The Promised LandPart FourteenWhen the CD went triple platinum, John Doe, one of *Rolling Stone's* most famous critics, interviewed him for a cover story. Doe had just published his best-selling autobiography *Transfigurations*; the sole reason it was a best-seller was of his frank discussion of his over-active sex life and the many willing women, young and old, who had given him the ultimate gift. Rolling Stone was paying a handsome price for this piece. And you are gay?" John said. Jean-Luc was so tired of this. "What does that mean?" "You're all homosexuals?" "Why do you need to know?" "It just seems through your songs . . ." "Actually, I don't hear that at all in our songs." "You seem clearly gay to me. You play in gay pride festivals." "How many women do I have fuck to be *straight?* I bet I can provide those numbers right now. And I bet it's more than you have. Are you gay?" He wasn't angry with John Doe, just startled by the way the word *gay* would exert controls on him, controls that he didn't want exerted. ‘No, but . . . " But John Doe begins to twist inside: Jean-Luc makes him wish he were; in a way, Jean-Luc is the man he's been trying to create with his endless vulpine promiscuity. Oh, what it would be like to be in Jean-Luc's arms, to have that perfect little horse-like body pressed throbbing to him, and he reaches out to Jean-Luc and they embrace and kiss and, when he feels Jean-Luc's tongue in his mouth, an intense longing is born. "But what?" Jean-Luc leaned into the critic. "Fuck me, Jean-Luc." "Oh, yes." Jean-Luc hissed. And he pulled the pants right off John Doe and then lowered his own pants and right there on the sofa, face to face, made John Doe take it all. John Doe went crazy. "Jesus Christ! Don't you dare stop, you motherfucker, don't you dare... Jesus!" And he came like thunder on the day of judgement, shaking his ass around Jean-Luc's cock, sweating and gasping, and Jean-Luc pulled out and turned him over and rode him home, and all John Doe could think was, "I'm being fucked in the ass. I could beat the shit out of this little guy but instead I'm letting him fuck my ass, and it's the best ride of my life. I could be a gay guy, if I didn't have to act like a sissy." And he left feeling proud and aggressive, as if some of Jean-Luc's machismo had rubbed off on him, but deep down he knew his predatory sexuality was an act, while Jean-Luc lived and breathed his. When he finally wrote his article, John Doe said, "The Boys aren't homosexual. They aren't heterosexual. They are something new and frightening and wonderful on the American landscape: they are just . . . sexual. "Merely sexual. "Truly sexual." A phone call. "Guess what I did last night, Boy? "Knowing you, there is no way of telling." "I went to the movies." "No doubt some honest sweet little film." "Hardee har har. You're right, it was filthy. There are all these crazy Mediterranean millionaires over here and they all trade dirty movies. Well, and they make them too. And one guy from someplace like Mesopotamia showed one. It was very well done. His girlfriend, well, one of his girlfriends was the star-slash-meat and he had six guys poking her simultaneously." "Charming. How is that possible?" "Maybe special effects were involved. It was beautifully photographed. Umm, ooh, the cook is grilling lamb downstairs. I can smell it from here." Melinda's joy in all of life was contagious. "Guess what I found out, Boy. You can't buy panties in Tunisia! Panties are against some sort of ancient Carthagenian law! All mine got all worn out and I had to throw them away and now ... you see..." "Melinda, don't start with me." But Jean-Luc was very tender with her. "Boy, you know what I'm saying about the six guys, don't you? When I get back? We could try it. Just imagine." He could. He did. Even if it were absurdly impossible, the vision was overwhelming. "Boy! You're breathing funny! Have I at last awakened the beast in you!" The beast was indeed awakened in Jean-Luc. As he toured and sang and plunged into groups of willing followers, Jean-Luc renewed his devotion to promiscuity. He blew through bodies two and three at a time. For Jean-Luc touring was like being presented with a new gourmet meal every night. It defied comprehension that he would fuck the same body day after day any more than he would eat the same exact meal. There were, of course, certain things in which he found consistent pleasure -- eggs for breakfast, for instance, and Q's body next to him at night. He loved to sleep with Q, sex or no; he insisted on it actually, and Q never denied him. Well, Q understood. Q was a whore. He knew the allure of bodies. And Jean-Luc was, in his own way, fastidious. He liked to tease himself with sex, a little here, a little there, taking from this one and that one like appetizers, coming back to Q for the main course. It made him an excellent lover when he felt like paying attention. He played with his partners, slowly, over long, long periods of time, stopped to do something else, came back. He liked to see them out of control, gasping, spending themselves all over their hands or feet. He liked women's nipples. His own were like alfalfa seeds, but, when he saw big wrinkly pretty ones, especially if they were dark, he got lost in them. When he could he had sex three, even four times a day, with as many partners, finally getting himself off with the last one. Sometimes the Boys silently jockeyed to be the one who got him last. It was rare nowadays, to see him out of himself, lost in climax. Only Q saw it often. It was simply one of his jobs to take what Jean-Luc gave him. Write bills, open his mouth, relax in Jean-Luc's heated embrace, receive Jean-Luc one way or another, write more bills. They hadn't played at Daddy's Girl for some time, but halfway through the tour, after fucking and getting sucked by lots of others, Jean-Luc came to Q on the Enterprise, in their locked-off little sleeping area, and asked Q to sit on his lap. When Q did, Jean-Luc said, "Where's that little thing all sweet girls have?" Q wiggled enticingly. "There it is." They were both quiet then, with their eyes closed, as Jean-Luc stimulated Q and Q pushed back on him. "Daddy, make your little girl come." Jean-Luc stood up quickly and took his jeans off. "Wait just a minute, Daddy," Q said. "Let me get ready."" Jean-Luc lowered his head and watched. When Q was finished, he just had on a long tee shirt (Jean-Luc no longer cared to see Q totally nude; Madred's scar was too disturbing, too complicated). Then Jean-Luc was lounging on the bus bunk, his jeans undone. Q got on his knees; outside as they sped down the road (mad-eyed Gowron at the wheel), a rainstorm began. Q took Jean-Luc lovingly in his mouth. Jean-Luc closed his eyes and relaxed, letting the soft miracle of Q's beautiful wet mouth nurse him into sensation after sensation. No tongue was like Q's, no lips like his, and Jean-Luc's head fell softly against the side of the bus. Behind his eyelids, visions of Q, Q and himself, Q and Worf, Q and the roadies, and that vision pleased him and he saw clearly Q sucking off roadie after roadie, hands behind his back, naked, his ass bruised and beaten and wet, and he thrust towards the back of Q's throat for a bit and then came. The soft rain continued. The tires of the bus hissed against the road. It was a curiously cordial orgasm. "I love you," Q whispered. "Excellent," said Jean-Luc. "Why don't you play with yourself?" And Q stood up and leaned against the wall, with his huge black eyes and his full mouth and long black hair and Jean-Luc stood beside him, watching, pleased to watch this. He leaned in to whisper in Q's ear. "Did you like it when Daddy threw you to the roadies? You like having them in line for your pussy? Did they use anything besides their dicks? Any toys? Anything else?" Q kneaded himself, eyes closed. His breathing was uneven, sighing. "Did they use their fist?" Jean-Luc had a cold-blooded pleasure in the thought of Kurn with his fist in Q's pretty ass. At the thought of Q trapped, pinioned more than ever. "Oh, God," Q said and came. Sure, he had a weakness for gambling, and a losing streak the length of a mountain range, but a man could not be blamed for wanting to have a little fun. His problem was, he was too good to people. Take Mona. She had the nerve to give tail away like to that promoter in Tallahassee and then tell him she wasn't the type of person to sell it. Well, he'd showed her, the stupid bitch! Now she was a lot smarter about what she gave away and what she chose to say about it. After that, he'd put her on the street. Not for long, just until he could rent that studio time he needed to get their Christian Children's hour up and running like they planned. But for now they were hustling her out of a drugstore. Big Daddy was waiting for Mona to get some trade, idling at the magazine rack -- my God what a man could do if he had money! –- when his eyes happened to fall on this one magazine. He recognized something about the guy on the cover -- completely bald, hooded deepset eyes; grim sliver of a mouth; suspicious expression. He knew this guy from somewhere, but where? Kyle picked up the paper and read the caption. Hillbilly chic? What the hell was that about? He read that the band was famous for its shoot-from-the-hip-take-no-prisoners lyrics about men in love with men, and for the outrageous behavior of their lead singer who had a voice like a lorelei on testosterone. He flipped the page, ignoring his son's face out of long habit, still trying to figure out where he'd met this hard-eyed bald guy and how he could possibly take advantage of him, assuming he hadn't already. Something told him he had, and Kyle liked that feeling. Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys. Damn but this was familiar. He knew them from somewhere. He scoured the article for any hint, but the reporter was too enamored of their sound and their outrageous macho queer . . . vibe (whatever that was) to give him the details he needed. It wasn't until his eyes hit the caption of a group portrait that he saw his own last name and put two and two together. There was his fat ugly son, not so fat anymore, dressed in a suit jacket, posing with the rest of the band. There was even that same damned bass he'd sold before running off with all the man's cash. Now he remembered. "Hellfire." Of all the people he shouldn't have stolen from . . . Well, see, just another example of how life did him wrong at every turn. He looked at his son's face again. It smirked at him. 'I've got plenty of money,' the smirk said. Kyle felt something curdle inside him. That fat piece of shit was not going to outdo his only father, not after all Kyle had done for him. He squinted at the touring schedule and then went outside and pulled Mona off her beat. "Come on, honey, we've got to pack. We're headed north." The Boys were in their dressing room in a club in Georgia when a note came for Will. He looked at Worf. "Well, open it," Worf directed. Will's indecisiveness amused him sometimes. Will did. His gaze, when he looked up again, made Worf think of roadkill the second before the wheels run it over. "What's wrong?" Data looked up because Geordi's head swiveled in Worf and Will's direction when he heard Worf's tense question. Data, too, noticed Will's helpless expression. "What is the matter, Will?" "Will?" Q asked quickly, preemptively; Jean-Luc's mouth was forming a straight line of exasperation. Will held up the piece of paper. "It's a note from my father." He was caving in, his head drooping, his shoulders sagging. Every inch of his body screamed defeat. Jean-Luc was alarmed. "What does the note say?" "It's from Big Daddy. He's out front with Mona. He wants me to come say hidey to him." Worf looked back at Jean-Luc. He didn't know what to do. Q did. He went over to Will and pulled him down into his arms. "We won't let him hurt you." Then he shot a significant glance at Worf. "And you don't ever have to go back with Big Daddy." "Correct." Worf squared his shoulders. "We will not allow him to take you away from us." Will lifted his head; his eyes were wide. Jean-Luc didn't even look at Will. "You big stupid pussy. So you thought we were going to let that bastard steal you away from us?" Worf tried to pick up from Jean-Luc. "He's right. You *are* a pussy, you know." He put his arms around Will and rubbed their groins together. Will smiled a bit. It didn't seem he would be sent back. His face grew slightly pinker. Jean-Luc breathed out. Bitches. "This is just a shakedown, Will. Can't you see that?" Will looked at him uncertainly. "Watch. Q, get about a thousand dollars, put it in twenties, and go out there and tell him 'that's all.'" "Okay, Johnny." Q understood why he'd been chosen to go deal with Kyle. Sending a bitch was a deliberate insult. It told Kyle he wasn't significant enough to deserve a meeting with the men. It told Kyle that someone else controlled his son's actions now, and a pile of wrinkled twenties told him he would have to make do with what he'd been given. Q watched Kyle's eyes narrow. He waited patiently while Kyle tried to bluster his way in. "Are you trying to keep me from my son?" Kyle's voice was loud and booming, but the intimidation didn't work. "You took the money," Q gestured pointedly at the greens Kyle was stuffing into his pockets. "And Will says he doesn't care if he never sees you again." Will hadn't said any such thing, but it sounded good, and it turned the burden of proof back onto Kyle. Q turned and walked away. A further insult. Bitches didn't leave until they were dismissed. Kyle started to follow, but Worf and Klag took that moment to stroll up to the door that led back to the dressing rooms. They moved casually, no sign of stress or tension. Just two big guys out for a walk. Q smiled at Worf as he stepped past them. Worf and Klag crossed their arms. Their expressions were neutral. Kyle caught the message and turned away. It wasn't as much as he'd hoped for, but it was worth a twelve-hour ride. By the time they were ready to go on stage, Will was elated. His father had gone away, just like Jean-Luc said. Worf had protected him, and the band had claimed him as one of their own. That night he played with such gusto that The Boys stared at one another in shock. Jean-Luc was so pleased that he pulled Will's head down and kissed him right there on stage. The crowd roared. "Boy, I lied to you." Jean-Luc was expansive. He felt he could forgive Melinda her pretty little lies. "I'm coming back to Hollywood next week – I only said I'd stay in Tunisia for eighteen months because I didn't know if ‘Hard Time' was going to be made." "Hard time?" "My prison movie! I play a reporter! I go underground at a woman's prison in the South to see what life is really like! The bulldyke screws are on to me! They beat me with a bullwhip! They fuck me with a broomstick! Then I help a helpless black girl con escape; we run from bloodhounds. She's gets shot! To memorialize it, I publish it all in a searing newspaper article! It's real! It's squalid! Word is they're even going to try to get some of your songs on the soundtrack!" Her beautiful low voice bubbled with amusement. "For God's sake, Melinda, that sounds like shit." "I'm in every scene, Boy. That makes it all worthwhile." "Nobody's contacted us. How do you know they want our music?" He could hear her yawn; she even yawned prettily. "Oh, Hollywood's a hive mentality. Not a sparrow falls on the Paramount backlot, but everybody knew it yesterday." "I bet Quark knows." "Ummm, typical Quark." "When did you meet Quark?" "Never. But I know the type. Hollywood is shot through and through with Quarks. Enough of that. Let's discuss your dick. Please." "When can I see you?" Jean-Luc said; he had to see her soon. "You know what I'd like. Let my Quark contact your Quark, and put me in your next video. Wouldn't that be synergistic and career-oriented, and we can have some fun on the set. Fucking for hours." She liked the fact that Jean-Luc could last so long. "Fucking for hours," she repeated sleepily. But first they had to shoot the video with the mysterious Guinan. "Hello, Boys," Guinan said. She was very distinctive-looking, with huge dreads and flowing red robes and a big circular hat. She looked closely at Q. "Have we met?" she asked him. "Not in this lifetime," Q was startled into saying. She didn't smile; she merely lifted her head as if tasting the air. They were to find that Guinan was not one to give her smiles freely, that Guinan thought life was serious, worth living without irony but with wisdom. She was the perfect choice for one of their love songs. Jean-Luc regarded her uneasily. He trusted her and respected her, but he always knew when there was more to a person than met the eye. He sat and watched her when he wasn't in a scene. She saw him looking and was completely unfazed. At one point, when Q and Jean-Luc were sitting together eating, Q asked her a question. When was she going to tell them what she wanted from them in their next scene? She smiled gently. "When I want you to know, you'll know." Jean-Luc looked up. She was looking at him, not Q. He squinted at her, but his mouth was turned up in a smile. He looked back at his sandwich and shook his head. He knew the drill now. He had worked under commanders like this in the army. Guinan showed a great deal of affection towards both of the camera people. They were a young black man and a young black woman. "She sure treats them different from the way Kira treated her crew," Will whispered to Worf. "She's awfully touchy-feely with them. Whatcha think? Maybe that Guinan's got something going on with those two." "That's correct." Will nearly had a heart attack. Guinan had appeared out of nowhere. "I certainly do have something going on with them. I gave birth to them." "Christ, don't do that!" Guinan simply smiled her smile and slid away. When the time came, she showed them her elaborately drawn storyboard and was careful to explain it so they knew about every shot and could feel proprietary about what she was doing. It wasn't her video and it wasn't a video of the Boys; they were in this together. It was set mostly outdoors at a ranch. At first there was a beating bass and a close-up of a bird's jerky black head. Then the bird gathered itself in a wild velvet flurry and sped away. The video cut to Jean-Luc, alone in the studio, a look of eagerness and amusement and gravity on his face. He held a sheaf of papers, and with no sign began to sing: "Come into these arms of mine"Then there was a shot of the other five Boys walking into a dry ravine. "and lay your dear head down;"Q and Data and Geordi were standing in the shallows of a river; the glittering water reflected against them. "You're prisoner of the trembling earth"Close up on Q. On Data. On Geordi. "but I will bring you peace."On Worf, without a shirt. He was extremely muscular. "I will bring you love"Now both Will and Worf were walking shirtless into water; what Guinan did with their faces was miraculous. They were smiling at each other without smiles, without looking at each other. The very simple warmth of their eyes did it all. "I will bring you hope"Worf lowered his head under the water and lifted it up, and shook it; the water from the ends of his long hair fell against Will's face and chest; Will looked startled and pleased. "I will bring you release.There was a high-noon shot of Data watching Geordi sit on a motorbike; Geordi was laughing and Data was looking at him very tenderly. By the second day of shooting, there was no sign of the skepticism and disapproval that had first greeted her when she had the motorcycles unloaded. She had told them during the pre-shoot storyboard session that Data would teach Geordi to ride a motorcycle. "That is impossible, Guinan. I do not even know how to ride." "But you're very smart," Guinan said. "Yes." Data frowned suspiciously. "So, tomorrow morning you will learn. Tomorrow afternoon you will teach." "You've got a lot of faith in that boy," Jean-Luc had been watching them. Guinan smiled with one corner of her mouth. "So do you, or you would have objected by now and we both know it." The Boys glanced at Jean-Luc in amused agreement. Jean-Luc blinked, but then he gave her a mocking salute and subsided. Data learned how to ride a motorcycle. He couldn't wait to teach Geordi, and his enthusiasm and tenderness were obvious on film. "and left me for the fightThen there was a sunset shot; Geordi and Data were comfortably riding their two bikes, Data guiding Geordi with one hand, and Worf, Will and Q took a break from shoveling out the barn just for a moment, and their eyes followed the two bikes and they all three smiled with expressions of satisfaction (Worf showed just the barest softening, but it was clearly there) and it was obvious they were glad for Geordi's triumph. Then the video cut back to Jean-Luc in the studio, his posture impeccable as ever, singing: "For there is in all the worldThen there was a shot of a table full of steaming food, and he got up and rang the dinner bell; the three shovelers poured water over their heads before they came inside for the day. "In this cave let us love tonightJean-Luc was sitting at a piano; suddenly Q leaned in behind him and abruptly whispered something in his ear and then walked off camera. Jean-Luc's grave warm gaze followed his lover's departure. "Come into these arms of mineThere was a shot of empty plates and empty bowls; after a shot of all six of them sprawled in front of the TV watching their old video; then a shot of them going upstairs two by two, Will and Worf, Geordi and Data. The music played the last little bit of instrumentation. There was a shot of the TV still going and the audience saw a shot of Q's dozing head leaning against Jean-Luc's thigh; then a hand nudged him awake, and there were the last two last pairs of legs going up the stairs, a distance shot of the house, and then the last light went out as the song came to an end. Quark watched it as he ate a banana. "That's pretty blatant, Guinan." Guinan gave him one of her direct glances. He looked guilty and put down the banana. "I love it," he tried to tell her. She finally spoke: "It's blatant about love, not sex. What's so wrong with that?" After the first take of the first shot, Jean-Luc stood pressed against the door of the make-up trailer like a dog who smells something good. Q's idealized beauty was driving him wild. And Jean-Luc couldn't wait to grab the newly made-up Q and take him to their trailer and right inside the door lower his jeans and make Q kneel down and suck him while he fucked Q's throat. As a matter of fact, Jean-Luc only had Q take the first couple of inches in his mouth so he could continue to see that beautiful face, the eye make-up, the highlighting along Q's graceful cheekbones, the lipstick, as Q used his mouth to bring him to ecstasy. Owning Q made him feel powerful. When Jean-Luc and Q came back from making love in the trailer, they walked side by side (lovers that close don't have to talk) and they didn't even know Guinan was watching them until Jean-Luc looked up to see her eyes following them, amusement and approval written all over her face. At the concerts, posters of each Boy were offered at the merchandise booths. Worf looked so good in a threatening and unique fashion that his picture sold almost as much as Q's. And, needless to say, Q's poster sold extremely well. Jean-Luc had nursed him through the photo, posing him the way he wanted Q to be seen. Q's face was very young and innocent-seeming, but his pants were tight and he ended up showing off everything. "I wasn't trying to do that," Q said to anyone who would listen. "It's just that those pants were so tight and I couldn't help it." Jean-Luc had a blue-toned poster of himself in a cowboy hat holding a guitar by the neck. (The unofficial merchandise booths outside the concert halls sold an older publicity shot of Jean-Luc by himself, a full body photo where he was staring straight out at the camera in a relaxed pose with his hands at his sides; some air-brush magician create a halo around his head and added the caption: "A prophet is without honor in his own country." This poster was in a lot of dorm rooms and cubicles across America.) A famous gay designer clocked their visual appeal and asked them to please, please wear his clothes. Jean-Luc was about to jump in, but Q said, "No! Wait!" He said the designer could use them for one season only and then they would be up for auction again. And Q and Tommy stared at each other with triumphant expressions. The designer prepared a series of soft homoerotic pictures for his fall line. The pictures were in major men's magazines and in Rolling Stone. Worf fared especially well in the photographs. In one, he was looking away as he sat in a white leather club chair with his legs apart. His pants were so tight that his big set of equipment was clearly outlined against his thigh. In the background, the other Boys were a blur of action, singing or laughing, you couldn't tell. This photograph was pasted to so many ceilings it wasn't funny. And, after the pictures were published, the erotic mail and letters poured in at an all-time high. "Dear Worf. I always beat off to you. I love you and if you want to have me anytime you can. Dan." "Dear Worf. I always had a fantasy of being done by two black guys at once. You and my boyfriend are perfect. Please come to my house or I will come out to wherever you are. Cody." "Dear Worf. Remember me? I still work for the Warden and I still think about our time together. You were special to me. Love, Wesley. P.S. I love your dick. I am touching myself right now thinking about it." Before one concert, Jean-Luc was in a small little well-lit dressing room when he said, "What's that?" Q was the only person around. "Me, I suppose." He smiled at Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc walked over to him and grabbed his arms and sniffed him carefully. "What is that? It's strange. Nice, but strange." "It's a new fragrance, a present. I like it a lot." "And just who is this present from?" Jean-Luc pushed Q against the broad table where they did their makeup; Q's back was to a mirror. Q named the designer. "He's going to call it Q! He had already designed it and all and he was going to name it Krupskaya Krupskaya after this famous Russian woman but . . . you know, he fell in with us. Q! My own fragrance." "What's he paying you?" "Nothing. You can't copyright the alphabet." "Too bad." Jean-Luc kept pushing him. "What sort of panties are you wearing?" Q pulled back; by now he was sitting on the makeup table with his knees apart and his breath was shallow. "What do you think, Jean-Luc?" Jean-Luc gazed between Q's legs. "It looks as if you're wearing none. Oh, God, say that." "I'm not wearing panties, Daddy." "Take off your jeans and prove it." Q did. The dressing room was lined with mirrors. Q climbed back on the table with his legs apart; he hoped Jean-Luc would fuck him like that. And Jean-Luc did, moving his own pants to just below his ass. Because of the way he was sitting, Q's seed splashed against his own costume; but it was a very nice thing. They got their share of hate mail too: "Dear Jean-Luc, I'm going to fuck you in your faggot ass and then I will shoot your brains out you faggot son of a bitch and kill you dead. P.S. You're music sucks. You're truley, Jack Troper." They took every threat seriously. John Mack Madred had shown them that they had to. Curiously, Jean-Luc, who got most of the hate mail, was the least upset about it. He turned it over to Tommy who turned it over to detectives who did threat assessments for them. The threats came from mostly pitiful people -- Jack Trooper couldn't even spell his own name right. It was unlikely their spite would go further than hate mail, but it paid to be sure. They were millionaires; Quark was a millionaire. Will sometimes seemed quieter than he had been. One night, after a particularly good show, Worf and Will made their way to their bed together. And Will launched it on him. "Worf, I want us to be a family. You know. With a baby." For a moment Worf felt the squeaking horror of a woman being chased by a mouse. His voice reflected this, warbling and cracking when he attempted to speak. "A baby?" "Yes." "Why?" "I want to do it right." "I am not," Worf breathed in. "Good with children." "Yes, you are." "You would have to be the one to take care of it. Feed it. Carry it around." "I'll do all that." Will had that catch in his breath like as if he thought he might get something that he really wanted. Once Worf had let Will buy a jeep, and Will cared for it just as he'd promised he would. "Please. I want to be . . .real." Worf was very quiet, and then he told his messy busy lover, "You know Quark's got us going to Europe over Christmas. Maybe when we get back we can talk about it." He sounded surer than he felt. Kira was going to direct the new video, and Melinda was going to star with them. This would publicize the new single coming out in the fall, and then the Boys would head to Europe for a brief tour of the Continent. Even Jean-Luc seemed more peaceful. Worf and Will contacted a lawyer named Eileen Farralon and told her what they wanted. She warned them that it wouldn't be easy. Or immediate. They diffidently told her money was no object. She shook her head no. Money wasn't the issue. It was the availability of babies. Will said in a very small voice, "I've heard it's easier to adopt mixed-race babies. We're mixed-race. That's what we'd like." "This isn't like going to the store and purchasing something, Mr. Riker," she said in a very kind way. How much he was longing for a child was touching; she herself had had some experience in that feeling. "But I will do my best." "Here's a number where you can reach us twenty-four hours a day," Will said. "I have to say this. My firm has standards; we are legitimate. We'll have to file reports to a number of government agencies as well as keep an in-house file on you too. Can your lives face that kind of scrutiny?" "I suppose," Will said as Worf looked stonily on. "Babylonian fuck tricks, now, if you don't mind," Jean-Luc said. Melinda was back, lovelier than ever, her breasts high on her svelte body, her lips wide and smiling. And she was pleased to see how her lover had thrived. Jean-Luc was more confident than ever, and his self-confidence, his satisfaction at himself were what made him such a good lover. She supposed it was the touring or the success or that Q. (Jealousy had never eaten into Melinda; mostly she wanted a piece of Q. Jesus, he was a handsome man.) "I lied," she said; she was sitting across from him. She let her knees fall open. Jean-Luc watched her knees carefully. She was wearing a full-skirted sleeveless dress made of turquoise silk. It looked as if it would have been high-style thirty-five years before, but she made it her own. Of course, she had no underwear on. She wiggled her bottom a bit. Her legs tilted a bit on her stilettoes. They had ankle straps. They cost five hundred dollars. Jean-Luc made a noise deep in his throat. "Take off that ridiculous dress," he said. "Who'll fuck me if I do?" Not that that stopped her from taking off the dress. Now Melinda wore nothing but those five-hundred-dollar heels. She spread her feet apart a bit, like a professional model; she was showing him her body. "Can you tell I'm having my period?" She had a very serious look on her face, her big eyes warm in her grave face. "Aren't you something?" Jean-Luc leaned forward; he was still fully dressed. "Did I ever tell you how much Jean-Luc likes a little blood on his sheets? Come here. Come to Daddy. Come be Daddy's little girl." She came and sat on his lap, her round luscious bottom against his swollen fly. "I can read Daddy's mind. I bet Daddy likes to put it up butts." Jean-Luc was too bemused by her lush behind to hear more than her cozy and teasing tone. "I bet Daddy gives one bad spanking too, to bad girls and boys." "Lean over so I can see your butthole," he said. She did, resting her elbows on her knees, her back still to him, her ass resting on his big thighs. Then she stood up and leaned over with her hands on her knees; he could see all of her. She straightened up and walked away. "Let's get some pretty light, Boy, it's like a cafeteria in here or something." It was late afternoon; she had been in town for forty-five minutes. The first place she came was to his house. She turned the television to a channel that gave nothing but fritzing sounds and shooting pixels, and then she did a little dance step and walked back towards him; he saw her maddening smile. In front of him, she shut her eyes, she tweaked her own nipples: "Oh, Boy, stick it in me." She was right about the light; the television gave her motions a certain blue-tinted drama. He stood up and silently grabbed her elbows and directed her to her knees, her arms propped in a praying position against the chair he'd just been in. Then he moved his pants down to his knees and, after stroking on a premium lubricated rubber, began to tease her ass with his stiff cock. "Shut your eyes, don't pay any attention to Daddy, just give Daddy a little pussy every now and then." Then he was all the way in and they were moving together; the flickering blue light made it different from anything he'd ever done, as if they were aliens or prisoners in a strange prison. She had a lovely gift of contracting her anal muscles to help Jean-Luc. "I'll just stroke myself from here," she said. "You're sure a beast." "Expect nothing else from Daddy." And now he settled down to marathon ass-fucking; she needed it, she wanted it, she couldn't live without it. This late afternoon was made for leisurely fucking; he liked looking at himself disappear in her plump ass, soft and perfumed, not a sign of a muscle anywhere, flesh like down, flesh like satin, flesh like fresh-cut fruit, plunging again and again. He would never bruise her, never want to break her. She was a perfect Goddess. "Talk to me, Melinda, tell me about the best time a man fucked you in the ass. Did you have one with a bigger dick than me? I like to think that." "You mean the one in my parents' garage? In Chicago?" Her breath was coming in funny gasps; her hand was busy in front. Every now and then Jean-Luc smelled the sharp copper of her blood. "I wanted it. I was coming home from school. I kept on my Catholic school cardigan, my blouse, but I took off the skirt." "The knee socks!" They both half-groaned, half-laughed. "I said, I need it. I need it now. And I was suddenly on my hands and knees and he was inside me and moving and grabbing my tits" (Jean-Luc grabbed her tits) "and he let me fuck him; he was just the big dumb dick that I was fucking myself with and that was the best part. I kept backing into it. I couldn't believe it. I could just get his big hard constant dick out of his pants anytime, practically anyplace, the back seat of the little car Pop gave me, the family room late at night, in my little gingham bedroom, and his dick was so big and always hard, I had always made him hard, even when I was twelve years old and we were doing some shit in our club house we didn't need to be doing, and fuck myself with it whenever I liked and I could pinch it with my little hot ass and then take it all in and I could watch TV with him in my butt or do it at the drive-in, the last drive-in movie in Cook County, Boy." "How did you do it at the last drive-in movie in Cook County?" "On my hands and knees in the van. Lying on my back in the backseat. Sitting on it in the front seat of his car." He put his powerful arms around her; she was sweet as sugar and she wanted nothing more than to feel it inside her. "Melinda, Melinda," he said, and he closed his eyes. With it up her butt. Then he began to come driving frantically and wildly into her, and she began to scream softly and writhe against him. "I don't want to bruise you or hurt you," and she said, "that's okay," and then they were both coming hard against each other. When they calmed down, slick with sweat, panting, gasping, he sat back and pulled her with him, his softening cock still inside her. "Boy, you know my secret? I want a big one in me all the time. It's just pathetic." "You came to the right place. I want a big one in you too." She waggled now against his softness. "Let me get cleaned up." "No!" he said. "Stay dirty with me." "You can help! You can watch!" Jean-Luc adored everything about Melinda. While she was showering, he picked up her bra. A soft purple/brown satin. He held it to his chest, thrilling at how it must hold her pretty titties in place. He looked at her box of Tampax, carefully unfolding the instructions, smiling at the simple Egyptian eros of its illustrations. She was not remotely secretive about any part of herself and, when she got out of the shower, untoweled, unrobed, a naked nymph emerging from her own spring, she asked him to hand her a tampon and he did, wonderingly. "Would you like see me with it? I don't fancy you get to see this much with the Boys." He watched her insert it with great curiosity. Her vagina was beautiful, shell-pink surrounded by voluminous dark brown curls. Jean-Luc said, "Wait. Let me do something." Q had given him a little instant camera a while back; he'd never used it. He had no reason to photograph anything. Until now. "Let me photo your puss." She sat on the edge of the bed with her ankles together and her knees apart. He took the picture and let her hold the developing shot. After he counted to sixty, she opened it. The photograph was awful! Orange and brown and purple shapes arranged haphazardly. Jean-Luc looked horrified. Melinda gave him a tender smile. "That's the first cherry I ever saw busted on you, Boy. Alas, it's true: not all dirty photographs work out. Besides," she began to tease him, "you got the littlest Polaroid imaginable. I don't want to go with no Boy with a Polaroid that little. Later on when we have time, you can get a real camera in to snap my snapper." Q spent the night with Worf and Will; to take his mind off Melinda, they told him their secret. "Q, there's something else you need to know," Worf breathed out. "Melinda is a fine girl. Really nice. And she's good with Jean-Luc." At the first day of the shoot, Kira showed up with Bareil and Modyed. "Jadzia!" she squealed. "Nerise!" Melinda laughed and hugged her. "Why do you use those names to address each other?" Data asked. Always curious. "I've known this crazy girl in several of her different incarnations," Kira smiled. "I've got to go to make up. Kira, come with me and tell me about our video. We'll have some girl talk!" "Ohh, squeal! Makeup!" "Hairstyles!" "Prom dresses!" "And dick!" "Lots of dick!" Kira was laughing now. "Will, I believe you can help me out. Make Modyed happy til I get back." The smallest, sweetest smile appeared in Will's eyes and he took Modyed. The ladies left; the men were still there. Because of the ebullient Jean-Luc and the very subdued Q, it was slightly awkward, but Modyed helped them through the awkwardness. "Worf, don't you have a little something for Modyed? Get it out for her." Will was bouncing Modyed and now Q was waving at her and making little ticking sounds. In a big brightly-colored bag which rattled seductively, Worf put his hand in. "What do I have here? What is it, Modyed? What is it?" And he drew out a pretty little light blue teddy bear and Modyed began to squall and then everything took a backseat to that. The video was beautiful. Jean-Luc saw a new side to Melinda; she and Kira worked together very well, discussing lighting and shots and story-boards. Melinda was as smart as she was beautiful. A couple of times she made suggestions about angles, and Kira's face opened up its funny harlequin smile because Melinda was right. But all it was was a black-and-white video of Melinda dancing with each Boy as their song played in the background. The black-and-white film was rich and saturated, almost sepia in tone. And Melinda was such an expressive actress that she was different with each Boy. An astonished look at Data when she saw how well he could dance. A tender guide at slow-dancing with Geordi. Both she and Will throwing their heads back and laughing as they did a sort of hoedown. Serious with Jean-Luc, a sober tango. With Worf, starting across the room from each other, then approaching almost as adversaries, holding herself quite erect and nearly as tall as Worf when she had on her heels and then he grabbed her and swung her around. Even the camera crew applauded them. And then it was her turn to dance with Q. Q was so subdued that all hearts went out to him. Except Jean-Luc's. Kira and Melinda whispered together. Q stood alone in front of the camera. A light came down from above on him. His proud beauty. He held his hands behind him. He was like a mediaeval saint with his cowboy hat halo. Melinda walked up to him and kissed his cheek. She touched his chest. Then she held him; he didn't move. He leaned his head down and she leaned up head up; their eyes met, saying unfathomable things, things that made each of them grieve for the impossible things the world seemed to promise and then held back. Instead the camera danced. And why not? Q and Melinda were the two loveliest people it had ever seen. With beauty that simple, there was no need for plot or action. The camera danced to the music, loving them, trying to persuade them to give themselves to it. At one point, the camera closed in as Q put his hand on Melinda's shoulder. She seemed startled. It was as if a third character had come into the scene. Then as the music ended, they separated and each went a different way. No applause now. Just a silence that said more than words. Quark suddenly appeared. "Where's my dance, Miss Madigan?" She smiled her slow smile and drew him to her. His head came to just below her tits. Quark appeared to be having a religious experience. Melinda had to fly back to Tunisia to do post-production on her film. She called Jean-Luc before she left: "Merry Christmas, Boy," she said. "Our video's going to be a huge success." Then she laughed her curly little laugh. "Did you hear about Donnie Ral?" "That pisshole. What about him?" "He's shooting a video for that new big-hair-band rock band from L.A.? And he's, well, word has it he wants to do better than a Boys video, so he's got the video crawling with, get this, lesbians! Donnie says," and she made her voice go deep and dumb, she was a brilliant mimic, "*Homosexuality is selling like hot cakes today! It's everywhere you look!* And they're not even real lesbians. Just his girls waggling their tongues at the camera." "That cocksucker sure misses the point," Jean-Luc said. "Maybe we can spend some real time, doing some real fucking together this summer." "Ooh," Melinda said. "Let me lay this little last-minute fantasy on you, Boy. Me. Me sitting on you. Maybe some nylons and heels. I turn my head. Q's there, big and stiff; as I slowly pump your dick, I suck him. Worf's there too, I've got his hogleg in one hand and Data's in my other. I get Geordi in my ass -- it CAN be done. Maybe Geordi or Data sucks Will til I get one of you off and you boys can trade places. I want to be in a bedroom with the Boys' dicks. I want that dream to come true." But this dream was interesting Jean-Luc less and less. |
