The Promised LandPart ThreeQ was convicted. The detective was a kindly man. He saw Q's gentle eyes and knew there was no saving this childlike man from the world of trouble he was in. Still, he tried to help as best he could. "When you get to prison don't accept any favors from anybody. Don't ask anyone for help with anything. Don't say anything to anybody, you hear?" "Yes, sir," Q answered politely. He was always polite, even when he was scared shitless. Q was sure he would not survive jail. John Luke, whose name was spelled very peculiarly, was teaching him how to be a jailbird, but the lessons were hard. When Q did wrong, he got a beating and a terse directive never to transgress that way again. "I bought you fair," Jean-Luc said. "Now you're mine and you do what I say." "Well, okay," Q said. Jean-Luc had looked at him very oddly when he said that, but what else was Q supposed to do? He wanted to be agreeable, wanted to get along. And it was harder than it looked. Jean-Luc was so strict with him. He wouldn't let Q go to the showers by himself. Wouldn't let Q talk to anyone except some of the other wives. Made Q wear loose-fitting clothes. Demanded to know his schedule at all times and beat him for not being where he said he'd be. But after a while Q saw. Men who came to prison after he did hardened in a way that he himself never had to do. He was safe because Jean-Luc protected him. Pretty men like himself were passed from hand to hand, but not him because Jean-Luc kept him close. Jean-Luc fought for him, and because of this, Q realized, he didn't have to fight. The only person who ever hurt him, as a matter of fact, was his protector, Jean-Luc. Q did not understand. If Jean-Luc couldn't stand his ways, why did he fight so hard to see that he kept to them? Q was a woman now. He had to sit with the other women and not interrupt his husband when he was in the yard. He had to come when he was called. He had to serve his husband the way a woman serves a man. But at least Jean-Luc was his sole owner, unlike some other pretty boys who were members of a harem and could be rented out for an evening or a year. And Jean-Luc was good to him in his way. Once Q'd been trained, the beatings pretty much stopped. And only once had Jean-Luc made Q have sex with him, that time in the showers. In June, the warden made the prisoners do light maintenance on the building for 'rehabilitation'; some of the men got to garden and some of them got to paint and some of them got to mow and stuff like that. Q got put on painting detail for a little bit. He developed a cough. He didn't complain about it, but Jean-Luc watched him with a look of horror. He frowned when he heard Q buying cough drops from a trustee; he frowned harder when he heard Q trying to suppress his racking cough. He abruptly jumped down from his bunk, took Q by the chin and stared deeply into his face. "Just a little sunburn," Q reassured him. "And the cough will go away when they let me off this painting job. They say we're almost done." Jean-Luc nodded. The worry left his expression. He let Q's face go. Q felt good: Jean-Luc was concerned for him. And Q was grateful to be a woman because he knew he could never have sustained the hard-edged suspicion and ready anger of the males. But, as a woman, he could be protected, even make friends with the other men who were women. In the yard, he got to know a tiny, delicate fairy of a man named Horatio. They sat together while Horatio shared with the innocent Q stories about love in the prison. He knew all there was to know about being a woman. Q's eyes always grew huge and round. The things Horatio described in whispering detail seemed scarcely possible for two people to do, but the other women nodded knowingly as Horatio talked. "Oh, my," said Q. "How'd you know about that?" Horatio licked his lips; he had a striking lisp. "I was a jack of all trades on the outside, baby boy." All the other girls snickered. "You name it: I worked in my brother's bar. I did union organizing. I was a mechanic, don't laugh! Hairdresser, circus worker, musician. I did it all." "Musician!" "Oh, yes! I still have my mandolin in my cell." "Let's play together sometime. I know how to play the piano." Horatio pursed up his lips. "Well, it simply ruins my nails." He loved to gossip. "Watch out for Sisko," he whispered as the burly harem master sauntered by, his ebony skin gleaming. "You better call him Captain." "Why?" Q's mouth formed a perfect circle. "Back in the old days, the big shot in prison was called Captain. Well, because he's got something going on with O'Brien, and I shudder to think what it is, Sisko's kinda like a yard boss. So we call him Captain. Captain Sisko. He just smiles when you say that. But he's still scary." Q nodded; Sisko was scary. "Now look at that man," Horatio would say. Q looked; yet another big black man. "I read his beads from the git-go, girl. His lawyer and my lawyer are partners. It's a funny case. See, he was a coal miner and had been since he was a kid. He was totally crazy for this girl's brand of stuff and married her. Well, one fine day," Horatio leaned in, savoring the story even as he told it, "he came home? And she was fucking some other man. He dismembered him. With his bare hands. Left him in twenty bloody pieces on the floor." Q gasped. "Remember, This is Harlan County. They're all crazy in Harlan County. So his lawyer her name is Audrey and she is FUN told the simple souls of Harlan County that it musta been a accident. Right? He had no weapons he just walked in the door. From the coal mine. Where he'd been working since he was sixteen. He wore overalls to the trial. So he got twelve years for it. It was the most gruesome homicide call in Kentucky history, and he got twelve little years! The reason I remember all this is his wife's name was De-Anne. Isn't that the prettiest name?" Horatio looked pensive. "I always wanted to be named De-Anne. De-Anne." He smoothed his hair back. "Instead of Horatio. Which is a sucker name. Everybody thinks they can fuck with you if your name is Horatio. " "What's that guy's name?" "Hubby? Worf Something Something. They're crazy in Harlan County." "Worf?" "Worf," Horatio confirmed. And shrugged. And the other ladies shrugged. Worf. (A long story. On Worf's first day in Fear Alley, a young brother sat down and began to lay a rap on him. It was the usual stuff. He knew this Worf had to be a bad motherfucker coming in all silent and hard. What was Worf's name, anyway? The man called Worf squinted. His mouth turned into a compressed line. The muscles in his forearms bulged as tension knotted his body. The prisoners surrounding him tensed in alarm. The man was about to go off, and, in a little circle of fear all around him, hands went into pockets, gripping shivs, forks, or any defensive weapon that came quickly to hand. By now Worf's scowl had deepened and the young brother was stepping back, hands raised in conciliation. All that happened, however, was that Worf barked something that sounded like "Worf!" Then just like that he went back to eating his dinner. The other brothers eyed one another and then slowly relaxed and shrugged it off. The crisis was over, but they'd learned something important, which was that this guy didn't like to talk much. As long as he was left alone to sit in his cell and play his banjo, his eyes stayed calm. There was just one little bit of leftover confusion. Was 'Worf' a name or a warning to stay away? They decided that it didn't matter. From then on everyone called him 'Worf'.) The next time in the yard, Horatio was painting his nails blue when Q walked up. Jean-Luc dropped him off and went to stand near some other men. "Hey, Jean-Luc, looking good!" Horatio waggled his fingers at Jean- Luc. Jean-Luc didn't acknowledge him, didn't speak, but his eyes took on the smallest softening of irony. If anyone else had spoken that way, Jean-Luc would have had to fight them. But by becoming a woman, Horatio had won the right to be sassy. To be feminine and girly and harmless. "Your boyfriend really likes you," he told Q. Q couldn't tell. "You think so?" "Oh, yes. If he didn't, he would have traded you by now." "He's not my boyfriend," Q said with a certain sadness. "Because you all don't . . ." "Jean-Luc must not be that way." Horatio exchanged a look with the other women. "Baby, he's that way. 'Cause A, ALL men are THAT WAY. And B, I assure you Jean-Luc's on the game. Hey, do yall remember Brownie?" "Yeah, yeah." "Oh, yeah, he and Brownie used to fuck all the time." "Brownie would come in and say Jean-Luc's hot!" "He would be limping!" "Brownie was on cloud 9!" Q burst into tears. For once, Horatio had nothing to say. He patted Q's hand. The other women began to gently stroke Q's head and arms. The men were never supposed to notice what the women did. It was beneath them (unless there was a fine hell of a catfight). But Jean-Luc always watched Q out of the corner of his eye. He had to keep adjusting and readjusting to the fact that the spectacular Q was actually his. He beat Q and Q cried, and he was really his. He ordered Q around and Q took it, and he was really his. Secretly he would stare at Q's beauty; Q was really his. Q's subservience, his geisha-girl attentiveness, his shyness. Jean-Luc couldn't believe it. He never owned anything so rare and valuable as Q in prison. It was as if he had sent away to win a sweepstakes, hoping to get his hands on one of the "thousands of other valuable prizes," but instead he won the grand prize: brand-new, never-been-touched, never-been-driven-by-anyone-but-YOU, goes-150-miles-an-hour, latest- model, beautifully-upholstered, elegantly-appointed, fun-to-drive-and-so-expensive-you-probably-can't-even-afford-the-maintenance-and-insurance-on-it Jaguar XJ40. Jean-Luc let himself gloat sometimes, but mostly he simply looked at his new possession; he didn't dare touch it because he knew, he *knew* the sweepstakes people were going to come back any second with a used orange Pinto and tell him, "Oops, sorry. This is what we meant to give you. That Jaguar belongs to someone else. You haven't been riding around in it, have you boy? Well, wipe it off some." But every day he woke up and Q was still a Jaguar. And every day, he read the owner's manual and found some new feature he didn't even know cars could have. He wanted Q so much he was resentful. How dare Q sit there so beautiful and rare and not know it? How dare he present Jean-Luc with such a problem in logistics and protection and not be aware of what he'd done? Jean-Luc had just wanted a simple little fuck but he ended up with the feed and caring of one highly sensitive beauty instead. Q couldn't take it any longer. That night as they sat in their cell: "Jean-Luc, why did you buy me?" "I wanted me some." But he hadn't really taken it. Rapes happened every day and night. Q heard the screams, saw the shame and shock on the young and pretty faces in the yard all the time. By now he himself had counseled newcomers that they had to stay in the woman's corner or else risk a beating. "You never take it." Q was asking for clarification. "I mean there was that once, but that was months ago." His mouth was dry. He knew he was risking a beating for being so demanding. "You asking me to?" Jean-Luc turned around and looked at him. "I was just wondering why..." Q's voice was faltering. Jean-Luc sighed as if he were exasperated and jumped down off his bunk. Q braced himself for another beating, but all that happened was that Jean-Luc led him to the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt. Q was embarrassed because they hadn't called lights out, and people would see them. Slowly, watching Q's face very carefully for any resistance, Jean-Luc leaned forward and kissed him. Q kept his hands down at his sides, but he relaxed his lips and let himself be kissed. And that was all Jean-Luc did. Later, Q lay in the dark and recalled the feel of Jean-Luc's lips against his. Jean-Luc's taste, so clean and surprisingly sweet. The warmth of Jean-Luc's breath. He remembered the feel of the rough denim shirt against his bare chest, and the way Jean-Luc's hands gripped him gently. So, this was going to be a seduction. And somehow he knew. After the seduction, he would be Johnny's girl forever. He whispered the word "Johnny" out loud to himself for the first time. One day Jean-Luc's food had a roach in it. He pushed it away with an expression of disgust. Q looked up and saw the roach. Then he silently handed Jean-Luc his own plate. Jean-Luc looked up, surprised, and then he glared and pushed the plate back to Q. Q cut his meat loaf in half, and his potatoes and his peas; he ate his half. Then he offered the plate to Jean-Luc again, his eyes pleading. Jean-Luc scowled but took it. It snowed once. And bitches like Q and Horatio and Sisko's latest stood at the open windows trying to catch snowflakes with their tongues; seeing this, their men had no choice but to beat the foolishness out of them. Some of the bitches knew they were pushing it when they tried to catch the snow, but they did it anyway. Horatio's lover, a big one- eyed biker named Warthog or something that sounded like Warthog, used a rolled-up bunch of papers (they had a gourmet approach to sexually-charged beatings), and Sisko used his fists. Jean-Luc just grabbed Q's arm and smacked his ass a couple of good ones with the flat of his hand. Then he dragged him away from the window and said, "I think you could put that tongue to better use." He was surprised to see how Q blushed. The next day in the bitches' corner, the ladies all laughed with each other because they all had been slapped around for doing the same thing. How funny! So Fear Alley was not always about fear. While most prisons lit their cells with one large overhead bare bulb, Fear Alley was so old that the lighting was as beautiful as a woman's magazine. Each cell had three light fixtures screwed into the back cell wall, and each fixture was covered with ribbed celluloid which had yellowed with age, and the light glowed soft and golden against the ancient bare plaster of the walls. The cell Jean-Luc shared with Q was eight feet deep and ten feet wide. On the left side were their bunks; on the right side was a toilet, a sink, and a ledge about eighteen inches by four feet. That was their writing table and dining room and desk and card table. Q always kept their two chairs neatly tucked in under the ledge. Above the ledge, there were shelves where they could keep Q's Swiss Miss packets and his spiral notebooks. And under the bottom bunk, Q had covered some boxes in a pretty fashion for storage. The glowing casement window was right in the middle of the back wall. But none of that was enough. After a few months of rooming with Jean- Luc, Q began to sand the graffiti away with a piece of gravel. He had squatted, working diligently, with dust in his hair and his mouth pursed in concentration. Then, after he was through sanding, Q carefully drew evenly spaced 3" by 3" squares drawn with pencil. Jean-Luc watched this with a cross between foreboding and amusement. He had never even noticed the graffiti. One day he returned to the cell to find that Q had placed eight-sided stars in each and every square. He had made them from the tinfoil wrapped around chewing gum, and fastened them with a paste made of water and smuggled flour. Now the silver stars made it seem as if their cell were in the middle of a bright meteor shower, as if they were riding it to the future in a magnificent carriage. Clearly Q was a natural-born bitch, but the place did look a lot nicer. Q gazed at what he had done; then he walked over and looked out their window. He turned back to Jean-Luc. "They remind me of real stars." Jean-Luc came up behind him. Sometimes something about Q made him want to look at stars. Then he felt irritated with himself and went back to his bunk. "Come away from that goddamned window." Q turned, hurt and surprised. "Okay." He went quietly to his bunk. A few days later, Jean-Luc stared out the window. "I don't know what the hell you see." Q diffidently came up behind him. "I just like to look. You know, I never did what they said I did. Never ran dope. Sometimes when I look out I wonder what it would be like if I'd never come here, but then I'd have never met you." He moved closer. His arms came up and around Jean-Luc's shoulders and Jean-Luc felt himself stiffen; he was not much for tender moments. "Just let me, just for a minute," Q begged. Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. Goddamn Q, but he allowed it, eventually relaxed against Q's broad chest, let himself be held. "Stars are alright sometimes." He felt Q nod against the back of his head. He let his guard down further. "I know you didn't do what they say." Obviously. Q's nerves were too exposed to permit him to get away with any sort of deceit. One day, soon after that, Horatio turned up missing. "I think he's sick," said one of the other women. All the women shared a look. "I think he's been diagnosed. I think it hit him hard." He wanted to visit Horatio, but Horatio was in the infirmary. Quarantined. Q volunteered to help out. He wasn't scared. He had read about this illness in the newspapers; he knew how it spread. O'Brien shrugged and nodded. Horatio had always been frail, bird-like, so he hadn't changed much. But he was paler and his eyes were huge. "Q!" he said and began coughing. Finally he caught his breath. "This shit is nickel-and-diming me to death." "What can I do?" "I want to get cleaned up and then I want to see my husband. I've got this fucking quarantine, but I want you to get Jean-Luc to pull some strings. Who will it hurt?" He looked at Q who was standing up to get him ready. "I never knew what you knew and what you didn't know. You know what this is all about, don't you?" He grabbed Q. "When that crazy cherry of yours gets popped, I want you to always use rubbers and get tested, okay." Q stood with Jean-Luc as the weeping husband left Horatio's cot. "He'll get better, don't you think?" said the big biker. "Horatio said dying was too corny for him." There were too many emotions. Jean-Luc stood there with his arms crossed. Q was holding the big sobbing biker. Horatio died within the month. They decided to hold a funeral service in the yard; after all, wouldn't they want the same for themselves? All the women came, along with Horatio's widower and Jean-Luc, and some of the men whom Horatio in his vivacity had befriended -- the moody loner called Worf, some others. Q did the prayers; as he spoke, they could hear the prison back-hoe roar as it prepared a new grave at the entrance to Fear Alley. Horatio's husband was undone. Q recited the 23rd Psalm. The part about the Valley of the Shadow of Death made the men draw closer together. There was a pause. Then Jean-Luc stepped forward. "Let us sing 'Amazing Grace.'" At first, everyone joined in, but a curious thing happened. By the time they finished, there was silence all over the yard, partly out of respect for the dead, but a good deal of it was the effect of Jean-Luc's voice. Distinctively resonant in speech, it was absolutely spectacular raised in song. Everyone was looking at him, staring in shock, as Q did. For once, Jean-Luc seemed a little nonplused. He had not anticipated any reaction at all, much less the stunned appreciation his singing engendered. "Lord now letteth Thou Thy servants depart in peace according to thy will, Amen," he said. Warthog was much comforted. "I wish we could sing Horatio's favorite song? It's called 'Brandy'. 'Brandy, you're a fine girl, what a good wife you'd be, but my life, my love, my lady is the sea, lalalala.' Remember?" "I'll try to learn it," Jean-Luc said gently. And it was over. Warthog walked back over to his group, and Jean-Luc walked back over to his. Q stared after him, wondering now if Jean-Luc's magnificent singing was just a grief-induced illusion. That night Q tried to thank him for what he'd done. "It made me feel better. I appreciate that." "Shut up, bitch." Horatio's lover came by their cell. "Horatio left this. I want you to have it. He said yall used to talk about music all the time." Q held the mandolin tenderly. He remembered Miss Quinn. Looking at the mandolin reminded Warthog of his lady's bright beauty. "You both are so musical that you could use it." Q gave the biker a sharp look, but he was serious. So it hadn't been a hallucination; Jean-Luc was musical. Q used what he knew to teach himself some simple chording and occasionally Jean-Luc would hum along for a while. His singing voice was extraordinary. All of Fear Alley hushed up when Jean-Luc sang. Warden Dougherty came to the lunch room. "As you know, Horatio Boone died of a very contagious disease. Spread in a very specific way." The lunchroom was silent as death. "We have an opportunity to test all you men who want to be tested. If you take this opportunity, you might not save your life since there's no cure yet, but you might save someone else's life. You men think about it." Jean-Luc was tested, and he told Q to get tested. "Isn't that wasteful?" Q said, "there's no way I could have it." Jean-Luc looked at Q. Q blushed and took the test. He was negative. Jean-Luc was negative. Horatio's widower was negative too. "That must be why he never let me . . ." he sobbed. Q patted the biker on the back. The weather got warmer. Men in the cells went around in fewer clothes. Late one evening, Q was walking down the corridor just behind Jean-Luc, like a Arab wife following her husband, when there was a sudden commotion in Sisko's cell. They both glanced in. Sisko was seated fucking his latest flame, a younger white man, just a boy really, right at the edge of manhood, full-lipped, soft-eyed, who was sitting on his lap. The younger man saw them watching and smiled; he was impossibly lewd. Sisko's head was thrown back in ecstacy; he didn't see them. One of his huge hands caressed the boy's neck. Jean-Luc looked away, but his back and neck were strangely stiff. Q noticed his own heavy breathing and knew the time had come. They walked on. As they entered their cell, lights out was called and, at that second, Jean-Luc touched Q intimately. Barely. A hand on the waist. Q knew exactly what was coming. "I... do you...? Should I... bend over?" Jean-Luc's face was amused. "Get the Vaseline. I know you have some because I saw it." The cell was so hot, and its warmth was not abated by the huge attic fan Fear Alley ran at all hours. The fan made a rhythmic chunka-thunk-thunk. All the time. Chunka-thunk-thunk. Somewhere down the hall someone laughed. Chunka-thunk-thunk. Q stripped down to his jeans in the cell and went to their little sink -- there was no mirror but he could see his reflection dimly in the chrome faucet. He smoothed his glossy hair down and then, with his back to Jean-Luc, undid the top button of his jeans and turned and walked slowly to the bunk, carefully swiveling himself so Jean-Luc could see him. Chunka-thunk-thunk. He had not even recognized himself in his makeshift mirror. Who was doing this? Chunka-thunk-thunk. And, seated on the bottom bunk, Jean-Luc made no secret of his openly watching Q preen. He took his tee shirt off too. Q, always fastidious, picked up Jean-Luc's tee shirt and then pressed it to his lips. Then he held it to his bare chest as if it were a bouquet. How did one do this? He leaned back. He spread his knees. Somebody down the hall said 'unh unh.' Somebody down the hall said 'yo.' Chunka-thunk-thunk. Jean-Luc's face was very relaxed His eyes followed every bit of Q's little performance. "It's a good thing for me they don't bottle your stuff," he said. His voice was rougher than usual, hoarser. "What do you want to do, Jean-Luc?" "Everything." Q stood up and pulled his jeans down. Jean-Luc blinked. His face was hungry, and, when Q sat back down, he pulled Q close and ran his hands over Q's body. Gently, but not sexual. Feeling his way as if learning it. Possessive. So this was what it meant to be owned. Jean-Luc took his jeans off too. Now both men were facing each other. Chunka-thunk-thunk. Jean-Luc pushed Q gently on the bottom bunk. Then Q took the little jar from under the pillow and got some on his fingers and began to rub himself, preparing for Jean-Luc. Their eyes never left each other. Chunka-thunk-thunk. And Jean-Luc moved and placed himself at the edge of Q. Q stared into his face -- Jean-Luc looked almost frightened, and, without warning, began to move inside Q. Q's mouth fell open and words came out. Aroused, scared almost to hysteria, he wasn't even sure of what he was saying until he heard somebody praying The Lord's Prayer and realized it was he himself. He was panting, moaning deep in his throat as Jean-Luc fucked him, surging back against him in an instinctive rhythm, the words pushing themselves out on each thrust. "Our Father who art in Heaven," he heard himself sigh. Jean-Luc kept moving and Q's mind caught up with the motions of his body. He rocked against his lover deliberately now, instinctively angling himself in such a way that Jean-Luc's penis gave him greater pleasure. "Hallowed be thy name." Jean-Luc took both Q's hands in a tight grip and Q felt a surge of pure happiness. Johnny was holding his hands. "Thy kingdom come." Q opened his eyes, looked straight into Johnny's eyes. "Thy will be done." Then he moaned, "On earth..." He was beginning to lose his place. "On earth," he sighed again. Jean-Luc pushed all the way inside Q's body, but there was much less pain than he expected. And, after a minute or so, it began to feel just like Horatio said it would--hard and full and good. He moved back against Jean-Luc's thrusts and shocked himself by moaning loudly. The feeling was beginning to take over more completely, beginning to drive away what little rational thought he had left. His head arched back on the pillow. "Oh, God," he whispered. "Oh, God!" He couldn't help it, he was writhing by now. "Oh, God, oh God, oh God!" "Glory halleluier!" someone shouted, mocking him. And Q heard Jean-Luc's snorted laughter. But Q wasn't trying to be funny, he just couldn't help himself. He wanted to give it all to Jean-Luc, his body, his soul, his helpless appeals to deity. He was for Jean-Luc and Jean-Luc only. It was morning. Q opened his eyes he had slept so . . . soundly Jean-Luc was next to him in the cramped bunk, touching him so warm and smooth. What . . . He said a quick prayer: gabbling that the Lord not take Jean-Luc from him. Jean-Luc's eyes opened, clear, bright. His arm moved around Q. "Morning, darling," said a voice. It was O'Brien, his little Irish pigsty eyes gleaming. Jean-Luc sat up and pulled the covers up on Q. "God was good to you, wasn't he, Picard? But it's breakfast time. Come on. I came over here just to be with my boys. You know we're going on a road trip today, so all you chain-gangers better get ready. Q, you're stayin' here. I want you to mop the reception area." Jean-Luc got out silently from under the covers. He was naked, pale, robust. That tore it. "For Sweet Jesus' sake, man, get yourself decent." O'Brien was infuriated. What a horrible little con! The sinful dark things that went on in that cell last night! The very saints would cry! "Don't forget to wash your hands," he said to Jean-Luc and fled down the gallery. Jean-Luc turned to Q. How could it be that Q was more pure, more serene than ever, after the dark-blooded passions of the night before? But Jean-Luc's own eyes held the evidence. And Q smiled innocently. "That was so wonderful, Jean-Luc. I've never felt that way in my life." Jean-Luc was speechless. With lust. With other things. Q waited all day in a daze for the prison bus to bring Jean-Luc back. He mopped the floor disconsolately, his hand rubbing the mop handle almost unconsciously. And after supper, when no one had returned, he went to his cell; he cleaned himself carefully and sat on the edge of his cot with his hands folded. Waiting. Thinking about what had happened. The whole day had had a scrim of sexual arousal over it; he did not feel like himself at all. Then there was a burst of laughing and talking; the chain gang had returned. Q listened to them take themselves to the showers, and in about twenty minutes he heard the even pad of Jean-Luc's feet. He surprised himself by knowing Jean-Luc that well. Jean-Luc came in the cell, clean, barechested, wearing only his jeans. "Hello, Q," he said agreeably. "Did you have a nice day?" "Yes, Jean-Luc," Q whispered. He could barely look at Jean-Luc so radiantly handsome was he. "I'm going to turn in now. That was hard work we did." Jean-Luc's voice was controlled, even. He got in the upper bunk. Q was numb, silent. What . . . Jean-Luc regretted what they had done. Jean-Luc was politely telling him in a noble Jean-Luc way that he, Q, was not good enough for him. He, Q, had let Jean-Luc down with his childish, lustful ways. Jean-Luc could do better. No doubt Jean-Luc had met someone on the chain gang. Someone younger and smarter and prettier and more supple, with warm resilient flesh that gave Jean-Luc more of what he needed. Jean-Luc had met someone . . . more like Jean-Luc himself and less like dull, inept Q. The trustees called "lights-out." Q sat there, stunned. And then Jean-Luc spoke: his black-satin voice wrapped the starlit room. "Q, what are you wearing?" Q was speechless for a moment: then, "just my tee shirt, my underwear." His voice sounded reedy to himself, stuttering. Jean-Luc climbed down; he was wearing only undershorts. His skin, the random scattering of hair on his body, all were silvered in the starlight of the cell. "I want to check for myself, Q." And Jean-Luc sat beside him. He put his arm around Q's waist and then pulled up the tee shirt; he felt Q's boxers and began to whisper, "I don't like these little underpants. They don't flatter you as they should. You know what I'd like. I'd like to see you in something filmy and white. Something see-through. A sweet little daddy's girl like you ought to wear sweet little lace panties." These words in any other voice would have sounded absurd, but Jean-Luc made a believer out of Q. "Sweet little lace panties. So I can get you to spread those little sweet legs and I can see your pussy anytime I want." He pulled the boxers down on Q's body, and Q kicked them away. Then Q squeezed his thighs together. "What are you hiding down there from Daddy?" Q sighed. Jean-Luc put his hands between Q's legs and began to rub him; he rubbed his balls, his cock, his asshole. Gently, then firmly, then gently again. "Daddy likes his pussy hot, you know. And wet." He put his hand on Q's ass and then put his thumb in Q who began to very gently buck back against it. "Daddy's girl likes that, huh?" "Don't stop, don't stop." "You want to see how much Daddy likes it? Feel Daddy where he's big." Q put his hand on the protruding front of Jean-Luc's boxers. "Yes, rub Daddy's big thing. Get Daddy ready." Q brought out Jean-Luc's erection and rubbed its thick head. "Say it, Q, say it." And Q knew what he meant. He spread his legs far apart and pulled up his tee shirt and said, "oh, Daddy, please, please, Daddy, give it to me, Daddy," and Jean-Luc was coming over Q's hand and gasping. Q was so relieved he could have fainted. The next night, the night after that, the night after that, Q was bent over the filthy bunk, sweating all over in the oppressive prison heat, learning to take it up the ass and love it as Jean-Luc pounded into him. Then Jean-Luc taught him how to suck cock, and Q loved that too. Then Q learned to ask for it face to face, wrapping his legs around Jean-Luc, thrusting back, lifting his mouth up for a kiss, holding Jean-Luc tightly. And it was always amid a stream of endearment-laced obscenities delivered in that velvet voice that could make Q want to give up just about anything. "Does Daddy's girl want to take it in her cunt? Open up that pussy for Daddy, show Daddy how much you like it. Come on, show Daddy what a good girl you are." And as they fucked, Q would pray as he stared into Jean-Luc's eyes and it was as if he were praying *to* Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc loved that. He was God to Q, and it was irresistible. Often Jean-Luc found Q staring at him so adoringly that he had to tell him to knock it off. "Quit looking at me, Q. Don't make me come over there." But when the lights were out and Jean-Luc climbed in the bed beside Q (which he did every night), sometimes he whispered: "Where are we?" And Q learned what Jean-Luc wanted him to say: "We're on a picnic. And you tell me you don't like tuna sandwiches, but that's all I brought. So I ask if I can make it up to you." "Yes, Q, yes." "Next time I bring hot dogs, but you won't let me cook them. You tell me all the nasty things you're going to make me do with the hotdogs." "Yes." "We're caught in a rainstorm. I'm cold. You put your arms around me. But I'm still cold. You rub me to keep me warm. You rub me everywhere; then you think of a way to distract me from thinking about being cold." "Yes!" "Oh, Johnny, please! Please touch me." A moan. "Yes." Then they were silent. Jean-Luc had his tongue down Q's throat. He squeezed one of Q's nipples. Q's legs fell open, and his big hands went to Johnny's waist and he pushed his hips up, rubbing. He had to think of a way to ask for what he wanted. "Johnny, it feels so good when you're inside me." "Turn over, motherfucker, you're gonna get it good tonight." Other people were fucking too. They could hear it. Moans, soft cries in the darkness. Fear Alley was fucking all over. Q sighed. Horatio had told him about Brownie limping up to them. Well, he'll be the one limping tomorrow. Because Jean-Luc liked to fuck Q until he knew it was hurting. He liked to hear Q whimper. Lost in sweat, pausing so he wouldn't come too soon, he waited until Q's face was set in that grimace of pain and lust, waited for the desperate expression, the pleading, the whimpering. He knew exactly how much Q could take, and he fucked him up to the limits of his endurance and then let himself come. When Jean-Luc would finish one of these marathons, he would fall asleep on top of Q and sleep like a rock. Q lay under him and savored the sensations in his body. And when he eventually had to shift to make himself more comfortable, Jean-Luc's hands tensed around Q's body. Even in sleep Jean-Luc was possessive, claiming Q as his own. Sometimes he called Q's name in his sleep. "I'm here, Johnny." Jean-Luc appeared not to hear him. "Motherfucker," he murmured still asleep. Q didn't mind. Some nights Jean-Luc cursed and snarled all night. Or threatened to kill people. Q knew Johnny wasn't talking to him. And despite the fetid cell, despite the boys across from them and to either side of them listening in, Q came to understand the hold that Jean-Luc held over him, and what was more, that he needed it more than he'd ever needed anything. Jean-Luc wasn't the only one who enjoyed Q's burgeoning erotic glory. Everyone wanted him now, and each liked something different about him. For some, it was his amazing mouth, which in repose turned down like an old-fashioned movie star's. For others, it was the dimple and the downward eyes. He had a gaze that meekly lowered whenever anyone looked at him; then he would look sidewise out of his eyes to see if he was still being stared at, and, when he saw that he was, he dropped his eyes again and looked away. He was submissive and eager to please and shy, and he never realized that his demeanor made men say to themselves 'Jesus Godamighty, just a little taste. Just one. Just a bite, God, please.' And whenever anyone coaxed a rare smile from him, it would light up his face and make him prettier than ever. (But he didn't give smiles easily; Jean-Luc would beat him if he smiled at too many other men. One day an inmate - who was flirting but Q didn't suspect it -- showed Q a simple magic trick with a string and a little box. Q just beamed. The magician was delighted: "There's that smile," he said. Q blushed and smiled even more, and Jean-Luc saw all of this, and the next day in the yard Q was sporting bruises all down the side of his face and he didn't meet anyone's eye. The magician bore the brunt of Jean-Luc's hard-eyed stare for all of ten minutes and then disappeared and spent the next several days hiding in his cell.) For other men, it was the quicksilver of emotions playing over his exquisite skin and features. When Q saw Jean-Luc coming towards him, his eyes would fix on Jean-Luc's face and, if Jean-Luc looked relaxed (Jean-Luc was stingy with his smiles), Q's face turned up and he leaned towards him a little as if he were eager to get closer. And if Jean-Luc had his punishing stare on, Q's eyes would widen and his lips would purse around the corners as he shrunk a little. And, for some of the men, Q's allure lay in the way he moved, always languidly holding his hands near his face or around his body. Or in the flushing skin, the way the blood leapt up so quickly to color his face. Or in the way Q breathed, almost a gasp sometimes, as if he had to have all the air right that second. Or in his voice with its edge of teasing, sometimes; sometimes, its surprise at what was being said to him. The temptations of Q were endless. And he belonged completely to Jean-Luc. Q even remembered their anniversary. Jean-Luc was baffled. Their anniversary? "It's been a year to the day since you bought me." Q was folding in on himself a little. If somehow Johnny were displeased... "Ah," Jean-Luc breathed in. Q seemed to expect something of him. "I didn't have time to get you anything." Then Q's smile was shy, curling around the edges. He took a square of wax paper out of his shirt pocket and unwrapped it. "Look." It was a little cookie in the shape of the number one. "For one year." Q broke it in half and gave a piece to Johnny. They ate it ceremoniously; then Q blushed and gently kissed him on the lips. "Q, I don't know what to say." Jean-Luc should have been amused and disgusted. He should have mocked his lover, but somehow he just couldn't. "You don't have to say anything. I just... you know. Thought we should celebrate." It was as if she really loved Jean-Luc. But why should that be? Q knew how to behave by now. Subservient, as modest as if he were wrapped head to toe in a chadoor, he never gave Jean-Luc lip, and he knew to mind his place. He didn't resent it. He seemed to like it. But again, why? What had his life been like on the outside? Jean-Luc couldn't ask. Not directly. All he could do was watch and wonder. Jean-Luc wasn't the only man watching Q. Who in their right mind couldn't see that Q was broken completely to Jean-Luc's hand? And who in their right mind didn't want a taste? But Q was obviously uninterested in anybody else. He wouldn't even look you in the eye unless you were Johnny or another bitch. He had no idea how much he was desired, didn't know he starred in dozens of rape fantasies. Jean-Luc was aware that it was just a matter of time before someone tried to get him out of the way. He knew other men wanted Q. Ben Sisko, for example, made no secret of his ambition. Oh, Sisko was a real piece of work. He could be charmingly entertaining unless you happened to draw his wrath, in which case he could be terrifyingly, unpredictably violent. On the outside, Sisko's charisma had been bottled up by circumstances. And because every day brought some painful reminder that he was a black man in a white society, his anger was almost boundless. But that anger fueled a determination to never give in. He had come to the attention of the cops in Paducah when he started writing about police brutality for a local militant paper. The cops began pulling him over every time they saw his old car drive by. "Hello, Benny boy, been writing some of that science fiction equality- horseshit again?" said a fat and witty white cop while his partner laughed and laughed. Not all white people were like that. One white woman actually gave money to Ben's newspaper; too bad she turned up dead. It was clearly part of some strange copy-cat killings, but that didn't stop the cops from bringing Benny in. After they brought him in for questioning, Benny just looked at them and smiled. "Serial killers invariably kill women of their own race. These are white women. I don't hate white women enough to kill them. One of my ancestors was white." The police looked at one another. Benny was fully dark. Any white ancestors had been long ago and far away. "I heard she loved black men, the blacker the better. And I know she used to go down to a bar called Neddies' to fuck a man called Midnight. Then she would sneak back to her husband's little... bed." He had smiled at the impact of his story. The police were tightlipped by now, enraged by his implication. He was found guilty of aggravated manslaughter (after all, the dead bitch had been asking for it) and sent to Fear Alley. (Meanwhile, the murders continued even though he was locked up.) And Ben found out something very odd: he liked prison. Outside, he had worked and worked and never gotten anywhere. Even his poor lovely wife had been forced into leaving him and taking a job elsewhere just to make ends meet. But prison was different. He did what he wanted to do and he rose to the top. He was as powerful as O'Brien, and he was determined to stay that powerful. In prison, the color of Ben's skin was truly irrelevant. Prison was the great equalizer. Now his harem and his enforcers listened to the beautiful torrent of breath and venom as Sisko plotted to take Q away. His voice was more stentorian than Jean-Luc's, more theatrical, but no less compelling, and people believed him when he talked. "Have you seen her?" h would rave to anyone who came within earshot. "She's beautiful. Like a flower. Just the thing to brighten my lonely cell, don't you think? And why should that pipsqueak have her?" His current favorite tried to talk him out of it. Jean-Luc had simply been another quiet prisoner until the day he bought Q. After that, he was quiet, insanely dangerous, and extremely vigilant, a man with something to lose. He would be deadly. "But I. Can. Do it!" Sisko held up an admonishing finger. "I can get her." He breathed in. "They say she didn't do anything except end up in the wrong place. They say she's done nothing. She's. Done. Nothing. Can you imagine that?" He rubbed the bulge that was beginning to press against the inside of his pants. His boy noticed and licked his lips. "Why don't you let me take care of you, Captain Sisko? Maybe you'll change your mind." Sisko had a band of men behind him. Which meant Jean-Luc needed help. He needed brawn, and lots of it. He wasn't that big, and he wasn't that strong, and there were people here in jail who could kill him with their bare hands and then go out in the yard and chat with their friends as if nothing had happened. This was going to take some thinking, some planning. He was going to have to do something, find some protection for them, but how? Geordi was listening to Will's tape recordings of the band. "What the hell is that?" Will was hurt: "Well, it might not be state-of-the-art but the price was right. I found it." "It's hard to tell anything about our sound from that. We'll need a better tape recorder. We need better everything, really." Jean-Luc said: "Q can help. He's the money." Q said nothing. "You know what we need the most?" Geordi said. "A fiddle player," Will said and smiled. Geordi patted him on the arm; Will had gotten something right! Will thanked him, touching Geordi's hand in return. Geordi moved quickly, laying his palm over the back of Will's hand and pulling Will's fingers down to his fly. Will drew in a quick, gasping breath. "Now?" he asked. "Later tonight," Geordi specified. He understood how things worked around here by now. He could fuck Will anytime he wanted because that was one of the things Will was for. Geordi had been thrilled to discover this, but at the same time he felt a little guilty. "Are you sure you don't mind?" He had asked Worf. "Not at all," Worf answered generously. "Especially since you have no woman of your own." The little band traveled on. In Memphis, Jean-Luc discovered that he could set Geordi down on a busy downtown street and folks would give him money for playing. Geordi hated it, but he did it every day because it brought in a lot of cash. He developed a routine, dropping Geordi off right at rush hour so he could play all morning. Late afternoon Jean-Luc picked him up and took the money, and they went and got lunch. Then they would go back to their spot, and Geordi would play until after evening rush hour was over. Worf and Q hunted the city for the bath houses and parks where gay guys hung out. Q picked up a lot of tricks that way. Will's job was to practice and study music and guard the car. In the evenings, they played. Memphis had a lot of bars, but most of them were for jazz and blues. The hillbilly clubs let them in suspiciously, but at least they let them in. The boys found enough work to keep them busy. They even won a few contests. Jean-Luc had been thinking about one thing for some time. One evening after Geordi had played in a little pocket-sized park all afternoon and made 56 dollars, Jean-Luc had the others meet them at the park. They hung around eating barbecue sandwiches and watching the Tennessee shadows grow longer and longer and the park's nature begin to change. Men, young and old, pretty and not quite so pretty, began to gather by the little fountains and statues of Davy Crockett and soon the familiar sounds of men with other men rang through the park. "Check that cat out," Jean-Luc nodded. A naked man was tied to a tree. Will gasped. As they watch, different men would come over and fuck him for a while. And then leave. "That's where the heartaches begin." He turned to face his little group. "The only way this will work is if you use rubbers every time you fuck or get fucked or suck or get sucked by somebody not in this group. So we'll buy latex in bulk and get tested regularly. Or else. Or else I'll beat the shit out of you." Worf stood beside Jean-Luc with his arms folded in front of him. "It will not be a little girly-slap beating either. No, not the kind that you do before you have a fine fuck. This will be a beating you will never recover from." The others nodded. One afternoon, Q sat in a library and painstakingly copied out the names of all the radio stations in Tennessee. Then he got a lot of quarters and started making calls. He had one small success. One person told him yes, they could come next month if they sang gospel music. Q lied and said of course they sang gospel. They'd be happy to appear any time he wanted. He rushed back to tell Jean-Luc the news. "Okay, let's celebrate." It was only May, but the humidity was threatening to wring the life out of all of them. They could use a treat, and Jean-Luc had caught himself staring longingly at a sign that advertised rooms for rent with air conditioning and king sized beds. "Q, go over there and see how much they charge for rooms." Q came back; he was smiling: "Thirty-four dollars a night. But they only have two rooms available." "Two is all we need. Okay, girls. Let's spend the night together." When they got their keys, Jean-Luc surprised them. "Q, you go with Worf. Will and Geordi, you come with me." Q looked hurt. "Don't give me that look. You like to sleep with Worf." Jean-Luc and Will and Geordi settled into their nice room. While Will was fiddling with the air conditioning, cranking it up as high as it could go, Geordi was feeling his way around. Every now and then, he'd call out a question, like when he'd found the TV and needed Jean-Luc to read the TV guide for him. It surprised Jean-Luc that Geordi liked to watch television, but he did. He loved the sound effects, the professional modulations of the voices, the background music. It was all enjoyable and real to him. "Forget that TV and come here. Will, leave that thing alone and go shower up." Jean-Luc and Geordi had already showered. Jean-Luc was lying naked on the bed letting the cool air waft over him and feeling totally luxurious. Geordi turned and held his hands out. (Jean-Luc really liked Geordi. The young man was calm and quiet and smart. With him around, Jean-Luc's dream had a stronger chance at reality. And, even if things didn't work out the way he wanted, he would still get some good fucking out of the deal.) "Chair on your right about a foot, Geordi." Jean-Luc and Will spoke at once. The director at the blind boy's home had been right. Geordi needed special handling. Not much, but some. They were learning. Geordi swerved left and found the foot of the bed. Jean-Luc took his hand and pulled him up next to him. Will stripped with no sense of embarrassment and hurried into the shower. He knew what was going to happen next and he wanted it. When he came out again, sure enough, Geordi was beneath Jean-Luc and they were kissing. Jean-Luc was taking his time. Will could tell how well people fucked just by looking at them, and he knew Jean-Luc would be good at it. He was right, too. Jean-Luc was making Geordi buck. "What do you want me to do, Jean-Luc?" Jean-Luc moved off. "Get over here and show Geordi just what you can do with that mouth of yours, Will." Geordi gasped. He'd wondered if they would do something like this. "Oh, please, please, please." Then Jean-Luc grabbed Geordi's throat: "That's why you need to stick with me. You never know when something like this will happen. Isn't it good? Isn't it good?" Geordi hesitated a moment and then reached his hand out. He wasn't sure he liked Will very much, but he liked Jean-Luc and he loved fucking. This was good. The bed creaked. Will was spongy and ungainly after Jean-Luc's slender grace, but he was touching Geordi all over and Jean-Luc was watching. "Geordi, you should see this. Your skin is brown and Will's skin is pink, and it looks very nice when you wind around one another. Slowly." He ordered. "I love watching you. I want to look for a long time." Will pulled Geordi's mouth to his nipple. He took Geordi's hand and pulled it down to his dick. This was so nice. Like a fantasy. "Will, suck Geordi. Take your time. I'm playing with myself while I watch you. When Will's finished with you, I'll let you suck me. Would you like that?" His answer was a moan of gratification. Geordi moved faster in Will's mouth, eager to be done so he could get to the prize which was Jean-Luc's hard cock. Will got to watch Geordi go down on Jean-Luc. He had to do himself, as usual, fantasizing that Jean-Luc would suck him off. He shut his eyes. Jean-Luc wasn't ever going to touch him, and he knew it. He sighed. This was hot, but he missed Worf. The next morning, when Q and Worf had come downstairs very late, Jean-Luc jealously watched Worf . He wondered just how good a time Worf had had with Q. Worf looked dazed. Well, fuck that, Jean-Luc knew Q had turned it on full throttle. Q made love like an angel, and he must have made love to Worf all last night instead of simply sucking him off out of duty, or else Worf wouldn't look that stunned. And Worf had probably fucked Q again when they had awakened, unable to resist Q's stuff. Jean-Luc's mood shifted. Q was going to get it but good. "Q, you're sucking cock tonight somewhere. We need the money." In prison, they had to do a lot of work outdoors in prison. One day after working outside on the farm, Q's skin was red and hot to the touch. The next morning, he could barely move and the jailhouse medic put him in the infirmary. When Jean-Luc went to see him, Q had an IV hooked up to his arm because he was so dehydrated. His eyes were closed and he didn't respond when Jean-Luc called his name. The nurse said he slept a lot, common when recuperating from sun poisoning. Sun poisoning. Not sunburn, sun poisoning. The whole thing was so frightening Jean-Luc felt as if his heart would stop beating. Q was out in forty-eight hours. He wasn't totally healed. He staggered a bit when he walked, and, beneath his still-red skin, he looked grey and tired. Jean-Luc gave O'Brien some cigarettes and some money to bring him food from the outside. Barbeque. Jean-Luc knew Q liked barbeque. He shoved the food in front of him. "Eat that." Jean-Luc's voice was harsh. Q looked up as he were afraid of being punished, but, when the smell hit his nostrils, Jean-Luc could almost see his mouth watering. Q took a bite and then started wolfing it like a starving man. He would have eaten the whole thing, but Jean-Luc took it away from him when he was about half done. "You'll make yourself sick eating too much at once." Q's eyes followed the carry-out box. Jean-Luc stared at him. Q looked away. He got up to wash his face and hands at the sink. "Jean-Luc I want to thank you for..." "Shut up, bitch." "But," Q was confused. "It was so nice of you to..." Jean-Luc jumped off his bunk. "Did you hear me tell you to shut up?" And even though Q pressed himself into the corner of the cell, Jean-Luc slapped the back of his head and his arms and hands. He was careful to stay away from Q's sunburned face. "What do you do the next time I tell you something?" "Do what you say," Q whispered. "I'm sorry. I'll do what you say." He was a big man, a tall man, but he folded up just like a baby. Jean-Luc noticed a tiny spot of barbeque sauce Q missed. "Clean your face up. You look like a pig." Q went back to the sink and washed and washed. The next day, Warden O'Brien came by the cell early, before breakfast. "McConn, you're working inside now. In the kitchen." Q was surprised. Jean-Luc reached under the bed and then wordlessly handed O'Brien five more cartons of cigarettes. "There's the bar I spotted earlier," Q said. He was wearing a thin red tee shirt he had bought for a quarter and his cowboy hat and some tight faded jeans and as a little special touch a black rag tied around his neck. He bit his lower lip. It would have been worth anything to be with him. Everyone watched to see how jail would toughen Q, but, to their growing astonishment, nothing of the sort took place. Q stayed delicate. If anything, he seemed to develop a layer of serenity. Not even Jean-Luc understood why this was. He watched his bitch from across the yard sometimes, mused on her tranquility, speculated on the reason for it. He became suspicious, naturally, imagining a liaison carried out between shifts in the kitchen. He tried to frighten the truth out of him, but Q simply cried and swore he was faithful. "I have to see this for myself, asshole," he said, and the next day he walked down to the kitchen. |
