The Promised LandPart FourAnd he found three burly white men in puffy hats waiting for him. "If I had one little frying pan and one little piece of bacon and my bacon got cooked, I'd let another man use my frying pan," said the head chef. "Especially if he had a lot of bacon to cook," agreed one of the other cooks. "Each piece of bacon doesn't need its own frying pan. A good frying pan can take a lot of bacon," said the third cook. And they stood there with their arms folded. Q came from out back of the kitchen; his face lit like a rose when he saw Jean-Luc. "Jean-Luc," he said in that voice, a fresh murmur, more a throb than a voice. "Don't make me fuck you up," Jean-Luc said; it was so sudden the men didn't realize at first who had said it. Q's face crumpled in the beautiful way he had, stunned, wounded, with absolutely no way to protect himself. But Jean-Luc wasn't talking to Q; he was talking to the kitchen crew. And they knew it. Jean-Luc took his eyes off them for a moment to give Q a once-over. If they'd threatened him, his bitch would be looking scared by now, and she wasn't. Jean-Luc noticed his own reaction to Q's retreating back. His eyes went straight to Q's ass, and he knew that sweet piece of flesh was a temptation no man would resist for long. "Q!" Q turned around and came back. "Take that goddamn thing off." He gestured at the apron. "You're leaving." Q at least knew to obey and not protest. He removed the apron and handed it to one of the men. The man grabbed Q's hand as it reached out to him, kneading his fingers suggestively. Q's dismay was fetchingly transparent. It was obvious he thought he'd be blamed for the cook's predatory gesture, and equally obvious that he was afraid of what Jean-Luc would do. When they got back to their cell, Q tried to pre-empt Jean-Luc's anger by apologizing. "I know I shouldn't have handed the apron to him. I won't do it again." He was sitting on his bunk with his head tucked into his shoulders, obviously expecting a blow. Jean-Luc wanted to hit him til his ears bled. He stood over Q with his hands on his hips, but Q looked so. . . "Stay here," he ordered. "You leave this cell and I'll kick your ass." It was early evening. He went to find O'Brien. "Now whaddaya want, Picard?" O'Brien said. "Q needs a new job." "It will cost you." "He goes tomorrow?" "First thing," O'Brien agreed amiably enough. "Then come on by, you've got your five cartons." "Ten, I believe, boyo." Jean-Luc said nothing; then he gave O'Brien a small tight nod. Q's new job in the library was perfect. Nobody ever used the library but himself and the head librarian. He was quiet and safe, pulling books, placing the returns back on the shelves, keeping track of who had what, putting away the few new acquisitions that arrived when a generous benefactor donated the discards from his personal library. He liked it a lot. When Jean-Luc got back in from his outside work, he always went straight to the library to distrustfully watch Q as he dusted and busied himself arranging old copies of National Geographic. It got to be very pleasant to be in the library, to hear the calming fan, to peruse the few books Q labored so to put in order. Jean-Luc sometimes picked up a book as Q bustled around. He read many things, but one book became a favorite; it had a yellow cover and little round toy-looking heads with o's for mouths indicating that they were singing. Killing time til Q was off work. Killing time til Q was in his arms. That Q! Smiling so tenderly, giving his smiles away to the elderly trustee who served as librarian! Some sort of crazy old history teacher who had started believing he was Napoleon and drove into buildings, thinking they were sphinxes. Looked like somebody had a little too much history. And Old Mr. History and Q had the same birthday, so the superstitious womanish Q thought this was heap big magic. Sometimes Mr. History would take a special book from his shelves and go to the gent's room for thirty minutes. The special book was usually a biography of the Queen Mum. When that happened, Jean-Luc made Q open his shirt and pull his pants down to his knees and roll over on the floor, while Jean-Luc, sweating like a stallion, rode into him until they both dissolved into sweat and salt and pounding heartbeats. When Mr. History returned, with his obscure needs patently satisfied, they were decent again, reading. The name of Jean-Luc's book was *I Hear America Singing.* It was nothing but a collection of old folk songs. The author was Carl Sandburg; Carl Sandburg was old and white-haired and held a guitar. Jean-Luc began to read in that book every day. It was a curious volume: every word in it was familiar and corroborated everything Jean-Luc knew about life, and at the same time it was news. And he found he could talk to Q about these things. Crowded together on his bottom bunk, they whispered into the late hours about the things they'd thought about. And neither laughed at the other. When Jean-Luc found out that Q could be smart, he was proud. And Q was glad that his heretofore useless intelligence made him even more valuable in Jean-Luc's eyes. They decided, with Mr. History's help, that Q should get a correspondence degree in accounting. Jean-Luc thought that would be useful, and Q did want to be useful to Jean-Luc, useful for all eternity to Jean-Luc, but still he wished he could have studied something exotic and frivolous like anthropology or ornithology. They sounded so much more interesting than accounting which was just numbers and rules. Still, it was nice that Jean-Luc was proud of him. Bedtime in the pen. "Johnny?" said Q's sweet baritone. "Um," Jean-Luc said suspiciously, although they were lying intertwined in the bottom bunk. "Mr. History asked me about you today." "Indeed." Jean-Luc smiled in the dark. What could Mr. History want? "He said, 'where'd he study?'" Q did an amusing imitation of Mr. History. "He doesn't think you sound like a regular con." "Study? I studied with Uncle throughout the United States and then with ole Daddy Moonshine after that. That's where I studied." This was not totally true. In the army, Jean-Luc had excelled at chauffeuring officers around. The one he liked the best had been named Galen, Commander Somebody Galen. Galen had been a big army instructor at the Army Academy in Pennsylvania. Jean-Luc got to drive Galen and his smart-guy friends all around, overall a pleasant task, especially as he listened to them. These men talked about things that really mattered. They got excited about great abstractions. Jean-Luc had never been around men like that before. One day Galen couldn't remember something, the name of the man who discovered the Rosetta Stone, and, before he could stop himself, Jean-Luc had said, "that would be Champillion, sir." Galen was stunned into silence. He gave Jean-Luc a severe look. Jean-Luc looked back at him stoically. "Sorry, sir, I simply happened to overhear the commander's conversation the other day, sir." "Indeed?" He and Jean-Luc began to talk whenever Jean-Luc was assigned to drive him because Galen liked to talk about archaeology to anybody and everybody, and he explained a lot of things to Jean-Luc. Galen always used very big words. Jean-Luc always nodded, but one day he said, "You know a lot, sir. I don't understand half of what you say sometimes, sir, and if you don't want to bother explaining, I understand. Sir." But Galen was a natural born teacher. "I hereby order you to stop me any time I use a word you don't know unless I'm talking to someone else. But I shall expect you to remember them and be able to use them back to me, do you understand?" It became a game. Jean-Luc liked hearing Galen's words in his own voice, and of course, Galen loved Jean-Luc's voice. One day Galen opened the front passenger door of the car and laid several books on the seat. Jean-Luc, holding the back door open, looked at him. Then he got in, picked up the books and examined them closely. A dictionary. A thesaurus. Another one called 'A Primer on Archaological Research.' He turned to Commander Galen. "I believe I have mislaid some books of mine, private." There was an undertone of satisfaction in Galen's dry voice. "If you should happen to encounter them I trust you will see to it that they find a home where they will be used and appreciated." "Yes, sir." Jean-Luc read from all three books every night. Eventually he lowered his guard enough to enjoy asking the professor questions about words and archaology, and he was smart enough to remember everything the professor said, so the professor enjoyed teaching him. It was easy to see, Jean-Luc thought, that this was as close to an education he'd ever get. Then Galen was detailed overseas. Jean-Luc gave him a real smile when they shook hands good-bye. Galen thanked him; Jean-Luc knew what for. Galen had always teased Jean-Luc about his perpetual frown. This smile meant something. Some lucky men had fathers. Well, Jean-Luc had Galen. Q dimpled in the dark. Johnny had revealed something to him! Kind of like the 1001 nights only in reverse. Suddenly: "Why are you two queens so fucking nosy?" Jean-Luc was really getting pissed off, "Okay, now let's hear something from you, asshole." "I don't have any good stories." "Bullshit. What do you girls talk about all day in the yard?" Q smiled. "Reggie told us something rich today." Jean-Luc snorted. Old Dreamland Reggie. Reggie was in for forgery. Surprise, surprise. Everything Reggie said was a fantasy and a lie, including "a", "an" and "the". "Okay, let's hear today's story." "Reggie said that, when he was nineteen, he was still a cherry, but he went to the movies and it was an old-fashioned movie theatre and he sat by himself and then a soldier came and sat down beside him. And when the hero kissed the girl, the soldier leaned in and said 'that sure makes me hot.' And Reggie didn't know what that meant, and then he had to piss, and the soldier followed him, and, when Reggie pissed, the soldier showed him his big cock and said, how do you like that, boy, and Reggie was confused, and the soldier reached for him, and quick as could be Reggie was bent over and the soldier was fucking him like there was no tomorrow." Jean-Luc began to breathe heavily. "What if it was me, Daddy? Would *you* like to do something like that to *me*?" "Motherfucker." Q could be damned irresistible sometimes. "Tell it like it *was* you." Q did. Nineteen-year-old Q in the dark, on the velvet seat, soldier Jean-Luc reaching over to hold Q's soft velvet hand, and more, putting his big hand between Q's legs, Q in black jeans, Jean-Luc in freshly pressed khakis, kissing, pressing together, showing each other how hot they were. A Harlton Cheston movie going on. The one called *War Eagle.* Harlton was a lieutenant in the navy with a Filipino sidekick; they were lying in the grass together. Talking about God. The sidekick got shot. "Hold me" he said to Harlton. Jean-Luc's tongue was down Q's throat he was holding Q's leaking cock, and unzipping himself. " Get down there and suck it." The movie was in black-and-white and, because the theatre was so dark, Jean-Luc and Q were in black and white too, and nineteen-year-old boy Q was a natural born cocksucker. Jean-Luc liked that whole sequence of events, especially when Q gave him a real blowjob. Then Q cleaned Jean-Luc off carefully while he watched him. "When you going to tell me about that, Daddy?" Q said. Jean-Luc knew what he meant. Then Q touched it. The scar on Jean-Luc's chest. It was shaped irregularly, just like a lightning bolt. "More stories, Q?" "What happened?" Jean-Luc was quick in telling. Long before, he had been stabbed in prison. Well, everybody got stabbed in prison. No big deal. But the knife nicked an artery and almost killed him. The doctors patched him up and gave him advice. No drink. No smoke. Ever. And watch out for that temper of his. His heart could still bust open at any moment. "No! Jean-Luc, no!" Q's eyes were wide. "Baby, I won't change for nothing. If that happens, that will be that." He moved closer to Q. "Some whore I was fucking on the outside asked me if they'd taken my heart out. She thought I might not have one." He lifted his eyebrows. "What a bitch." In the yard, the harem was buzzing. Philip who worked in the mailroom had spilt the beans. She whispered to the other ladies, "Worf got a letter." "A letter?" "It was real official." There was a dingy cast to the day. Worf was a genuine wild card. "When's it my turn, Picard?" Sisko said in the yard. "Oh, I'm just joking." But his eyes were like black ice. Jean-Luc had a plan. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all he had. He put the word out that he was forming a singing group. Lots of people in Fear Alley could sing and play. He picked a couple of them to sing with him. It didn't matter how well they sang, as long as they were big guys, bigger than he was. He really wanted Worf in his group. Worf was crazy and dangerous and he played the banjo quite well. Jean-Luc asked Kurn what Worf's problem was. "Lady problems," Kurn answered. Worf was being sued for divorce. That was what the official letter was. "She never came to see him, then she started sending back his letters. Now this. He's gonna lose it," Kurn predicted. Well, there was something Jean-Luc could do about that. He didn't want to, but, if it worked, he might just earn himself an ally. At supper that night at their table, Jean-Luc was very quiet. And nobody else had any desire for idle chat when the mood was like this. O'Brien walked in the cafeteria. Cocky, gloating, the inevitable cigarette stuck between his teeth. He came to Picard's table. He clearly relished being able to make these powerful men dance to his tune. "I'm going to honor your request," he rasped and then made the sign of the cross. "Although Christ Himself and Alone knows what your intention is." Later in the cell, Jean-Luc folded his arms in front of him. "Q, wash up. Then pack some things to take with you. You're going to stay with Worf for a while, make him feel better. That's one thing you know how to do." Q stared at him in disbelief, but Jean-Luc ignored him. "Yeah, I told Worf to take it out on you. I said you were clean, you were trained, and you were good." "Why?" Q cried. "I want Worf in my singing group. You're the payment. Now do right by him, or I'll turn you over to Sisko." So, holding his few boxes, Q walked down the gallery to his new home; everyone was making wolf-whistles and kissing sounds as he passed. Well. Q was beginning to realize that he was nothing but a piece of ass. And a hot one at that. He straightened up a little. And didn't Jean- Luc want him to be a hot piece of ass, the hottest piece of ass in Fear Alley? He began to swing his hips a bit as he walked. It was rather nice that all these men were treating him as a hot piece of ass. It gave him a kind of status. The first night Worf just stood and moodily stared out his casement window. But the next night, Q made sure he got Worf's attention. He sat in front of the mirror fixing his hair, inspecting his smooth skin for imaginary wrinkles, unbuttoning his blue workshirt to just the right place on his sternum. Worf could not help noticing. "Your man is wise," he finally said. Q tilted his head at Worf. "He said the only cure to not having some is to get some." "Would you like some?" Worf was very quiet. Then he took a deep breath: "Take off your clothes and let me see you jerk it." At first Q was shy, but then he began to enjoy the avid expression on Worf's face, and the hard bulge in his faded jeans. And after all Q had a innate talent for sex. Lying naked on his bunk, Q would shut his eyes and caress himself erect. One hand went back and forth on his nipples while he jerked off. He spread his legs and pumped his hips. His face was flushed, and his mouth fell open as he played with himself. He listened as Worf's breathing got harder and heavier and felt proud of what he was doing. Worf smiled and he stuck his big dick in Q's face. Q smiled back. He felt safe with Worf, and that was strange. Jean-Luc was only in for moonshining, and he was one of the meanest men in all of Fear Alley. Worf was in for murder, but in some ways Worf was much nicer than Johnny. He told Q to fold towels to put under his knees when he knelt to suck Worf off. And Worf never got angry when Q couldn't read his mind. He never got angry when Q did read his mind. Q was surprised to discover that Worf had a very pleasant side. When he asked Worf to lie next to him in his bunk, Worf was surprised and touched. And people respected Worf. He'd been sent to jail over a matter of honor. Killing your wife's lover was considered pretty high-class. The other girls in the yard told Q he was lucky. After a while, Q was able to see what they were talking about. First Jean-Luc and now Worf. In his cell, Worf had a picture of a plump little white couple. His adoptive parents, he told Q. Q stared. It had only just occurred to him that he had no pictures of his boys. Other inmates had family pictures up, but he'd followed Jean-Luc's lead and kept all personal mementos hidden from view. Now he showed Worf the letters his sons had written him. One of them included a picture of a stick-figure Daddy in jail. It was obvious the boy was proud that his daddy was doing time. He sketched little drawings of his kids as he remembered them. Then Worf told Q about his father's job on the railroad. He told how his mother cooked something called latkes and how he, Worf, would grate big piles of potatoes for her. Worf loved latkes. So Q told Worf about his wife's cooking. She was pretty good at it. When he came home to see his family, she would make great feasts of potato salad and cornbread and black-eyed peas. They had great times in Worf's cell talking about Q's wife's cooking. "Macaroni and cheese?" Worf would ask avidly. "Yep." "Tuna casserole?" "Yep?" "Spaghetti?" Q lulled Worf to sleep with tales of the great meals he'd had. "Country ham with redeye gravy and biscuits. RC cola. Rhubarb pie. Watermelon. Collard greens, pineapple upside down cake. Ham biscuits. Chicken fried steak. Scrambled eggs and Spam." "Man, when I get out, I'm going straight to Waffle Shack and get me some of that. What else?" "Cheese grits, chicken and dumplings, pecan pie." "Macaroni salad?" "Yep." "Fried apple pies?" "Yep. And she did not spare the lard when she fried them." "She did not spare the lard?" Worf always sounded wistful when Q talked like that. His wife -- ex-wife, he corrected himself -- couldn't cook for shit. He told about stopping by fast food joints on his way home so he'd be sure to have something worth eating. "She was good in the sack though. Real hot. The hottest." This was dangerous territory. Q tried to hustle him past thoughts of his wife in the sack. "Can I kiss you, Worf?" "No." "Please?" "Don't tell anyone." They were sitting beside each other on the bottom bunk. Q poured everything he had into that kiss, snaking his hand down to caress Worf's penis. Worf moaned and pushed Q's head down. Q sank to his knees obediently. Then he looked up at Worf. "Would you like to try it a new way?" It really wasn't a bitch's place to suggest something like that, but the hot little look Q was giving Worf was making him even harder. Q pulled off his pants and lay back down on his back. "We've never done it this way." Then he pulled his knees up to his chest. Worf slid his pants off and rolled on a rubber. Before, he'd said "bend over" and Q had bent over. This was new. Q reached over and took Worf's stiff cock and guided it into his body. Then Worf pushed himself in carefully. Q's face was openly yearning and he moaned out loud as Worf began to glide in and out and in and out. Then Q lifted his mouth up to Worf's for a kiss; when Worf kissed him, he wrapped his legs around Worf's waist and held Worf to him. Worf was astonished at how pleasant it was to be wrapped in strong arms. With Q, he could use his full strength (which he never could with his fragile little woman), and he could kiss Q's lightly haired chest and enjoy the sounds of Q's passion. Worf was thrilled for the first time in years. He began to like Q very much. Q liked how happy Worf was, but he worried. Was Johnny going to make Q stay with Worf forever? Only one thing reassured Q, and that was that Jean-Luc didn't seem to have another woman. Nate Kurn had been moved into their old cell, but Kurn was a hard man like Jean-Luc. He was nobody's girl. Jean-Luc was keeping an eye on things, and he was having Kurn keep an eye on things. "Worf's a good man," Kurn said. They were playing cards. "He'll do you fair because you're doing him fair. And he hates men who steal other men's women." "I know." A full moon. Worf turned his wolfish face to the window. "Maybe I never got as wild as I could have with my . . . ex-wife. But a night like this makes me feel wild. Get naked, Q." Q smiled at Worf. And began to undress. When he was completely naked, he stood up and gripped the bars; then, he looked back at Worf over his shoulder like a old-fashioned pinup. "What do you want me to do?" Worf breathed out. He couldn't look away. Q had the perfect ass, the perfect back. All rosy cream skin and manly muscles and delectable curves where the muscles ended. And then there were the long strong legs and long arms and beautiful hands. Q wasn't smiling. He looked too hot to smile. He must have wanted Worf as much as Worf wanted him; otherwise he wouldn't be standing there as alluring and patient and clearly yearning for it as he was. His hands reached up to grab the bars of the cell. Worf swallowed. He looked at the sweet perfect arc of Q's ass, the vulvic promise of Q's wide mouth. What if he were in Q right that second as Q gripped the bars and writhed and stuck his ass out to be grabbed and filled and reamed and Worf were biting Q's broad shoulders and grabbing Q's narrow waist to pinion him up to the hilt on Worf's hard-as-bone cock. "Let me have it," he growled. "How do you want it?" Worf looked around. The light in the cell was strong, bewitchingly so. "By the bars, bitch, where you are now." Q's eyes widened. "They'll all see me." "Yeah, that's how I want it." And Worf pulled his jeans off and pulled on a slickened rubber and began to beat again Q as Q's fists turned white on the bars. "You're my cunt," he said between lunges. "Til Picard wants you back." He lunged again. "Stick your ass out more." Q did. He was naked and completely pliant. In his cell, Jean-Luc could hear Q's soft groans and Worf's hissed imprecations. And if he leaned his head just the right way, he could see the unfolding shadows, like a umbrella opening and closing, of the two men in their cell. He closed his eyes and swallowed. Q was facing outwards, his cock no doubt hard as ivory, his shoulders and sides bruised from Worf's iron hands. Now Worf's groans were louder, and everyone could hear the jiggle of the metal bars as Q was slammed against them. Like Jean-Luc, everyone in Fear Alley was listening. Everyone in Fear Alley was hot. Everybody in Fear Alley was stiff. Everyone in Fear Alley wanted to get wet and sweaty and naked. And then Worf bellowed and bellowed again, and the bars shook once more and little rustles from the cell let everybody know it was their turn now. The next day in the yard, Jean-Luc stood alone. He had every confidence in himself. Worf walked up to him. Everyone else in the yard feigned elaborate nonchalance. "I want to thank you, Picard, for the loan of your woman." Jean-Luc nodded, an emperor being paid tribute from an outland nobleman. "She is sweet. Well-trained. Obedient. A credit to you." Jean-Luc nodded again. "I know I will have to return her soon. As a matter of fact, if I were you, I could not have gone this long without it. When shall I have her pack?" "End of the week, if that's not too soon." Jean-Luc could afford to be magnanimous. "Til then have you some fun with her. Christ knows there's little of that in this wasteland of a world." When yard time was over, they all filed back in. And Jean-Luc caught Q's eye and nodded. And then he said very softly but very distinctly, "after supper in the laundry room ." Q was waiting for Jean-Luc there in the steamy and gold haven of Fear Alley's laundry room. He had put unbuttoned his shirt to the waist and tied a white handkerchief around his neck; he wanted Jean-Luc to want him more than anything. Jean-Luc stalked in and looked at Q. Q wanted to smile; he could see the pride in Jean-Luc's eyes over his possession. "I want some pussy," Jean-Luc whispered. Q pulled the shirt completely off. And then leaned over to strip his pants and boots over. Keeping an eye on the front of Jean-Luc's jeans the whole while. "Suck my dick first." Q grabbed Jean-Luc's narrow hips and unzipped his pants and, using his mouth, brought his erection out and began to take it completely into his mouth, into his throat. "Oh, Christ, not too much, let's save some for the fuck." And he pushed Q down on a pile of white laundry bags. Q opened his legs and pulled his hips up to ease Jean-Luc's entry. Jean-Luc pulled his pants down and got on his knees; oh, he was so wet and Q was so ready that it was easy, he penetrated Q's ass so easily, and it was better than he remembered. Slick and warm. And he pushed himself into Q again and again as Q moaned and signed and writhed against him, holding his thighs open to get all of Jean-Luc. And Jean-Luc could see all of Q beneath him, every inch of Q's body, so full of sensations and delight, and in the golden light it only made the fucking all the sweeter and he battered again and again against Q until his orgasm poured out of him, leaving him limp and helpless and breathless. And Q followed him precisely. In a moment, Jean-Luc leaned back to look at his lover. His lover. Propped rosy and naked on the snowy laundry bags, with his white neckrag and dark curly hair damp on his forehead, Q looked like a God relaxing on a cloud, all outstretched arms and bitten lower lip. Jean-Luc tried to think of something to say. "You do what Worf says, all right, motherfucker?" "Oh, yes, Jean-Luc!" Q breathed out. They walked into the bar it was dark, smoky, crowded. Jean-Luc and Worf agreed that they would stand back while Q walked in first. Heads turned. Heads stayed turned. Q walked unconsciously through the crowd. "You make me horny," several men said to him as he walked by. Q looked back at them and dimpled. He thought that was a nice thing to say. "It looks like a long night," Jean-Luc said to Worf. Q disappeared in the crush of men, in the back where the restrooms were. "Worf, close in." Worf did. Jean-Luc sat there. One beer. And that was all. He watched the predatory crowd. Someday he and Q would not have to face a world like this. Til then, sacrifices were made. He heard a growl. Worf? No, it was from a table near him, not near the restrooms. "You were a-cheatin, partner," said a rough-looking character. "Not at all, sir. I do not cheat. I was simply using the simplest of mathematical principles," said a very refined male voice. The bar erupted in growls. One of the bartenders looked at the other; then he took off his apron and went out on the floor. "That old boy was a-cheatin' me," said somebody to the bartender. "I knew we would have trouble with you. I could tell it. You're not one of us, feller; so amscray." Jean-Luc yawned. He couldn't see the so-called cheater. As he well knew, these hillbillies would use any excuse for a fight. Fights gave hillbillies big hard-ons. "I am like you," said the refined voice emphatically if unemotionally. Boos. Hisses. Jeers. Catcalls. There was a commotion, and Jean-Luc saw the owner of the voice. A small slender man, younger, dark-haired, careful- looking. No doubt, some weird con-man. Who looked slightly forlorn as he picked up his pack. Well, screw him, he wasn't the only one with problems. Then Jean-Luc saw he was carrying a violin case. And was being followed by two beetle-browed sore losers. They touched the small man on the elbows. He looked terrified. His light-colored, almost transparent eyes were wide with fear. A violin case. Jean-Luc slid off his bar stool and embraced this unknown violinist. "Hey, cuz, long time no see. Who are your little friends?" The two assailants were taken aback. Jean-Luc withdrew from the embrace and stared at them. "Do you have business with my cousin?" "Jean-Luc, is everything all right?" The sore losers turned around and found themselves facing Worf. His hat made him looked close to seven feet tall. "You remember my cousin, who plays the violin," Jean-Luc's voice had an amused undertone. The two other men looked at each other and nodded once. Then they melted into the crowd. "Where's Q?" Jean-Luc had to know that first. "Back there. Doing very well." Jean-Luc looked at the light-eyed man with the violin case. "Yes, I thought tonight would be lucky." Money. A fiddle player named Dave. Jean-Luc was impressed; he had won that round. And Dave was now saying, "I regret, sir, that I will not have the opportunity to play with you. I think I should go into hiding, perhaps." "Well, now, Dave, if you think you need a ride out of town, we have a little room in our car." The boy had an interesting look, and if he were any good on that violin of his . . . "Oooh, yes," Q was saying in his bubbly way. "It'll be tight, but you can go with us. And then maybe we could even play together later." "That is most kind, sir. If you are leaving town, as you say, it is probably wise that I accept your offer." Jean-Luc and Q exchanged glances. Dave had a very peculiar way of speaking. Jean-Luc held out his hand. "Jean-Luc Picard." Dave took it. "John Luke?" He tried again, in a perfect French accent. "Jean-Luc?" "I'll be damned. Where'd you learn to do that?" "At... In my father's house." Whatever he'd been about to say, he'd obviously thought better of it. Jean-Luc looked Dave over. He was trim. He had dark brown hair and pale hazel eyes that looked almost yellow in certain lights. His skin was very fair. Jean-Luc also noted that, when Q saw him look at Dave, Q's own expression turned sad. Good. He was still angry with Q for fucking Worf that morning. "Tell me about your violin, Dave." He walked Dave out to the Impala, pausing only to pick up his suitcase. "Q," Jean-Luc called over his shoulder, "get the rest of the boys and come on out." Dave was quite the little chatterbox. He and Geordi hit it off right away. Q and Jean-Luc exchanged glances again. They talked such advanced music theory that the rest of the boys were quite left out. In the rear view mirror, Jean-Luc could see that Will was sleeping on Worf's shoulder. Dave was on the front seat, half turned around so he could argue with Geordi. Q was listening intently. Jean-Luc knew he couldn't understand half of what was being said, but Q had a head for learning. Give it a little time and Q would have it down. Dave's leg was pressed against his. It was all he could do not to take his hand off the wheel and slide it up Dave's thigh. A pleasant thing: being right beside a brand new boy who knew nothing. He wasn't in the band yet, but Jean-Luc had a feeling Dave could be persuaded. The boy had told them that he'd left home because he was curious as to what else there was to the world besides his father's house. "I began to become aware of being stultified, and I wished to leave." In the rearview mirror Geordi was nodding, saying he understood completely. "Dave, I would like to hear you play. You think you could give us a tune next time we stop?" "I would be pleased to do that, Jean-Luc. You have been more than generous." All the seeing boys exchanged glances. When they pulled over, he opened up his violin case and resined up his bow with utter willingness, but the music that came out was completely unfamiliar to Jean-Luc. He glanced from face to face. Almost everyone had a blank, distracted expression. Geordi was leaned forward a bit, a little wrinkle of concentration on his face. He was smiling, nodding along in time to the beat--the only one of them who recognized the tune. Data's fingers on the violin were quick and sure, and Geordi clapped furiously when he was done. The others followed suit in a half-assed fashion. "Geordi, why don't you play something for Dave. Or even maybe you two could play together." Q gave him a keen look. Q knew what Jean-Luc was up to. After Will and Worf set up his guitar, Geordi played the same melody that Data had. He riffed on it, kissed it goodbye and then came back to flirt with it some more. He smoked. When he was done, Dave bowed to him. "Sir, I am Salieri to your Mozart." Well. Jean-Luc had no idea what that meant, but Geordi apparently did. He smiled widely and shook his head. "Not at all, Dave. You were terrific. I've never heard such technical precision." "I would like to learn your improvisational techniques. Will you teach me?" It was just the break Jean-Luc was listening for. "I bet he'd be happy to teach you, Dave, but we're a traveling band. Now, if you wanted to come with us and play with us, Geordi here would have a chance to show you how he does that. Right, Geordi?" "Right, Jean-Luc." "How about it, Dave? Want to join?" Dave looked at him. He nodded like a person unused to making decisions for himself. "Very well. I will do so." He turned to look straight at Geordi. "I relish the opportunity to acquire more data." "I relish the opportunity to acquire more data. Yes. Mr. Data." Jean-Luc's eyes were soft and alert; his eyebrows lifted. "In fact, I want to stuff you so full of data it'll make your head swim." The boy appeared not to catch Jean-Luc's innuendo. Did he really not get it? In an ideal world, Geordi and the boy they would forever after call Data would have each other, just as Jean-Luc had Q and Worf had Will. Geordi would no doubt be willing to get his that hot little fireplug dick up Data pronto. But how to get this across to Data without scaring him away? Well, everybody liked fucking; it would happen. So. Sitting around the campfire. Singing old songs. Laughing. Relaxing. "Data, you do know Q and Worf and I met in prison?" "Yes sir." "And that's where Q and I became lovers." "Then you are homosexuals." "We certainly are. Q," hoping the brainless beauty Q would pick up the cue, "Q, tell Data some of our prison adventures. I think our colleagues would find them provocative." Q looked surprised. "Well," he began, "I remember one time when one of the meanest men in prison paid us a surprise visit. It was late summer and it was so hot your clothes stuck to you and you had to peel them off. We used to bring cold water back from the showers to cool ourselves off with." Jean-Luc bit back a hiss of annoyance. He wanted to shout, 'Not this story, Q. Pick a fuck story, for Christ's sake!' Jean-Luc knew there was nothing of eroticism in this tale, at least, nothing Data could pick up on. There was sex and sensuality but it hadn't quite ended up that way. That night he'd been watching Q who lay like Goya's Maja in the lower bunk with his arms behind his head, damp curly knots of hair under his arms, his head tilted to Jean-Luc who was sitting barechested and smiling at him. And Q's perfect skin was pinker than Jean-Luc's pale skin, and the coins of skin around his nipples were copper-colored, and Jean-Luc was pleased to imagine the creamy pink-tipped petalled rose their bodies would form when he fucked Q. "Hello, boys." Jean-Luc had jumped to his feet. Sisko unlocked the cell and he and his enforcers walked in. But Sisko hardly needed his men with him; his eyes showed he was genuinely dangerous tonight. "Your bitch is the devil's daughter, Picard. Turn her over before she drives me crazy." "No." "Yes. And you can have her back when we're through. What's left of her." It had come to that. Jean-Luc would have to die for Q. To either side of Sisko, the enforcers tensed as Jean-Luc shifted his body into a defensive crouch. He was ready to fight, and they seemed to look forward to showing off for their boss. Jean-Luc prepared himself for the battle of a lifetime, even if he was doomed. No one noticed that the cell door was still open. And someone slipped in. What? Then Worf took his place beside Jean-Luc and folded his arms across his chest. "I hate." He glared at Sisko. "Home wreckers." The enforcers looked worried. It would have taken time but they could have defeated Jean-Luc eventually. But Worf was a big beautifully- built man, with huge pectoral muscles and a slim muscular waist, and having to defeat Worf and Jean-Luc would be difficult. Jean-Luc watched Sisko reassess the situation in light of this unexpected turn. Sisko's eyes moved to Q (who was right now cringing on his bunk as alluring as an oasis) and then turned to rake coldly over Jean-Luc's battle-ready posture. Sisko looked at his enforcers. Who looked warily at him. He looked again at Picard. He didn't look at Worf; he didn't want Worf to know he noticed him. He hit his fist into the palm of his other hand. And then he did it again. He turned to the nearest enforcer. And laughed. Unnerved, the enforcer laughed with him. Then Sisko nodded to the other enforcer, indicating that he too should share this rare jest. "So you have turned out Mr. Worf, Johnny," said Sisko. "I understand. I really do. I understand what you're doing now. I understand that a man needs what a man needs. Right, Mr. Worf?" Worf said nothing. Sisko had put his hands to his face and then he lifted his head with his eyes closed: "I have a vision. I have a vision. You win tonight. But it's not over. No, not by a long shot, Johnny. We will meet again." And he marched out, his men behind him, glowering as if to make up for the nothing they had done. Jean-Luc turned to look at Worf, a hard, sober look of gratitude. He looked at Q. He knew now that he if he ever let his guard down someone would take her from him. "Worf, since you're here, why don't you bring your banjo over and you can teach Q some chordings." "Good idea." And they huddled together that night til lights out while Worf played Ernest Tubb songs for them. Jean-Luc wanted to slap Q's big stupid face. To Q, it was wonderful that night had begun an undying friendship between Worf and Jean-Luc. Stupid fucking story made Jean-Luc nervous. All it meant was he owed Worf. Well, they still had gigs to go to. Surely, one of those nights, Data and Geordi would catch on. The next night, Jean-Luc decided to do something slightly different: "Worf, didn't you have a particularly hot boyfriend in prison?' Data's head ticked in a surprised way. Unlike Q, Worf was very dependable about his cues: "One time in the pen, this same Sisko came to my cell and said: 'I have a present for you, Worf.'" Jean-Luc and Q had heard the story before, Geordi and Data listened with mouth and eyes wide open, and Will could never hear this story too many times. One night, Worf had looked up from his banjo to see Sisko standing in the door of his cell with two other men. "Mr. Worf, I was very impressed by what you did the other night for Picard. How will he repay you, I wonder?" "My services are free," Worf had told him. "A genuinely dear attitude. But that event made me realize that you might not be the man I thought you were. I had always figured you for a totally straight man doing straight time. But things are different in here that's why we're the way we are, right?" "Perhaps." "See these boys?" Worf put down his banjo and crossed his arms. "They're my finest. Boys, unbutton your shirts. Because of my, you might say, intimate understanding with O'Brien, I get to cruise the holding pen whenever I want to. Most of the young ones are not very interesting, but every now and then a Portugese diamond falls through the cracks and I snatch him up. I got these lovelies that way. They quite rival Picard's lady, don't you think? This is Hawke, he's brand new." Hawke was tall and pouting and dark-haired and well built; his shirt was open and a line of hair ran between his chest muscles down his stomach to disappear suggestively in his jeans. Then Sisko turned to the other boy. "And this of course is the most notorious little lad in Fear Alley. My favorite. Yes, the captain's own personal baby." Sisko kissed the young man on the cheek, and the young man gave Worf his famous lewd smile. "Son, introduce yourself." The boy slid his eyes to Sisko. "Not much to say, really. Just that my name is Wesley and I like to take it up the ass. I like to suck it too. And I like big black guys the best." Worf had closed his eyes. A man could only take so much temptation. "What's the catch?" "None." "What's the cost?" "None. Consider this an acknowledgment that I have found new things in you. Useful, beautiful things. Which one do you want?" "Wesley," Worf had growled. "What a hot story," Jean-Luc said, not unhopefully. "Q, let's go for a long midnight stroll." He nodded at Worf, who said: "Will, let's do the same." "Oh, yes," Will was breathless, "tell me again about that first night with Wesley. How it went on til dawn. How he cried real tears." "Seven times in the two nights I had her," Worf said and smiled as he led Will into the woods. He remembered how peevish Sisko had been when his enforcers had had to carry the swooning Wesley back to his cell. But what had Sisko expected? In two hours, they all came back, making lots of noise so as to alert the newlyweds. Geordi and Data were sitting in the same places, clothes unrumpled, by the fire. Chatting happily. The next night in a different camp, the Boys decided to go get groceries in the car, leaving Geordi and Data to watch the camp. They reasoned that that would give Geordi and Data time alone to sort things out. When they came back, four hours later, Geordi had taught Data three new songs; they gleefully performed them for the other Boys, who watched, stunned. The other four met: "What can we do, short of forcing them to fuck?" "You know what makes me super-hot?" said Will. Worf rolled his eyes. "This!" and he held out a magazine: it had been printed in bright, inaccurate colors, and it showed men and women, their skin the color of cured salmon, in all sorts of sexual congress. "I found it at a construction site in Tulsa. Let's show them this!" "Oh, Will," Q sighed heavily, "Geordi can't even see. . . " Worf sought Jean-Luc out. They stood together, away from the others. "I want some of that Data," Worf said. Jean-Luc nodded. "Who doesn't?" "He's different from our women. He's little. He's got a tiny ass. I like that " Worf breathed in. "Will is my woman. Nothing will change that. But sometimes." He breathed out again. "Other. Pussy. Beckons." "I'm in complete agreement. Tell you what, we could take turns." Worf made a sound deep in his throat. Then he said: "May I suggest . . ." "Yes, Worf?" "Get the hottest puss in the land and let Data learn from that." Jean-Luc looked at him. Q was obedient. That night, he took Data for a walk in the woods. When they were away from the campfire light, he turned to Data and pulled him into a loose embrace. "I want to show you how we do things around here. We all love one another. Like this." He tilted Data's face up for a kiss. Q was a good kisser. Data accepted this passively for several moments, and then it was as if Q could hear a gear click in Data's skull, and suddenly Data was kissing him back, wild open-mouthed kisses, all tongue, just like his own. "Does this mean I am now homosexual as well?" Data broke off the kiss to ask. He was breathing very heavily. "Would it bother you?" "I do not know. I must experiment further." He tilted his face up again and let his open mouth press against Q's. Pressure built slowly as their tongues wound around one another. Data sucked on Q's lips and suddenly his body lost all its tension, melting into Q's as he rubbed his groin against Q's penis quite by instinct. When they broke off again, they were both panting heavily. There was no one more virginal than Data, but he was learning from one of the finest whores in all the land. He absorbed Q's seductive wiles almost by osmosis -- the melting eyes; those hot, deep, sweet kisses; the blushing smile; the way he wrapped his arms around Q's neck and twined himself against him with sinuous, irresistible grace. "Data," Q caressed Data's firm small ass. "Have you ever had sex before?" Data blushed but shook his head. One night he had found a book in his father's library. It had copious illustrations and he had felt most odd looking at it. But then his father had walked in on him, and said, "I think we can do a little better than that," and had given him a physics text. Data had tried to forget the little book (which in any event wasn't there when he went to look for it again), but he had not been entirely successful. "I want you to fuck me." Q broke away and pulled off his shirt. Data followed suit. Then they were both nude, their penises standing firmly away from their bodies, and Q lay down and pulled Data on top of him. |
