Fajo a lesson. He had lain down and thought determinedly of Worf. An hour later, Fajo and two guards came into his bedroom. Fajo was deliberately deadpan. Q wanted to roll his eyes. Fajo wasn't going to order the guards to hit him and they both knew it. "You want to know why I left you alone? Because you belong to me and I can do what I like, that's why. Or do you need another lesson? Shall I have my employees make that point for me?" Q's breathing quickened. He let himself look frightened. At that, Fajo looked smug. And, for a brief second, Q felt a small triumph. He was manipulating Fajo, making Fajo believe what Q wanted him to believe. For the first time in months, Q felt something like hope. He might one day get out of here. He shut his eyes and lowered his head so Fajo wouldn't see him looking happy when he was supposed to be frightened. It didn't stop Fajo from slapping him. Tit for tat. It meant nothing. Jean-Luc and Worf had hit him much harder. Q let himself fall over, remembering at the last minute to cry out. "Let this be a lesson. I can be merciful, or I can be brutal," Fajo scolded. "It's up to you." And he swept out in front of his guards as if he had won something. Q thought, 'Please don't throw me in the briar patch.' That night Q did not look at Fajo during supper. So his prize pet was sulking. Fajo looked up from his moussaka. "Come, Q, petulance does not become you." After supper, Q turned out his lights and pulled the blankets over his head. If he shut his eyes tight and breathed slowly and held his pillow tightly, he could pretend to be somewhere else. Somewhere. The door opened. Q smelled familiar smells. Fajo turned on the light; he had his tray of ointments with him. And a knowing smile. From the sound of Q's moans, this was really hurting him, but Fajo didn't care. He worked on Q until he could get four fingers in this time. Worf ordered Will to stay out of Jean-Luc's way as much as possible because Jean-Luc had the right to hit Will if he wanted and Worf did not want Will to get beaten for not being Q. The Boys got a bigger television and they had a nice den, but Worf took Will away most evenings. And Data sat with Jean-Luc, pretending to discuss things as Q had done, but Geordi hated sitting there pretending with them. He ended up buying a little TV with a braille remote and staying in his room. Well, Jean-Luc didn't give a fuck. He'd find something new in the fans who were beginning to cluster around the house. Mostly little second-rate Q's. Not the same, but still. Every day, Q had to lie back while Fajo opened his ass more and more. Slowly, gently, but determinedly. He thought he was rewarding Q for this by jerking him off after each stretching session. Fajo loved Q's little noises. Silence. Q's moans. More silence. Q's heavy breathing, then more silence. Then , Q's cries of discomfort and Fajo's soothing noises in return, and finally the little cries Q made when he was about to come. Then more silence. One day Fajo said, "Kiss me, Q." He had prepared for this moment by eating a bunch of fruit and mint so his breath would be sweet and fresh. Q leaned in. Nothing could have prepared Fajo for this. Q was the absolute wizard of kisses. Q had a way of wrapping his whole body around a kiss and just pouring it into you so that you found yourself not so much kissing his mouth as sipping from it, then guzzling from it when you realized what you had. Fajo was besotted. Q indicated he needed scissors. He wanted to cut his hair. Fajo shook his head firmly. This was non-negotiable. Q's hair began to reach halfway down his back. The maids came in every morning and made Q's bed, cleaned the bathroom, removed invisible specks of dust from the few pieces of furniture in his room. Toothpaste reappeared magically as did his few articles of clothing. Sometimes, he went naked except for the jewelry Fajo insisted he wear. He abandoned his shoes for bare feet, enjoying the feel of the rough tiles of the veranda, the polished smoothness of the inside floors. He noted the sound of the car that brought the maids and then later in the day returned to bring food for their dinner. Sometimes Fajo left again, but he always came back and he never left Q truly alone again. He seemed unable to be without Q for long, which was a relief in some ways, an annoyance in others. Q smiled at Fajo's return, thanking with his eyes for the gift that were forced on him. He did not speak, living comfortably within his own silence. Q's life more and more centered around looking pretty and making himself available to Fajo's greedy, probing fingers. The weather grew a bit chill. Fajo saw him shiver one morning, and the next day a tiny woman in a black dress came by and took his measurements. A few days later Fajo gave him a slightly heavier costume, the exact same style of pants with a little smoking jacket made out of something Q might have guessed was silk, if he'd known what silk felt like. Now Q did not feel indecent, and he explored the grounds a little more. A guard followed him at a discreet distance, but Q didn't mind. He'd long since gotten used to being watched, and the guards never hit him. When the mood was upon him, Fajo took Q back to his bedroom. He would take his carefully arranged tray of oils and lotions and prepare himself and Q and then insert his four fingers right up to the knuckle. One day Q was lying on his stomach and Fajo had four fingers in Q; Q shut his eyes and concentrated. Then he felt Fajo gently take his hand out and then . . . Fajo was fucking him, moving his cock frantically inside Q, his breath ragged and throbbing. And then Q could feel Fajo almost withdraw and slowly penetrate him again. No doubt this was being photographed even as Fajo was relishing the sight of being buried in Q's golden round flesh. Fajo flung himself a few more times at Q, and then it was clear that he was coming and Q felt his long dark hair being gripped by an iron hand and then the grip relaxed and Fajo was done. This was the first many fuck sessions for Fajo; he would play with Q's ass and then "finish off" as he said. Because it was so different from the way Jean-Luc did it, it was easy for Q to pretend he was with a john. Fajo also began to talk to Q as if Q were a dog. "Does he want his supper, yes, he does, yes, Q does." Fajo meant it affectionately, but it was still quite strange. Q was now as beautiful as he had ever been. Fajo watched him staring out at the sea at sunset, and with his shoulder-length hair, his half naked body, his extended arms, he was a vision of masculine splendor, another wonder of the world, another sphinx with a brand new riddle. Fajo felt his own dumpiness most keenly. The air had a definite chill. Christmas without Q. It hardly seemed possible. Will and Data tried to decorate. Will cut out tiny pictures of lusty nudes from some of his pinup collections and glued them to pieces of Styrofoam and hung them on the tree. Data wanted to have an elegant Christmas such as he had read about in expensive magazines. He wanted only blue lights and silver decorations. Will's homemade brassy orange illustrations clashed. They exchanged words. Then Will tried to bake. He bought tubes and tubes of slice-and-bake cookie dough from the grocery store; the cookies came ready-made with outlines of choristers and bells embedded in them. Will baked these cookies and then dolled them up more with red and green sparkles; he bought icing that came ready to use in squirting tubes, like toothpaste. Some cookies ended up with huge green nests or icing which held a walnut half or a maraschino cherry. Then he dyed coconut with food coloring and made red or green lawns on the cookies. Some cookies he left plain and merely wrote names on them: Jean-Luc. Worf. Will. Geordi. Then, in a burst of Yuletide cheer, he relented and wrote DATA in big grim letters on one of the cookies. "Mmm," said Worf. Jean-Luc looked at the cookies silently and nodded. His shoulders sagged. Then he went to the cabinet where the liquor was stored. The Boys were not drinkers, but it was a holiday. There was brandy and sloe gin and triple sec. Industry people were always giving them expensive gifts of liquor. "Lots of girl stuff here," said Jean-Luc, "but, if we mix it, we could get fucked up." "Is that good?" asked Data. Jean-Luc's gaze froze him. They began some serious drinking on Christmas eve. And only Data saved them from maudlin misery. He got very very silly. He told them obscure facts about Christmas that no one cared about. He made amazing puns that no one got. He made some very strange motions with his legs and arms: "Jean-Luc, guess who I am?" Jean-Luc was speechless. "Jean-Luc, I'm the Mud Man!" He made more motions. "Who am I now, Jean-Luc?" Jean-Luc took another drink. "I'm Electro!" Then he waved his arms slowly in front of Jean-Luc's face. "Who am I NOW?" Jean-Luc crossed his arms across his chest. "I'm the Rubber Man! See my limbs expand!!!! I can drive a car lying down! I can go to the mailbox at the same time I pull into my garage!" Now Data was on the floor laughing at his own jokes. No one else laughed. "Too bad he doesn't have an off switch," Worf muttered to Will. "Do you know it's Christmas?" Fajo came into Q's room; Q was under the covers again. He sat on the bed. "I have presents for you." Q lowered the covers. "Merry Christmas," Fajo said, just to say something. He wanted to gaze forever on Q's face; its beauty was so addictive. "Let's see what you got!" Q got out of bed; he was totally undressed as usual, wearing only his jewelry. Fajo watched him. "Tell you what -- let's have a Christmas morning session with Frau Marouka. Just to relax us, darling! And then we'll be ready to look at all our presents! Q wants to stay naked all day, doesn't he? That's fine – I've got fires in all the fireplaces! And Q can show off some of the pretty presents Fajo bought him!" The presents were a strange assortment of things. Jewelry, of course. Silver rings with huge orange stones. Silver waist chains made from interlocking greek keys. A leather choker with an uncut emerald as large as a hen's egg. Then there were the art supplies. That was new, but rather nice. Beautifully-mounted sheafs of hand-made paper. Sable brushes. Ink from Japan in jewel-shaped blocks. A golden pen with a platinum nib. Water colors in exotic colors. "There's more," Fajo gloated, "for good boys. But we'll have to see how good you are. We'll have to see what you got Fajo." Q lay down, carefully watching Fajo set down his tray of oils and unguents. His legs were slightly apart. Fajo's eyes slowly traversed every inch of Q's body. "We really want it," Fajo finally said. He lay down beside Q. He took Q's hand and put it against his own chest, and something in the neediness of this gesture made Q take pity on Fajo, and he began pulling their bodies close, tilting his head back so Fajo could get to his neck, hissing in pleasure as Fajo started to kiss him, and running his hands over Fajo's thighs. Fajo's defenses broke down. "Oh, Q," he murmured, "I'd give it all up for you." Q smiled at him, one of those tender Q smiles. Fajo could never have bribed or blackmailed Q into smiling this way, and he knew it. He sat up and got some of his ointments and his gloves. One finger. Q gasped. Around and around. A second finger. Rubbing Q's prostate in a way that made him melt all over the bed. A third finger – Q had been made ready for this for some time; he took the third finger greedily. Four fingers in a wedge. More lubrication, much more lubrication. "Umm, we feel good," Fajo said. He was pushing his thumb in with the fingers, the knuckles battering against Q. Q's knees fell apart. Fajo sat up between Q's legs to see better. More lubrication. More twisting of fingers and thumb. Pushing. Pushing. And then he had his fist inside Q, and Q could not think of anything except how good this felt. Fajo gasped. He couldn't see his hand at all – just swells of Q's flesh and his wrist. He felt light-headed; he moved his hand around in a circle. He needed to be very careful , but it was hard to concentrate. Q was making an odd sound deep in his throat; he was stiff as he could be and wet and leaking. Kivas had never seen Q so aroused. He was aroused himself. "I'm teaching you to relax, see. You seem relaxed. Your beautiful American ass is relaxed." Q kept making those inhuman sounds. "See: I've practically got you talking!" Kivas was quite sprightly. He himself wanted to come so bad it was almost distracting. Maybe after he finished with the fist, he could fuck Q. Q was making funny breathy sounds now. "Come for me." Q pressed himself gently, gracefully against the fullness of Fajo's little fist up his ass. His face was red. His eyes unfocused. "Q knows it's for his own good." Q knew this was not for his own good, but he didn't care. What he did care about was pace, direction, rhythm, riding Fajo's fist as if it were something he cared about deeply. Without words, every sound he made took on significance. Vaguely, he noticed Fajo's avid, greedy expression. He turned his head away, focusing on the sensations in his ass. There was an incredible feeling of fullness, as if all of his insides, up to and including his pounding heart, were being squeezed by Fajo's fist. He opened his legs wider, rocked harder. His noises became more abandoned. Fajo looked as if he were mainlining Q's every expression. His grunts and groans were sounds a baby might make, or an animal. He wondered if Johnny would like to see him like this, and that thought pushed him right up to the edge. "Ooooooohhh," he cried. He rocked faster, harder. He could feel the heat rushing to his face, his heart hammered frantically. This was so good. He felt, in a way, almost violated. But, in another way, utterly revered. This was the Q show now, his very own hour of glory. He could feel how his lips were pulled away from his teeth, how his eyes squinted at nothing, how the sweat poured off his forehead, and yet that perfect combination of pain and arousal crept closer in tiny, tiny increments, teasing him, forcing him to work harder than he'd ever worked for anything; then suddenly it was upon him, a savage display of power and might, and try though he did he could not prevent actual words from coming out of his mouth. "God! Oh, God!" Kivas' expression was triumphant, but a second later he was diving across the bed to prevent his fist from being torn out of Q's body. In the midst of his orgasm, Q had to roll away from the deadly power of speech, and was now screaming with fear and satiety both. His hands clutched his hair. He was spasming in the throes of passion and simultaneously trembling in terror. Then there was a shaking silence. A very long time passed before Fajo lifted Q'sleg and began to ease his hand out. Q groaned, bearing down as if he were evacuating his bowels. He appeared to have actually forgotten that he had a fist in his ass. Fajo watched Q carefully. Q's eyes were closed and he was panting, weak and shaken. Nonetheless Fajo placed himself against Q's body and – he couldn't even control it anymore – came almost as hard as Q had. A hideous scream cut through the gray air of Christmas morning. Worf and Will sat up. Jean-Luc was sleeping between them. He was covered with sweat because in the night Will reached for Worf and sandwiched Jean-Luc between them. Now Geordi was yelling, "Jean-Luc!" Jean-Luc ran down the hall with Worf and Will behind him. "Jesus Christ, what now?" he said. "It's Data," Geordi said, an undertone of panic in his voice. Jean-Luc looked at Data, who was lying on the bed paler than ever. "I am sorry, Jean-Luc," he babbled. "I never thought death would come to me, especially not this way. I fear that nothing will save me. After I am gone, please carry on the tradition of the Magic Mountain Boys. And by the way, here is a list of phone numbers which will put you in touch with various ambulance services." Geordi took his hand: "You're cold as ice, Data!" A very small, slightly smug smile appeared on Data's face. "Indeed, a classic symptom of dying. I am reminded of Plato's description of Socrates' death." Will began to sob softly. "I forgive you for everything, Will." Jean-Luc had about had it. "What's the cause of this big death scene?" "Alcohol. I feel awful." Geordi withdrew his hand. "Look around you, Data. Everyone feels that way." "We are all," Worf breathed out. "Hungover. It goes with drinking nearly unlimited amounts of mixed liquors." Data's eyes grew very large. "I can make you feel worse," Jean-Luc offered. "Oh. I will never drink again." Not much was open on Christmas morning, so Worf, Will, and Jean-Luc ended up at Waffle Shack for breakfast. When they asked Data and Geordi to go with them and Jean-Luc described the smell of waffles and bacon and sawmill gravy, Data bolted to the bathroom. Then Geordi told them to bring him a Waffle Shack Big Breakfast Special takeout since he was clearly going to have to stay with the ailing Data (who was now making appalling sounds in the toilet). They ate well, lazily reading the various parts of the paper; this Waffle Shack served a big queer clientele so they felt quite at home. They were even cruised. A number of young men walked by hitching their jeans up in a provocative way. "Nice," said Worf. Will liked to turn completely around in his chair to show his approval. Jean-Luc did not discourage this. Several of the boys had caught his eye. "Wonder if I'll get a new toy for Christmas," he said in his low dark voice to the smiling Worf and Will. One in particular seemed intriguing, despite the fact that he was not really that attractive. He was tall, in his mid-thirties, and a bit bloated, with a thick waist, a chubby chin. A black mustache. And his plump ass stretched his black leather pants a bit much for the classic leatherman look he was attempting. Worf followed Jean-Luc's eyes as he watched the chubby leatherman preen. Not the cutest thing in the world, but his soft full lips and big liquid brown eyes and long legs were distinctly reminiscent of Q. The man whirled on his stool, big thighs opened in a provocative manner. Jean-Luc pointed to the seat beside him. The man was sitting there instantly. "You look like a top, but is that the only thing you do?" Jean-Luc asked him. "I like it all," he was breathless and effeminate. "Would you do all three of us?" Jean-Luc said as Will and Worf leaned in closer. This was actually very interesting. "It would be my privilege! See, I know you! I know who you are! I have both your CD's!" "Sweet. We don't even have to introduce ourselves. What's your name?" "Brandon?" he said this as if he were unsure, as if he were so overwhelmed by the beauty of the task at hand that he had forgotten himself. "Where are the others? Can I service them too?" "We'll see. Settle with the waitress, Worf. We have things to do." And he stared at Brandon, who was lowering his eyes and then looking up at Jean-Luc through his thick dark eyelashes. Then he lifted his eyebrows. Just like Q. Jean-Luc smiled a little. Fajo let Q rest for a while. (He could hardly wait to do it again.) He brought Q an early supper made of things he knew Q liked: grape leaves wrapped around ground spiced lamb, a local cheese with the faintest taste of turpentine, honey-soaked baklava. Wrinkly black olives. Walnuts preserved in oil and vinegar. He liked to watch Q eat. Q was naked. Fajo swallowed. Q's eyes were shadowed -- perhaps he was emotionally fatigued from what they had gone through together. "Have you had enough? I want to show you something. You have earned this." He led Q through the large stone-paved central corridor of his home. There was a small door to one side, with an ostentatious digital lock. "I can't wait for you to see this." Fajo keyed in the number which would unlock it. "Here you go! Just for us! Only us!" Q entered and looked around. The room was not large, but it was handsomely decorated. The walls were covered with oxblood leather and studded with brass star-shaped nailheads. There were several lamps with black marble bases and golden shades; the soft light made Q and Fajo gleam in the dark red room. There was not much furniture: a daybed with dark upholstery, a curious arrangement of wooden tables. And more presents in designer bags. Or artfully wrapped in large scarves with hempen ties. Or hidden in shiny pasteboard boxes imprinted with mysterious store names. "Open them, Q. Let the revels continue!" Q did enjoy unwrapping presents. These gifts were of a slightly different nature. Fragrant oils in alabaster jars. Powders and ointments to rub over . . . And what was this? Q looked at a little jar of shiny red capsules. "Those are Soviet-made, Q. For those times when Frau Marouka is visiting her extensive family." Fajo sighed. "It's getting weird in the CCCR." Then, an astonishing variety of sex toys. Some battery-operated. All designed to be stuffed up somebody's willing ass. "Here's something very special, Q. An old acquaintance and business partner of mine is the designer Ransom Amozoki" Q looked at him blankly. "Well, Ransom is very famous. Makes me a lot of money. And of course his private life is quite intriguing as befits a man of our world. I told him to stitch up the perfect garment for the perfect man. That's you, needless to say. Let me help you put it on." The perfect garment would fit in the palm of a man's hand. Fajo made him stand up as he fitted him with his new outfit. It was absurdly simple: a tiny apron of the softest thin black kid leather which fit over Q's genitals. It was fastened in the back by twelve tiny silver chains which followed perfectly the curve of Q's ass. Ransom Amazoki knew what a lover liked. Fajo carefully fastened each chain to each side of the apron, smoothing it carefully over Q's perfect buttocks, then smoothing the front of the apron over Q's aroused cock. Twelve times. Both Fajo and Q were breathing hard. "You're so pretty," Fajo said. He could barely speak. "Now while you're wearing that, let me stick something in you. And then let you walk around. I know I'll come just from watching that." The large dildo he chose was made from black rubber; Fajo oiled it carefuly and with teasing and stretching got Q to take it up his ass all the way to the flared base. Q's little moans of discomfort were music to Fajo's ears. Fajo was right. He came again, hard. "Merry Christmas, Jean-Luc baby! Quark here! Santa Claus must be on the payroll because he's come through bigtime!" "Hmm?" Tommy and Q had always been the ones to understand each other. "There's a bigbigbig article in the next Rolling Stone on the Boys! Cult Band on Cusp of Superstardom! And in the year-end People, you're one of their twenty-five most intriguing! So I called up the boys at DCA, and asked for, and got another six-figure advance! Merry Christmas! We're already booking big directors for the videos! You'll love them!" "They advanced that to us without Q?" "Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc! Without Q? Those two words have no meaning! I told them Q was still in the band. Who says he isn't?" Jean-Luc was silent. Too bad that fuckhole Madred hadn't killed Quark by mistake. Two birds, one stone. "They're sending you a present. No advance. No payback. Just a nice decent Christmas present to insure that you'll be their slave. It'll be parked – oops! I'm giving a hint! – in front of your house this afternoon! Check you later! I've got a date with a lapdancer. But she's three times a lady. I swear. Don't scold, Jean-Luc. You know animal passions as well as I do!" He hung up. Jean-Luc ran his thumb across his lower lip. Then he went and called the other Boys into the dining room; a big shiny table there served as their informal conference room. Everyone assembled expectantly. Data was wearing an ice-bag on his head. "Okay, boys, let's talk. First off, what did all think of Brandon?" Worf and Will smiled. "Nice pussy," said Worf. "She gave it up like a real cunt, a hundred-and-ten-percent cunt," said Will. Brandon had indeed been delightful, squealing, moaning, sweating, bent over, helpless as they took turns fucking his big pink ass. "Break out some more rubbers," Jean-Luc had had to say. Brandon was worth multiple fuckings. (Data had begged off, not wanting to spoil Jean-Luc's love life by his imminent death and loyal Geordi had stayed by Data.) "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking he reminded me of Q. Well, fair enough, but so the fuck what? I defy anyone to get some good puss and not think of Q. That's something we'll have to live with the rest of our days." Data made a tiny moan. Jean-Luc shot him a hard look. Then: "Quark says DCA is advancing us more and the press is still crazy for us. If we play it right, we'll have more ass than we can use. The roads of America are paved with Brandons just lying there ready to fuck and fuck and fuck. And I want to travel those roads. Are you with me? I mean, as far as I'm concerned, the sky's the limit." He lifted his elegant head. "I'm in," said Worf. "Me too," said Will and Geordi. "As long as my health permits," said Data. The next time they went to Fajo's leather chamber, he brought out a ball gag which he stuffed in Q's mouth. "I don't like to use things like this. I think they're props, fakes, substitutes for real passion. This time, however, I do believe it will be useful." He tied the ends around Q's head and pulled another surgical glove on. This one had a sleeve that went all the way up to his elbow. Fajo started with two fingers, then three, then four, then his fist. He was ecstatic. He fucked Q with his fist while Q howled and screamed behind the gag. With the gag, Q wasn't able to make treacherous words. They were both safe. And Fajo was good at fist fucking; Q wanted more. If he could have, he would have taken two fists up his ass, or a hundred. Suddenly then he wanted Johnny's big old fists, and, as he thought of Johnny, he became more frenzied than ever. He was totally vulnerable, open, naked inside and out, and he wanted it this way. He gave it to Fajo, all Fajo could ever want. When they were done, Q peeled Fajo's glove off for him and pulled him down to the daybed with him. Then he began to kiss Fajo all over, reverently lifting Fajo's fist to his lips and bowing his head over it. Then Q touched it to his mouth, to his forehead, to his heart. Fajo was very still. He had won again. Q's heart clearly no longer belonged to that awful Jean-Luc. He should buy something nice for Q. After Jean-Luc's little pep talk, the recording improved. They rehearsed some of the older songs of Q's. They practiced the one that Geordi had written. They had new song-writing sessions. They even did silly things like record "Here Comes the Sun" by the Beatles. Jean-Luc took everyone for rides in the classic 1954 Cadillac convertible DCA had given him for Christmas. It was white and turquoise, "a real pussy wagon," Will said admiringly. Worf thought it was obvious – and touching -- how much Jean-Luc would have liked to have shown it to Q. The Boys seemed to have turned a corner. Data offered to take charge of redecorating their still nearly-empty house. He did a pretty good job for the most part, though Jean-Luc frustrated him by refusing to have anything done to his room. Data put pictures up, and he bought TV trays and standing lamps and a throw rug. The place echoed a lot less. Geordi wanted a hot tub. Data bought him one, thrilled by the novelty of it. All the Boys had to get in and try it out, but soon it was almost exclusively Data and Geordi's since they both liked it so much. Q and Fajo enjoyed Fajo's little forays into Q's rectum with a consistency that drove them back to bed again and again. Fajo always looked so eager, coming in with his little tray of unguents and rubber gloves. He was hungry for Q's loss of control, Q's passion, his enigmatic silence. Q was beautiful on Fajo's island. He walked, he looked, he drank a glass of water, he scratched his shoulder. He walked around some more. The door to Fajo's office was open. Q wanted company, not really Fajo, but Fajo was the only game in town. Fajo looked up and smiled; he was on the phone again. Q smiled back, but Fajo had already turned his attention away from Q. Q looked around the office. Suddenly, Fajo heard something on the phone; he snapped his fingers at Q and pointed to a file box. Q brought it to him. The maid came in; she had the mail. Giving a quick, disdainful look at his little robe, she handed it to Q. There was about six pounds of it. Fajo said, "Q, be a love and throw out these catalogues out for me." Q obeyed, but, instead of putting them in the trash can, he looked at them. He was astonished. Q most certainly knew what a catalogue was. He had pored through the Sears catalogue and dreamed of owning the things inside it, but this was more than riding mowers and aluminum sheds. Q hadn't known there were so many ways to be pampered for mere money. He was clearly shocked. He looked at Fajo. Fajo was off the phone by now; he seemed amused at Q's look. Q pointed: And why did this catalogue have a picture of a man with a pig on a leash? "Does him want a truffle?" Fajo asked fondly. He reached out to caress Q's flaccid genitals. "Has him been a good boy? Does him know how to be a good boy? Be a good boy for Fajo and I'll get you all the truffles you want." Q knew how to be a good boy. He got down on his knees. 48 hours later a grayish-white wrinkly thing was on his plate. Q stared. "It's your truffle," Fajo explained. He told Q about how they were hunted and how they were cooked and how rare they were. He took a bite of his truffle. Q ate all of his. Fajo gave a crooked smile. "These truffles go for eight hundred dollars a pound. You just ate three hundred dollars." Fajo found this information trivial, but Q began to choke and gasp. He had consumed this little bit of food so casually, and now he was still very hungry. But if a man had enough money, he could eat of this until he was full. Fajo could. Q could too, if he prevailed upon Fajo. This was an octave above that time in the grocery store. This was a higher order of existence. Fajo laughed at his charming, backwards American. "I love you people." After that, Q looked at all the catalogues very carefully. One catalogue personally addressed to Fajo claimed to enjoy catering to the tastes of a man with such refined sensibilities. It showed beautiful male models dressed in clothes much like the ones Q wore. There was a catalogue of one-of-a-kind objets d'art. There was a catalogue of cooks who would travel to your house from anywhere around the world and cook a meal for you right in your kitchen. There was a catalogue of artists looking for sponsors. Q took some of the catalogues to his room and stashed them away under a table. Fajo saw him, and one day, when Q was off getting his enema, he went into Q's room and inspected Q's little bundle of loot. Nothing important. Just catalogues. Why did Q keep these? To keep himself entertained? Fajo smiled. Q was so sweet and silly. Fajo couldn't wait to fuck him. Fajo got used to Q being in his office. He forgot that Q was only mute, not deaf, and he carried on long, complex conversations in front of his little human toy. Q often merely lay on his stomach and listened to Fajo's end of the discussion. Sometimes Fajo would get off the phone and talk to Q, venting his emotions as with a pet parrot. Q forced himself to listen attentively. Fajo seemed to have it in for everybody. He was vengeful and played vicious games, gloating when he appeared to win over his imaginary enemies. Q didn't like to hear about Fajo's little battles. The only time he really perked up was when Fajo talked about charities. "Look at this one! They have to ask me for money to feed their own children. How grotesque." Q came and hovered over Fajo's shoulder which pleased Fajo enormously. Then Q pointed. Fajo smiled when Q pointed at things. It was fun to guess what Q was trying to find out. Q was like a little boy in Daddy's office, or a little intern or an ingenue. Q began to pick charities he liked and flirted with Fajo (head tilted to one shoulder, demure little smile, pleading expression) until he said yes. Certain charities who were simply casting messages in a bottle unexpectedly got their desires met because Q interceded on their behalf. Q pointed and pointed. And hoped this would help God to forgive him for being away from his own children for so long. Once to show his gratitude and affection, he sat on the floor with his head on Fajo's leg but Fajo wasn't Johnny. Fajo made a joke about Q's insatiability and shooed him away. Q was learning what it meant to be a rich man. And, he told himself, he was doing some good. Schoolchildren in Borneo got puppet shows. Youngsters in Ireland got to see a traveling exhibit on ancient Egypt. A reservation in Arizona got a luxurious set of encyclopedias and learning aids. Three teachers in the Brazilian rainforest got miraculous stipends that allowed them to teach for another two years. Fajo learned what would interest Q, and he made a game of it. He would show Q a letter requesting money. Q would nod, his eyes shining. Then Fajo would point to the floor and Q would eagerly kneel. Small lives were enriched the world over, all because Q was so good at giving blowjobs to Fajo. Q liked staying busy. He liked evolving plans. He began to use his art supplies to write letters. Some of the letters were to Fajo. They never contained words, only drawings (Q drew fairly well). He drew pictures of fists and ball gags over and over again and slid them under Fajo's office door. Fajo was enormously pleased, and, after these letters to Fajo started, Q got fisted every night unless he was too sore. Q would point to his drawing of the ball gag, and Fajo said, "Oh, you liked that, did you?" He began to assemble more and more bondage paraphernalia. (Q also used his supplies to talk to Jean-Luc, creating lovingly rendered images of Jean-Luc's face in every mood he could remember: Jean-Luc in passion, Jean-Luc smiling, lots of those, Jean-Luc sober, Jean-Luc bemused. He drew himself down in the corners of each picture, looking up at the love of his life. These portraits were a way of avowing his love, and expressing his sorrow that they were apart and his fear that they would never be together again. He ached to send them to America, but he knew that he would have to be very careful about showing these to Fajo. He would have to wait for the right time.) One day Q read a letter Fajo showed him requesting 20K for a project in provincial India. Fajo reached for his checkbook and even wrote a check, but he didn't sign it. Instead he pointed to the floor. Q dropped to the ground like a shot. He sucked Fajo, and when he was done, Fajo pulled himself together and signed the check. That day Q rifled through the outgoing mail, holding that particular envelope up to the light. The check was in there, and Q was calmly delighted. He'd just been paid 20K for a blowjob. There had been a time when he thought $50 was a lot for a blowjob. He wandered back to his room, trying to figure out how much he was making now. With his pen and paper, he began to mess around with the figures -- Q had forgotten the simple pleasure of sums. He was now getting approximately four thousand dollars per fuck or suck. He was hardly worthless. For a week or two, a pleasant brainless joy transformed Q; he made sounds almost like humming. Fajo was astonished. He gave Dr. Nicholopoulos a big bonus, told him to work on the case even more. He went to the mainland to buy Q some presents. (Whenever Fajo went off the island, Dr. Nicholopoulos always came out to stand on the patio and watch Q sunbathing. The guards always looked away with knowing smiles on their faces. He never came close, but it was obvious what he wanted. For a long time all he did was watch, but one day his curiosity got the best of him. As the guards played cards and the sun shone down, he joined Q by the side of the pool and discovered for himself what all the fuss was about. Q didn't mind. It was what he was for. He had learned that much about himself.) When the others decided to practice their instruments, Jean-Luc would take his Cadillac convertible out and drive for hours on the oceanside road. And if it was night and the moon was full, he often stopped to watch the moon, the waves, the beach. He was sure he was getting over Q. For one thing, he could now remember Q, the little things Q did, without plunging into . . . a . . . sort of black sadness that always drowned the world around him. He could now think of what a fine fuck Q was without becoming furious and lonely. Q was a fine fuck. One night in prison, it had been twenty minutes to lights-out, and Jean-Luc was scratching away on pieces of paper, when he became conscious of Q rustling in a very determined way in his bunk. He looked over. Q was lying on his stomach with his arms resting on the pillow. When he saw Jean-Luc look at him, he looked away and at the same time deliberately moved the single sheet covering him to just under the cup of his buttocks. Q had beautiful buttocks. Then he moved his arms back under his chin. Jean-Luc couldn't tear his eyes away. Q had clearly lubricated his ass in preparation for . . . there was a faint gleam in the cleft of his buttocks like the wet gleam inside a young girl's lips, iridescent in the cell's golden light. And then Q looked away and began to gently pump his hips against the inefficient mattress of the prison bunk. Once. Twice. His eyes closed and then opened again and slid to Jean-Luc as he pumped against the mattress. Jean-Luc was stunned – so stiff and hot and wet at his tip he couldn't breathe. Watching Q's broad shoulders and slim waist go down to the lovely flare of his ass. Jean-Luc put his hand over his mouth and rubbed. "Pray for an punctual lights out, baby," he whispered. Q closed his eyes and pumped again and – of all things – the trustees called "lights out" ten minutes early and the lights were out and Jean-Luc was beside Q on the bunk. The cell was glowing with the bright moonlight everywhere. "Turn over – I want to see it." Q obeyed and Jean-Luc leaned down and took Q in his mouth. No one had ever done that to Q – Jean-Luc could feel Q's confusion even as he sucked his cock. He gripped Q's hips with his big hands and moved his head back and forth to take as much of it in his mouth as he could. Then clearly the crisis was coming – Q's breath was rattling and he called out, "No! Jean-Luc!" and started to come in Jean-Luc's mouth. And Jean-Luc had not pulled back but held that big throbbing dick in his mouth til Q was through. Then he said to Q: "On your stomach. I liked the way that looked earlier." Nothing on earth was as beautiful as Q's ass. Nothing was as alluring. Nothing as beguiling and provocative. He eased himself into Q's wet asshole. "Oh, your pussy is so tight and wet I bet you were playing with yourself and you're so wet did you stick something in it waiting for me do you play with it when you're alone tell Daddy tell Daddy what your pussy wants" and fortunately they had a corner cell and the only nearby cell belonged to Worf and Pardek and Worf and Pardek were snoring and Jean-Luc was glad that only Q could hear his obscene beautiful litany. Sometimes Fajo left for several days at a stretch. One of his armed guards would drive him towards the gates of his compound, and Q watched as another set of guards stopped, checked, then saluted and waved them through. They were checking, Q knew, to make sure he wasn't escaping. Q forced himself to simply sit and stare out over the water for hours and hours at a stretch. He often fell asleep after lunch, and sometimes he woke to find a guard standing over him, watching him. Q did more drawings; he wrote more letters. He started writing his sons. He hadn't thought about them much when he was caught up in Jean-Luc's headlong rush to the American dream, but now they weighed on his mind. What it had cost Fajo to buy one of those little designer sex- aprons would buy the boys a new farm. Tears flooded Q's eyes. He was not a good father. And he hadn't sent Beverly any money since his . . . visit with Fajo. He had to go home. Fajo took him to the movie room again. "Look at this!" Again there was a whirring sound, and the deep purple curtains parted. The movie sputtered into being; velvet brown flickers resolved themselves into various creamy shapes. A woman's nude body, a beautiful woman's nude body, appeared. Q recognized her. He went numb. Her name was Melinda Madigan, a starlet type of person, the person on the cover of . . . their . . . his and Johnny's issue of "People". Here, the all-American Melinda was sitting on her haunches with a knowing smile on her face; she faced the camera frankly and honestly. Then a man floated into the camera's view; he was disguised as a giant swan with wings and mask, but naked from the waist down and clearly sexually aroused. She took the swan's erect penis in her wide beautiful mouth. An ancient opera recording of a soprano singing the same line over and over again was the sole noise on the sound track. A high-class porn film. But Q was not disappointed. He could not take his eyes from the screen. She put her long pale hand on her partner's bare ass and drew him closer. He steadied himself on her shoulder and clearly began his orgasm. Then he disappeared; Melinda Madigan gazed steadily at the camera. The opera continued. "I've got some new toys, big wiggly ones with huge flared heads, Q." He gazed at Q's groin. "Look at these still photos. I rather prefer still photos." Q blinked. "This shipment is all Melinda Madigan. Generally, she wouldn't matter, being an ordinary woman piece of ass, but she's one of the most famous actresses in the world. Get this: she's sitting on somebody's stiff dick. They say that's a well-known newscaster! And here's she being fucked in the ass. You can't see who by. I heard it was a famous British murderer! Whoever it is, he's got a big knob. See: here she is giving a blowjob to two men. They're producers!" Q looked at the photos. They were somewhat sexy. "Here's she's getting fist-fucked." They both studied that photograph for a while. Although Melinda Madigan seemed calm and wide-eyed, the camera angle was such that you could see the fist was completely buried in her pussy. Q couldn't help it; now he was hard as he could be. He wanted to be fisted and photographed and to see the photograph and feel the camera flash go off and press against the big thing in his ass and press again and again. He wiggled. "You want it so much!" Fajo was delighted! "I love you!" In the leather chamber, he bent Q over the weird arrangement of tables (it was actually some sort of pillory which, when Q bent over it, left his ass high in the air.) Then lotions and ointments and oils and then Fajo had his hand in Q's ass – Q could hear faint clicks; no doubt that automatic CIA camera, heat-and-motion-activated, was getting this on film. Q writhed in what he hoped was a becoming way; maybe Fajo would get careless and someone else, someone in charge of something, would see the photos and rescue him. He also wanted more in his ass. After the article in Rolling Stone, the crowds outside the house grew larger and more desperate. It was like an open-air market more than a fan club. Jean-Luc often went down just to check out the talent. No one was saying, "Me, Jean-Luc, take me," just yet. But that was certainly what they meant. And Jean-Luc knew what he liked. The lovers he like best had to be beautiful and hung, and they had to have, or at least appear to have, a quality of soulfulness and tenderness of spirit that could be consumed for the delicacy it was. That he was picking duplicates of Q never occurred to him. This night there was the prettiest one he'd seen yet. Tall. Slender. The longest blackest hair. The prettiest black eyes anywhere. "Isn't it a nice night?" Jean-Luc said to him. "Yes," the boy breathed. "I love the stars in January. Look at them." "Yes. Yes." "What's your name?" "Okona. Mike Okona." The boy had a wide shy smile. A pretty mouth. Q had a pretty mouth. And what would Jean-Luc do to Q if he had him there right that second? Jean-Luc studied the boy. "O'Connor?" "No, it's Polish. Okona." "Let's go inside. I want to show you something." Inside, Jean-Luc turned to the boy and said, "I assume you're eighteen. Not that I give a fuck. But I don't want the FBI on my ass." "I'm twenty-four." "A pretty age. Tell you what: Let's go to my bedroom and have some fun." "Yes. Yes." In the bedroom, Jean-Luc said, "I want you to fuck yourself with this big plastic dick while you cry. I'm curious about how that would look." "Well," Okona said, "Okay, anything for you, Jean-Luc, but it's hard to cry for no reason." "I can change that." And Okona looked into Jean-Luc's eyes and then Jean-Luc slapped him once and once only, and then handed him the plastic dick and Okona was weeping and fucking himself into such a frenzy that it was hard to stop, and he was breaking himself open for Jean-Luc's pleasure and Jean-Luc was breathing heavy with his power over this boy, his power which he loved more than any sex, and after Okona came, gasping, wheezing, crying, his face red and wet, he begged Jean-Luc to tell him, "Was I good? Was I good? You have to tell me!" And Jean-Luc looked at Okona once more, this time as if he were a moderately interesting chef on a cooking show in a foreign language. He said "Yes, but I have to go." Then he left the room. It took Okona nearly an hour to recuperate enough to get up and walk out the door. (This was one of the most pivotal sexual interactions of his young life, even though Jean-Luc had never even touched him.) Q was asleep when he sensed someone in his room. He murmured ‘Johnny' in his sleep and then settled down again. The next morning Fajo was in an inexplicably foul mood. "This charade of not talking is growing tiresome to me." Q agreed. He would talk. Today. He lifted his chin determinedly. He opened his mouth. He looked at Fajo. No sound came out. His breathing became very rapid. He looked away from Fajo. His breathing calmed down. "Don't you tune me out. Look at me, damnit." Q turned his head back to him, his face wary, his shoulders stiff. Fajo said, "Say 'Kivas,'" as if Q were a parrot. The very thought was making Q ill. He shut his eyes. "Say ‘Kivas.' Say ‘Kivas,' Goddammit." Unlike Jean-Luc, Kivas didn't like to hit people. He was satisfied with verbal bullying. He felt some glee at the effect his demands had on Q. "Come on. What are you afraid of? Speak!" Q jumped up and strode away. Kivas followed, but Q was only standing by the patio door. His chest was heaving as if he were crying. Kivas saw the tears and smiled. Johnny would have seen the tears and fucked him but good, but Kivas wasn't Johnny. "I'm sorry. So very terribly sorry. We'll work on your therapy later." He ran his hand over the golden curves of Q's ass. "Would you like a present? Maybe you can ... indicate something nice I could give you." He turned Q to face him. He made a funny little face. "I'm good at giving things." Q wanted just one thing. He kissed Fajo's fist. Fajo smiled. Q smiled back. In a graceful harem gesture, he indicated that he wanted Fajo to follow him to his bedroom. Fajo was pleased to do so, his eyes on Q's beautiful ass and long tan legs. Once in the bedroom, Q went to the table where he drew and got some papers. Fajo smiled more broadly; more drawings of fists, no doubt. They were letters. Q touched his chest. He held his palm down by his waist, indicating a child. A letter to a child? Fajo didn't like this reminder of Q's other life, but he nodded and took the letters. Q smiled again. Fajo smiled back, meaning nothing. Pressure from the stock-holders made the record execs try to persuade Jean-Luc to find a replacement mandolin player. Needless to say, Jean-Luc was quite recalcitrant, and therefore he began to get two reputations. The first was as a stupidly loyal hillbilly who was too dumb to know good fortune when it hit him in the face. The second was as the scariest man who ever lived. He seemed to shimmer with hate at the stupid, ignorant, arrogant assumptions that he could be sweet-talked into abandoning Q for a promise of more money and a big shiny car. Out of desperation, they started sending a variety of lovers to Jean-Luc, but none lasted. The first was a beautiful shemale with the artificial, exaggerated femininity all transvestites seemed to carry. It worked for a while. Then he picked a sculpted Russian dancer with pouting lips and perfect grace to all his movements. Finally there was a lovely California boy, a surfer, with bleached blonde hair and the vacuous friendliness of a person whose entire life has been lived in safety. Jean-Luc loved them all a little bit, but he was obviously not some hillbilly pushover. Then the record company encouraged Jean-Luc to go to the dinner in honor of People magazine's Most Intriguing 25 People of the Year. They had Ransom Amazoki make him a tuxedo which he wore with a perfectly-placed cowboy hat. Data -- also in a Ransom Amazoki creation -- was his date. Or whatever. Jean-Luc kept on telling himself that it was worth it. That attending a few of these hideous occasions would free him so he could pursue life on the highway, a life filled with handsome novel pussy and money and success and traveling, always traveling. He was seated between Data and a young woman who was also a Most Intriguing. She was gone during the first two courses while some of the most excruciating speeches were made, but suddenly at the first meat course she was seated beside him. "I know you," she said in a teasing gentle husky voice. "You're one of those Boys." Jean-Luc turned to her and recoiled slightly. He smelled something. Something that smelled startlingly like... "I bet you smell cum. I bet you know that smell. I got some on my dress. I was blowing that man – he's some sort of director -- in the men's room. I thought it would be fun." She was extraordinarily lovely. Big and freckled with wide wide features: a broad mouth, huge dark blue eyes. She was mocking him. "Speaking of fun, do you just do boys?" Jean-Luc turned to her. She was a very interesting girl. "I believe you have the advantage, Miss . . ." "Melinda Madigan." She was not embarrassed or angry that he didn't know her name. She smiled with the sides of her lips turned up as if holding a golden coin in her mouth. Her tits were big, high on her tall frame. Jean-Luc was astonished. She leaned over to play with a glass of champagne, but actually simply to make sure Jean-Luc saw as much of her cleavage as possible. "Melinda Madigan," he said in his low dark whisper. "You are astonishing. Let's go somewhere now and fuck." "Everybody I know says you only like it in the butt." "Don't do that to me," Jean-Luc said to her, and she leaned back against the chair. She had huge, hard nipples that showed through the bodice of her evening gown. He liked big nipples. These looked like thumbs. He couldn't quit staring. "Look, Jean-Luc!" Data said. "There's Floyd!" Floyd was a bright blue gila monster very popular with children of all ages. He had an irritating theme song, and clearly some poor out-of-work actor had been persuaded to don the felt Floyd outfit and come to the banquet. Floyd was also a Most Intriguing. Jean-Luc wanted to vaporize the annoying Data, but . . . Melinda might not care for that. "I like your date, Boy. He's hot." "Like all God's creatures, he has pluses and minuses." She was a real bitch. Jean-Luc couldn't get enough. "Are you wearing panties?" "I forget." Jean-Luc thought the top of his head would come off. Fajo brought in new technology. He had Dr. Nicholopoulos inject Q with a drug. "This is a truth serum. I'm going to ask you some questions and want you to answer them. Now tell me, why won't you speak?" "I can't," Q heard himself gasp out. Then he heard himself start to scream. After that he had a vague memory of servants running in and standing helpless as Nicholopoulos injected him with something that made him sleep, and he was aware of the sound of screaming several times after that, and Fajo standing over him, demanding that Nicholopoulos do something but little else left an impression. It was only after Fajo put the ball gag in his mouth that he was able to calm down enough to eventually slip into natural sleep. Lotta synthetic women walking up and down Sunset Boulevard. But Melinda Madigan was the real thing. She and Jean-Luc fucked in every position for four hours straight. "Okay, Boy, give me all of it," she said, "and more." And her face never lost that little smile. Her mouth kept its golden coin. "When can I see you again?" Jean-Luc felt compelled to say to her. She shrugged. "I go to Tunisia tomorrow. Eighteen months. I'm shooting a movie there. Science fiction with a touch of old Egypt. It ought to be freaky. I play the kind of girl Pharaohs like." "I can see that. Who will you fuck in Tunisia?" "I'll probably rent a canoe and get me some of that Monte Carlo ass." They looked at each other. She was tall, nearly as tall as Q, with long long beautiful legs, those eyes, that big bad mouth. Jean-Luc's fingers walked over her intricate pattern of freckles. He could get lost in that pattern. He almost didn't know what to say to her. "I like your tattoo." She had a crisp American flag tattooed right below her navel. "That's what I bought with my first Hollywood paycheck. To show everyone I'd made it." "Indeed. To show everyone? Even, say, your grandmaw?" "Hardee har har," she said, positioning herself on top of him again. Jean-Luc couldn't possibly get hard again, but that didn't stop her. "Leave my grandmaw outa this." "Can you bring yourself off that way? I'm afraid I'm through for the night." "What if I asked you to put it up my butt? His dick twitched. "What if I asked you to put it up my grandmaw's butt? His dick twitched again. "You pervert!" and Jean-Luc grabbed her and rolled over on her and they couldn't quit laughing. Fajo had no idea how to feel. He had captured the most beautiful thing on earth, but he felt like a man who had robbed an invisible bank of invisible billions or a novelist who had written the world's greatest work in invisible ink. Now that he had been . . . intimate with every inch of Q, what was left? And Q wasn't getting better at all. As a matter of fact, if anything, Q was becoming a little less human everyday. Fajo began to be reminded of he liked going to the mainland. How he liked to see hustling, bustling urban life. The noise of the cities enchanted him. Q stayed home, secreted away like his geisha wife, beautiful and exotic and smiling when he greeted Fajo on his return. The last time, on the mainland, he had met Aristoff Karnas, his main rival in the arms business. Karnas had his newest pets with him, identical twin boys from Bangkok. "Haven't seen you about much lately, Fajo. Is everything okay?" "Of course," Fajo said in a frosty tone. He couldn't help peeking at Karnas' twins. They were small and tan and dimpled and heavily made up. And they clearly worshiped Karnas, giggling and writhing together and holding hands. Fajo had a sudden brainstorm. Jean-Luc drove Melinda to the airport; she was taking the studio's jet to Tunisia. Before that, he enjoyed watching her do last minute packing. In the nude. "Oh rats, where's my passport," she said. It was on the dresser. Jean-Luc picked it up. He had never had a passport; they looked like nice little booklets, neatly bound and official. "Check out the passport photo. I look just like Georgia O'Keefe." He smiled at her and opened it up. What the . . . "Who's Jadzia Dax?" "Boy, what rock do you live under? That's my real name. I was born gnarly little immigrant Jadzia Dax on the wrong side of Chicago – my parents came here from Czechoslovakia. It's part of my legend. Nobody is born Melinda Madigan." "I like the name Jadzia Dax. Why'd you change it?" A name change was a little like a lie. "I wanted an American name. Jadzia Dax is a bit too bohunk for the likes of me." She sighed. "I'd like a valedictory fuck from your big dick on the jet, so let's hurry." Fajo had started reading the newspapers and making phone calls to his broker during supper while Q sat there in silence. Fajo himself didn't appear to notice, but Q could see it. Fajo's eyes were harder. He was losing much of the pretense that they were lovers and simply ordered Q around. He was also spending more time on the mainland. Now, when Q expressed interest in charities that caught his eye, Fajo didn't even make Q perform little sexual acts. Q would have preferred being a whore. Selling ass was comfortable and familiar territory. This indifference was terrifying. Then, one night after a extended trip to the mainland, Fajo came into the dining room. He looked tired and, when he looked at Q, his eyes held no emotion. "Q, if this relationship is to be successful, we're going to have to do some work. Just repeating the old pathways isn't achieving anything. I've gotten in touch with some of my friends and talked about things. They want to arrange a therapy session for you on the mainland. I thought it was a good idea." Q's heart was racing with fear. "Ransom Amazoki, remember the little leather . . . thing he made, is motoring over here tomorrow for us. You'll need some special togs." He patted Q on the arm in a friendly way. Ransom Amazoki was small and acerbic, and then he saw Q and his eyes lit up. "Q, take off that stupid thong," Fajo said. "Show Ransom what's he working with." Q leaned over and pulled it off; then he stood up straight. Amazoki leaned back for a moment and regarded Q. "Kivas, that's pretty hard to take. And he's mute?" Fajo smiled proudly. "Yes." "What luck." And Amazoki snapped his fingers and a small crew of seamstresses and assistants came in; Amazoki addressed them in French and they all looked carefully at Q. "Now, Kivas, I envision something like the Apollo Belvedere. A cape and some knee-high sandals, you know such as gladiators wear. Leather and beautifully crafted. His hair blowing free. Dark jewelry at all his pulse points. He won't be wearing anything else. Then when the session begins, he'll take off the cape . . and oh, my." Q listened carefully. A session where he was naked. "Those shoulders of his are round and soft and pink as tits." Ransom shook his head. "I have a problem with that, Ransom," Fajo interrupted. "He has a bad scar on his left shoulder. It . . . mars the finish. You know what I mean. If he takes off his cape and everyone sees his scar . . . ." Amizoki stood beside Q and turned him around. "Hmmm," he said; then he turned Q around again and again. "Kivas, you have outdone yourself. All this and mute too. Christ!" He leaned in. "If it were my choice, I'd make a leather shoulder guard from the same finished leather of the sandals. When he takes off his cloak, we only see one shoulder but that's enough." He ran his hand down Q's satin ass. "I need to take his measurements." Like tigers patiently watching their prey for hours on end, the record company owners had been watching the Magic Mountain Boys. And the moguls were delighted when the word came out: the Boys were auditioning mandolin players. Many young men wanted to be the new mandolin player for the Boys. But there was one who stood out. "Remember me, Jean-Luc?" said the enigmatic and smiling Vietnamese boy with blond hair. "I'm Tranh. You fucked me in Phoenix and then signed my hat." "Play the mandolin," Jean-Luc ordered, but his face was soft. The boy was quite credible. "Thank you," said Quark. "We'll be in touch." "I learned the mandolin just for you, Jean-Luc." Jean-Luc nodded. Nice. Very nice. Extremely nice. Nice didn't even begin to cover it. He remember every little wet inch of Tranh's body. He sat back with his legs apart. "Jean-Luc stop doing that," Quark begged. Jean-Luc gave a feral smile to Tommy. "Can you tell he's the one I like the most?". It was the first time Q had been off the island in five months. The very air was different. Perhaps he'd be somewhere where someone would see him. Still he was wary of Fajo's therapy session. Frau Marouka had taken more time than usual giving him a cleansing. And now suddenly he was in some sort of servants' quarters and Ransom Amazoki and Fajo were fussing over his new outfit. Then they left him and he was alone. He looked around. The room was high-ceilinged and lit by wall lights placed carefully around the edge of the ceiling. An opened door led to a bathroom. Q looked at himself in the mirror. It was a nice outfit, he had to admit. His shoulder guard was beautifully studded soft black leather, and his high sandals matched. His cape was short and white and it attached to the turquoise bracelets Fajo had given to him. Amizoki had cut the cape on the bias so it draped quite nicely on Q's body, seeming to float even if there were no breeze. Of course, he was completely naked otherwise; it was funny how he had gotten used to that. The door opened and Fajo stuck his head in. "Come on, Q. Join the party." Q followed Fajo down a long spacious hallway; everywhere were beautiful marble artifacts. Then Fajo paused at a set of oversized double doors. "Here we go," he muttered. "You better behave." And he flung the doors open. A big room, beautifully appointed, large floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, reflecting the glittering night and the harbor lights. A three-piece band playing soft and pensive modern jazz. And a crowd of extremely well-dressed and well-groomed men and women who turned to Fajo. "Fajo, welcome!" Fajo straightened his small shoulders, and both Q and he walked in. Everywhere Fajo was greeted. A bulky dark-haired man came up to him. He was accompanied by two young Asian men. "Hell-O, Fajo. So this is your little secret. I AM impressed." Fajo lifted his chin. And now most of the party people were coming up to look at Q. "What a pretty boy," someone said, as if he were a pet. "Too bad Melinda has to be in America," someone else said. "Oh, it makes me glad," another voice said, "now there's more for us." Fajo's bulky friend leaned in to Fajo. "I can't wait to put the stones to that." Fajo laughed with him. "Oh, Karnas, you card," he said. Someone touched Q, touched his ass. "Let's break him in now," Fajo's friend said. "Ransom, help me take off his cape." Oooohs and aaaaahs. "He looks like a statue of a God." Ransom smiled at the speaker. Someone else said, "get the traditional blindfold out." "Wait, before you do, there's something you need to know to understand him. He's mute." Q heard words he didn't understand being said, no doubt some kind of European translations of mute. "He's psychologically mute. And this is part of his . . . therapy." The band kept playing. "Spread him out, Fajo," Karnas called. "I'll do better than that. You attach him," Fajo said to the bodyguard. And Q found himself being blindfolded and attached by strong leather cuffs to a wooden catafalque. "This is so fun," he heard a woman's pretty voice say. "I want first blood," said a man's deep voice. "Put the harness on him." Harness? And he felt practiced hands attaching a wide leather belt around his waist; he could hear the creak of the worn leather, he could feel how it curved naturally around him. "Bring in that big box of condoms," he heard Karnas ordering someone. When he heard that, Q couldn't help it; he began to pull against the cuffs. Fajo was beside him in a second. "Stop embarrassing me in front of everyone. Or you will be sorry," he whispered. Then in a louder voice he said, "I apologize. You know how these Americans can be." Everyone laughed politely. "Charles, I believe you wanted first blood." "He needs a lesson, doesn't he, Fajo?" Was that Charles? "You betcha." And Q felt a cold metal implement being pushed against his anus and there was a soft soughing sound and then he felt a tepid liquid running down his legs. "Lights low and musical effects, Fajo," said the voice now right behind Q. "This isn't a public sex club." There were some titters. The band began to play a faster kind of music; the organist in particular kicked in. Tense high notes were interspersed with sweet violin effects. And someone was fucking Q. Someone he didn't know, someone who didn't know him, some faceless man with a big dick and no name. Someone ruthless and rapid and indifferent. "This is so much nicer," said a woman's voice. "I hate to see their big stupid fake faces when they get assfucked. All ooh's and ahhh's. Just get it in the ass and get it over with." "Somebody dick me a little too," said the man fucking Q. "Oooh," said a voice, and Q could hear more pretty giggles and feel the animated air behind him. The man fucking him shifted and began short sharp thrusts. "You feel that, asshole?" he said. Q could feel a tugging at the belt around him; it must have had handles for a top to hold on to. He was trying to focus on the leather belt, the physics of it, the engineering. The faceless Charles came with a dramatic groan. "Oh, for God's sake," said the critical woman. "Who's next?" said Fajo with a false heartiness. "Let my man do it," Charles said; he was stroking Q's flank. "Perfect," Fajo said, but Q could hear worry in his voice. Charles' man was bigger than he was. He was a very matter-of-fact fuck. "Now, Charles, where's your man from?" "Senegal, I think. He doesn't speak English." "He's quite attractive." "He's all right," Charles said casually. Charles' man was followed by two other faceless and nameless men, but Q could tell the audience was losing interest. Each anonymous fuck was the same as the next or the last. Well, how did anyone expect them to stay interested? With every fuck, Q was becoming more and more invisible. Karnas was beside him, eating something. Q could smell garlic and lamb. "My goodness, Fajo, this item of yours is surely very nice. What about if we turned him over and let my two play with him?" "Bored already, Karnas?" Fajo said acerbically. "Not at all. I like the way your pet looks. And the muteness is a real gift. You can pretend to be anything you like with him. You can pretend he's anything you want." Fajo was silent. Q could feel the anger rolling off him. "What say, Fajo?" "Very well. Leave the blindfold on though. It's just more aesthetic that way." Small practiced hands undid his chains and pulled at him to turn over. Then Q felt soft warm breath on his cock and a small tongue flicking at him; he tried to thrust towards it. If he didn't get some sort of hard-on, he would be invisible forever. He assumed it was the Asian men with Karnas who were attending him so frantically; he felt like Gulliver with their busy ministrations. "He's got a big one, but he's not hard," Karnas remarked. More invisible by the second. Q could hear Fajo breathing in fury. Q had one trick left: he was still masked so he couldn't see how big his audience was, but he made a fist and put it next to his heart. "What's he mean?" Karnas asked. Fajo sighed. "He wants to be fisted. Who'll do the honors?" There were puzzled murmurs. "Let my man do it," said Charles. "What's his name anyway?" Fajo said. "Tuvok." "Can you tell Tuvok to fistfuck Q?" Charles said something incomprehensible and Q was bound again to the catafalque. The crowd was now making pleasant hopeful noises. Q was a little more visible. He felt more lubricant being applied and he heard the snap of a rubber glove. Then he felt fingers probing him, one, two, three. "He looks quite ready," drawled Karnas. Only a hard-on would make Q visible; he pushed his ass out as if he were greedy and he was, because only something as big and definite as a fist would make him hard. More murmurs. He felt his anus being extended then by something large and he backed against it. Then he rocked again and again against the alien hand. In his mind was only darkness and the full push of the fist and suddenly it was in him and he was hard. This fist was good – its soft punching motions were just caressing enough. The rhythms never changed and he saw nothing and heard nothing inside his black silk mask, feeling only the relentless fist against his heart. If Q opened himself up completely, he would be visible and people would have to notice him. "I would never thought it was possible. Look at how much he can take," a young man's voice, European, wondering, said. "I heard of people who can take two fists." "Oh, yes, I've seen the photographs." By now Q was cresting on the sensation. This Tuvok had a certain mechanical quality as he moved against Q, but that was what Q needed. Q moved again. Just a little more and his orgasm would be triggered. Jean-Luc's fist, Jean-Luc's powerful forearm, and he knew that arm so well, roped with veins familiar as a face to him, and he imagined it inside him pulsing with him and then he began to rear back, the fist still pounding inside him, his cock jerking against the air, splashing the catafalque, and his whole body pulsing too. The crowd made a satisfied sound. They clapped heartily. When Q recovered, he tried to feel the air. What was his owner thinking? But Fajo was a blank space. "May I?" said a different man. No one said no. Q could hear people moving away. Then somebody was fucking him. And while that happened, a woman naked from the waist down climbed on his back rubbing herself against him. Pretty giggles. "This is great," she said. Another woman came over. "Does he eat pussy?" "I imagine so," said an unknown voice. Q was the most invisible he'd ever been. The ride back to Fajo's island was a nightmare. Fajo was as silent as Q. Q didn't talk, for God's sake, what kind of lover was that? Q was just like the rest of his collection. Lovely, rare, but ultimately unresponsive; closed inside himself in a way Fajo couldn't breach. And Karnas, big fat stupid ugly Karnas, had hit the nail on the head. It was all pretense! Because Q was mute, none of it was real! "Don't you have any brains in that big American head?" Q was indifferent to insult. His inability to speak had become a refuge. Fajo didn't mind kicking a helpless man when he was down. In fact, he rather liked it. Fajo tried taunting him. He played music from The Magic Mountain Boys CD's, but instead of looking wistful, Q smiled. He was so stupid he thought Fajo was doing him a favor. "You'll never be able to sing or play with them again, you know." Q nodded sadly. "Doesn't that bother you?" Fajo probed. Q nodded again. His face turned down. Tears welled up. Well, there was a little pleasure in that, but Fajo was seriously bored. Abruptly he made plans to be gone for a couple of weeks. A skeleton crew could take care of Q. "I've written a song," Jean-Luc told the at their next rehearsal. "It's rough." He seemed almost apologetic. "It's called "The Christian and the Lion." He sang in his low voice: "I'm the man on the mountain getting ready to plowThe lines were unfinished but they sounded as if they were better unfinished. As Jean-Luc sang, the other boys began to pick up his lurching rhythms. Will was first to be in synch. "I know I should be a Christian until the end of timeThe band was in perfect coordination. "Just one gallon and I'll get oh yeah yeahJean-Luc set down his lyric sheet – it was obvious these chaotic lyrics were all he had. But the band stayed on playing. They liked this song very much. Geordi kept an insistent sledge-hammer rhythm going with Will. Data hummed and yelped while Worf followed him note for note. Jean-Luc kept saying "yeah yeah". Then Geordi sped it up and only Worf could keep up with him; together Jean-Luc and Data sang incoherent notes and Will clapped his hands. Suddenly, Worf and Geordi stopped playing; in the silence, Data's high tenor and the curves of Jean-Luc's sable baritone held one note, and then Jean-Luc said "yeah yeah" once again. The song was over. Yet not. "This will work," Jean-Luc told the Boys. "We're sitting in the catbird seat." Geordi was very still. Then he said: "Sometimes I have this sixth sense that tells me when a storm is coming. But what's the opposite of a storm?" Fajo reluctantly returned to his tedious island. Time for fun with Q. "Eyeliner, Q." Q shook his head no. "Q, Q, Q, can't we get along? You don't seem to get it. I'm trying to reform you. I'm going to make you healthier. I'm going to teach you all the stuff that I know." He sighed. "What do you want from me?" "What do you want from me?" Q asked. It was like a bird's cry. His voice was high and soft with disuse, but it was perfectly audible. He had been hoping his noise would entice Fajo. He had practiced softly while Fajo on the mainland. It hurt like hell, but Q thought if Fajo could hear him, then maybe he could see him too. He was hoping for the best. "I practiced. When you were gone. I wanted to surprise you." Fajo smiled back. "Come with me," he purred. "This calls for a special treat." He led the way to the leather room. Q trusted Fajo not to hurt him. He knelt when Fajo told him to kneel, held his arms out to be secured at the wrists, and did not object when Fajo tied his legs down also. Fajo was clever. By the time Q figured out that this was for punishment, not pleasure, he was already bleeding. "Oh, God!" Q cried when Fajo thrust again. "Fajo, please stop!" It was music to Fajo's ears. He punched at Q again. "I can't stop, Q, I'm helping you. Now that you have your voice back, you have to practice using it so you won't forget!" And then he did some more damage. Q screamed. His body went slack. Fajo stepped back and sighed with satisfaction. He'd made Q talk at last. He had cured him! Done what none other could do! As for the rest, well, there was nothing to do but make Dr. Nicholopoulos earn his paycheck. He was almost smug as he went to the doctor and confessed. "I... I... lost control. I think he needs you." Nicholopoulos cursed as he pulled Q's body down off the pillory. He cursed some more after examining Q. He called the burly guards in and had them carry Q's body to his bed. Blood dripped on Fajo's rare marble tile, and Fajo frowned at that. Dr. Nicholopoulos sedated Q and cleaned him out. Fajo and the guards waited outside Q's bedroom. When Nicholopoulos came out again, he stared at Fajo somberly. "If you touch him like that again, you'll kill him. I won't be responsible," he said in Greek. The guards looked at each other in amazement. They understood Greek. Fajo went to the pool to dine. All his guards were gathered in little knots around him, by the pool, near the cliffs. What the fuck was going on? Didn't they know they could be fired too? His captain came up and smiled and opened a bottle of wine for Fajo. "Would you mind telling me what is going on?" said Fajo. The captain smiled more broadly. "Do you know what the men are calling you now?" Fajo stared at him coldly. The captain said a strange word Fajo didn't understand. Fajo lifted his eyebrows. "That's their word for ‘horse'. They know what you did to the big pretty Americani. You are The Horse to them." Then he shouted something incomprehensible in Thracian. The guards cheered and threw their caps in the air. ‘They are glad to lay their lives down for The Horse." No drug on earth could have given Fajo a bigger rush. He felt better than he had in months. He looked down and smiled shyly. "Tell the boys The Horse thanks them. Tell the boys I am going away for a while, but when I come back I will give them a banquet with the best wines and the most beautiful girls and boys to dance for them all night. You can also tell them I'm through with the Americani. I'm going to take him back to his little village now." He held his finger and thumb about an inch apart to indicate how little Q's village was. "Here you are, Q, back in your big stupid smiling country." Q was oblivious to Fajo's insults. As soon as he was well enough to travel, Fajo had smuggled him back on his private plane to the US. The first stop was Fajo's New York penthouse. Fajo owned the whole building and his apartment took up the top floor, so large it had its own arboretum. At any other time, Q would have been entranced by its fairy-tale qualities, but now he just wanted to get home. "I want to go see my sons." Fajo just wanted the last word. "You mean, in that Godforsaken inland refuse dump your government actually endowed with a zip code? That place?" "Yes." Q looked at Fajo guilelessly. "I need some money." Fajo was annoyed. Q had used him so much, taken so much advantage of his largess, of his kind and gentle nature. He gave Q 50k. He had already had a jeweler in to carefully unhitch the jewelry he'd given Q. Q said, "Do you want me to come back here?" "So I take it you don't plan on staying in Kentucky." Q suddenly felt as if he were negotiating. "I should go back to L.A. Find the band. See what's going on." The Boys. Johnny! Luckily, Fajo did not know how helpless Q felt or he would have been happier. Fajo merely thought he had been charged with the task of caring for a tedious invalid. He said, "Fine, I'll take you to L.A., but after that I'm going to have to go." Q nodded. "Okay, Kivas." Kivas rolled his eyes. Americans. The doorman called up. Mr. McConn's airport limousine was here. The flight from New York to Atlanta was very pleasant. Q walked down the long corridors of Atlanta's endless airports. He heard a Four Tops song on the radio and looked up at the speaker. Just above his head. It was round and perforated like a shower-head. He listened to the song for a bit, and then he put his arms out at his sides and began to spin. He spun faster and faster. Everyone watched this beautiful creature who seemed to be amazed by the very American oxygen he was breathing Beverly got the phone call. "Unbelievable," she told her momma, who said, "get them young'uns cleaned up right this minute, Beverly Lanelle Crusher, and I don't meant maybe. They ain't seen their daddy for years." Q parked his rented Volvo by a stand of rough cedars. Kentucky. He couldn't believe it. Home. He looked at the cedars. It was late February, but it felt like spring. He saw the Crusher homestead. A one-story farm house covered with tar paper textured to look like gray brick. A rusted metal roof. A crooked little stovepipe with smoke pouring from it. Then his boys came tumbling out of the front door, all over each other, and ran to him: they were so big! "Look at you!" Q was on his knees in dark wet loam , and he didn't even notice. He had all three boys in his arms, squeezing as if he'd never let go. "What did you bring us?" they all said and laughed. Q's face turned up. He didn't know if he'd be able to stop smiling. Naturally he'd stopped at a toy store. He opened up the back door of the Volvo. There were bags and bags of shiny new toys. His boys gasped. Who had ever seen so much stuff! "Which one's mine, Diddy? Which one's mine?" "You boys share now. Vernon, remember what I always wrote you about looking after your brothers. You take some and you let them have some." They tore through the bags, pulling plastic cop sets and basketballs and water guns and genuine medieval fortress kits out of the backseat. And there were books with stiff new spines, and three perfect skateboards, and strange little balls that bounced wayyyyy high and a slinky and three G.I Joes, and brightly colored modeling clays and a bunch of sports figures (the boys had a brief but furious dust-up about who got to keep a particular basketball player. "Share," Q ordered) and there were candy straws and peppermint patties and peanut cups and coconut and every kind of candy possible. "Those are for you to share with your cousins," Q directed. The boys ignored him, gobbling the candy until he had to order them to stop. More slowly, Beverly and her mother and Buddy and Sonny and Junior approached. They saw things the boys did not notice. For instance, the car that had purred like a kitten as it came up the driveway. Q's clothes which were new and fit him as if they'd been wrapped around his body and sewn on by hand. His tan which was somehow different from what they were used to; not the bright red burn of a face that had been chewed up by the sun, but an even, perfect layering of gold and brown pigment. His long hair which did not trail to raggedy edges, but rather, when it came loose from all the hugging and squeezing, fanned across his back with a crisp, deliberate edge. No one's hair grew so perfectly like that. Q looked to them as if he might be from another planet. "We love you, Diddy!" This came from Roger, the smallest one, the one with the reddest hair. "I love my boys!" That much was obvious. He couldn't stop touching them, stroking their hair, smiling at them, staring at them. "Hello, Quentin," Beverly said. She was smiling nervously. "Beverly, Mrs. Crusher," he said. He nodded to the brothers. "I made some coffee, Quentin. You come on up to the house," Beverly's mother said. The coffee was good, and, after Q sat silently with the Crushers for a while, his sons came in. Their grandmother smiled and gave them big biscuit-like raisin cookies. "Diddy, are you back for good?" said Roger. "Daddy has to go back to work, I'm afraid, but tomorrow I want us all to go into town and buy some clothes for you. And lots of new shoes! For those big old feet of yours!" "Diddy, are you spending the night with us?" asked Vernon. "No, I'm staying with Meemaw McConn tonight." "How come you ain't staying here with us, Diddy?" "Meemaw's got a lot more room at her house," Q said smoothly. "How come you don't like women no more, Diddy?" Everyone looked up. It was either Sonny or Buddy. Q looked straight at the brothers. "Oh, I like some women." Beverly had the grace to look away. She looked mighty old. Q reached into his pocket to pull out a huge roll of bills. He peeled off a few and handed the rest to his wife. "Here, Beverly, buy yourself something pretty." And his glance wandered casually back to his brothers-in-law. Beverly stuffed the money into her pockets without really looking at it, but her mother had noticed the denominations on the bills. She was furious. "Don't you dare come in this house throwing money around like that! You think I don't know what you're doing?" Quentin knew exactly what she meant. He wanted to be the head of this terrible family. And he would buy his way there if he had to. Everyone clustered around as Beverly pulled thousand-dollar bills out of her pockets, and they stared at the money and then stared at Quentin resentfully. They could not say no to this much cash. Q stared back serenely, and then said to his sons, "Did you boys tell me you liked the Krystal? Come on, we'll get us some hamburgers and Cokes." "Yay, Diddy!" they all said and ran to get their shabby coats. There was more silence. Q stood. "Beverly, day after tomorrow I'm heading back to L.A., where the band is. When I get there, I'll send you my address so in case the boys need anything else." Beverly never looked up; she only nodded. Afterwards the boys could talk of nothing except what Diddy ate for dinner and what Diddy bought them and what Diddy said he was going to buy them, and Momma can we go to California and see Diddy, please, please, please. He said we could if it was all right with you, please, Momma? Beverly was overwhelmed. Her brothers scowled, greedy and resentful. They wanted some more of Q's money. Q was back at the penthouse. He was a honest whore. Fajo was exasperated, "Where in LA do you want to be dropped off?" Q hid his freedom well. It seemed wise to act sad at leaving Fajo. It seemed wise to act thankful, too. Holding very still, he gave Fajo Quark's address. Fajo barely glanced at it. Still watching Fajo, Q called Quark. They spoke briefly. Then Q took his suitcase, still unpacked from Kentucky, and left. He barely breathed til he was on the plane to L.A. Quark called the house, and Geordi answered. His voice was full of sunshine. "Quark, hello!" "Don't tell Jean-Luc." Geordi was taken aback. Quark sounded furtive and subdued. "Q just called. He's coming home tomorrow. He wanted the address. I gave it to him." How could such good news be so horrible at the same time? Jean-Luc left the room when Geordi worked up the nerve to tell the other Boys. And all the next day, the Boys couldn't do anything but hover near the front door. Only Jean-Luc stayed in his room, maintaining a scary silence. At four o'clock in the afternoon, they heard the car. They looked out the picture window. A long-legged, dark-haired man climbed out of the limousine, uncanny in his perfect beauty and making that nervous hand-wringing gesture that Q always made when he was upset. He needn't have worried. Worf was down the front steps and in his arms before the limo got twenty feet away. He kissed Q's mouth, his cheeks, his neck, grinding their bodies together; then everybody was rushing up to Q to embrace him, and, being who they were, the hugs quickly turned into group frottage. All the faces were wet, all the hands were stroking. Now Will and Q were holding each other's faces in their hands and kissing, and now Data and Q were holding each other, and he had his arm around Geordi's neck, and they kept moving, weaving themselves against each other. Then Jean-Luc stepped to the front door. Immediately the rubbing, pressing, moaning group broke up and stepped aside. Jean-Luc simply stood there, letting Q shift into worried mode again. He waited until Q's slow steps brought them almost face to face, stepping aside at the last minute to let Q into their house. And then he shut the door behind him, leaving the other Boys outside. |
