The Promised LandPart Five"Give me your hand." He put Data's fingers in his mouth and licked them thoroughly. He lifted his legs and held them wide apart. "Now put your fingers inside me," he instructed. "First one, then two." Data was good at this. He moved them in and out without being told. He found Q's prostate quite by accident and massaged it gently as he discovered the effect his manipulations had. Q was rather undone. "You sure you've never done this before?" Data smiled his pleasure. The grass was very soft; the sky was sparkling. Their bodies were beautiful. The tiny bit of saliva didn't provide a great deal of lubrication, but it was enough to get Data inside Q. He had to be instructed, but not for very long. He rolled Q's hips until they were angled comfortably for him, and then pushed in again and again. It was over in less than a minute, and Data was a trembling, shivering mass of sensation. "My God," he whispered. "I've never, ever felt anything like that." He collapsed next to Q, breathing heavily. In his mind he went over every second of the last half hour. He thought he might be in love. "Did you like that?" "Yes!" Data sat up to stare at Q. He noticed that Q was still erect, but he wasn't sure what to do next. "Is there not a principle of reciprocity to be applied here? You have not climaxed." Q thought a minute. He would never force anybody, not even a little bit. "Would you let me to do that to you? You don't have to if you don't want to." Data swallowed. "That is a somewhat intimidating thought. You appear to be roughly 80% larger than I am." Q didn't know quite what to say. "I'm as God made me." He paused. "As are we all." Data's eyes narrowed. "How about this, Data, I'll stay on my back and you can sit on top of me. It might be better that way." "But your penis is dry. I anticipate a great deal of discomfort." Q smiled. "I'll show you what to do." He held his penis out to Data. "Kiss it." "Very well." He kissed the tip of Q's penis. "Now lick it. Just a little to get used to the taste." Data complied experimentally. His head jerked up in surprise. "It tastes good!" Q smiled in relief. This was going to work. "Do some more. Get it good and wet." "Ah, I begin to understand. Copious amounts of saliva should provide an effective lubrication." He bent his head to Q's penis once more and then raised it again to comment: "If I apply a substantial amount here," He licked the tip. "It should theoretically spread more evenly when I..." "Data," Q interrupted, "please stop talking." Data stopped talking. After a while he lifted his head again. "Now?" "Soon." Q was breathless. Data's tongue job was endearingly enthusiastic if a little clumsy, and Q was extremely aroused. He spit on his fingers and slipped two of them inside Data's body, massaging gently. Finally Data moved on top of him, squatting over Q's hips, taking his penis in gentle fingers and guiding it in. "It hurts." He sounded surprised. "Go slowly. Try to move around in tiny circles, like you did for me." "It hurts!" "Stop if you want." Q was holding Data's elbows, guiding him, supporting him, but not pushing him. "I don't, oh! Wish to stop. I... Oh, God!" Data's whole body shook as his sphincter spasmed around Q's cock. "It hurts, oh, Q, it hurts." But he was pushing himself down on it, adjusting his body around it, gasping, biting his lips, shuddering with sensation and emotion and the novelty of it all. "Ooooh." His cheeks finally touched Q's thighs and he rested there, shaking a little, wondering what to do next. Q helped him, pushing his hips up, grinding a little. "Oh, yes, Data, you feel so good." It still hurt. The fullness of it was the most unusual sensation Data had ever experienced. He wasn't sure he liked it, and, though he did not believe he'd been damaged, he decided he did not want to repeat this act, even as he began to move, shutting his eyes to savor the experience more fully. "It hurts," he wailed softly, rising up and sinking down again. "It hurts," he whimpered, increasing the pace. "Oh, God it hurts so good!" His mind processed the sensations, standing back and watching in wonder as his body took over as if it had been programmed for this very thing. His teeth were gritted, he was sweating, his breath was puffing out from between his cheeks, and, as he felt the giant cock slamming into him, his imagination increased it in size until it was the size of a telephone pole, and it still wasn't big enough. He wanted more. He huffed and panted, gripping Q's arms with sweaty hands, grinding against him frantically. He began to pull at himself again. The double stimulation of cock up his ass and his own fingers on his dick made his ears ring. And he could do this again any time he wanted. He jerked himself off, coming again quickly, nearly fainting with the ecstasy of it. "Let's roll over," Q whispered, and he wrapped his long legs around Data and flipped him easily so that now Data was on his back and Q was slamming into him, and Data was riding the aftermath of his second orgasm, thrusting his hips up to meet him, loving every bit of it. The cock in his ass touched him everywhere. He felt it in his head, he felt it in his arms, he felt it in his legs, his fingers, his nipples his mouth. His mouth. He opened his mouth and lifted it up to Q, and Q leaned over and shut his eyes and kissed him and moaned and came. The night was suddenly amazingly silent. Data realized that he'd been shouting and had just now stopped. Funny how his mind hadn't even registered the noise. He realized that he must have been clearly audible to the men around the campfire. He wondered if he cared. The next day Data said to Will. "Have you ever experienced oral copulation?" Will laughed, and Data was abashed. Geordi spoke for Will, "Yes, once or twice." And Q added, "A day." Geordi went on, "Don't feel bad. Let's just say you and Will are on opposite ends of the experience spectrum." Later, Jean-Luc wanted him. "Let's see what Q's taught you," and he took Data to bed. Data made his head swim with his innocence. His little ass was tight and firm, and he fucked like Q but without that undertone of panic Q always had. For that reason, Jean-Luc was not completely sad to let Worf have his turn. Data was not scared of Worf either. "This is a very nice array of pleasures. I like dick," he told Worf as he sat on top of him, rocking insistently. Worf felt like screaming and he could barely breathe. Then, somehow, they woke up someday and Geordi and Data were sharing a sleeping bag. Data yawned and said, "Geordi, let me help you refresh yourself. There is an appropriate place seventy-five meters away." And he and Geordi walked away holding hands. "You think they've started fucking?" Jean-Luc whispered. "I don't know about the fucking, but they're lovers." Jean-Luc gave one of his dark smiles. "Daddy," Q whispered. "We can do the fucking. How about if I get a ride on your magic mountain." "Oh, God," Jean-Luc said. Will tried to take a turn with Data, but Worf socked him and Will subsided. "Geordi, why is Worf permitted to hit Will?" "Worf owns him." "Is slavery not illegal?" "Not around here." For weeks Jean-Luc's dick was in a state of permanent swell. He had a harem like Sisko. He was leader and father and owner. Very satisfying. And a man could make good money like that. Right after prison, someone in a bar had come up to Jean-Luc. "I know you own that one," he said. He had a raspy voice, long dirty blond hair. "A good top can't fool a good top. I'll give you fifty if I can have some." "What are you talking about?", Jean-Luc said lazily. "Your big boyfriend. With the huge package. With the hot mouth." They both looked at Q who was standing against the wall. Talking innocently to some old man. Q's jeans were very tight, and, as Q talked, he kept biting his finger. "Christ. Christ. Christ," said the first man. "Name your price." "He's mine. Maybe I don't want him to spread his stuff around." "Oh, motherfucker, you can watch. I up my offer to a hundred. I get him. And you get to watch everything I do." It was a bargain for both of them; Jean-Luc went to get Q. The man had a little room somewhere. "I don't want the wife to know. He's jealous a lot." "Everybody's using rubbers," Jean-Luc announced. "Does this big stroke of good luck know how to put them on with his mouth?" the man asked. And then he made Q get naked. Q's face was pink as if he were near tears, but he complied. "Look at that. How do you find time to eat and sleep and work? I'd be in that 7-2-4-3-6-5. Get on the bed. On your back." Q did, and the man started pounding away. "Tell him to jerk off," he said to Jean-Luc in an unemotional voice. "You heard him," Jean-Luc said. This was actually pretty hot. Q was pulling at himself always a nice thing to see and the man kept turning to look at Jean-Luc with a small smile playing on his face. He was finished quickly; by this time, Q's face was wet with tears, although he made no sound. "Here's your hun, man. It was worth it." "Thanks." "Listen, I really want to see you both again. Meet me again at the bar next week, okay? The name's Art, Art Baran." "Sure. We'll be there." They were, but the man wasn't. "Guess the wife got to him," Jean-Luc said. The bartender leaned over. "See that gray-haired guy right there. He has a deal for you." And that started that. Q now had a new part-time job. It was very handy for getting the music career started; among other things, they used the money he made to repair the Impala. (Q even sent a little of it to Beverly. But Jean-Luc wouldn't let him send too much, because he had already read her beads. Just another whore, despite Q's idiot babbling: "Oh, Jean-Luc, she's needs money for our boys.") It was their first Christmas together! Q took a little money and went to a dollar store to buy some Christmas cheer. Now he looked around the campsite. Red marshmallows! Green marshmallows! Gold coins filled with chocolate crisps! Perhaps Jean-Luc and Worf might be indifferent, but Geordi and Data and Will would at least appreciate the effort. They could even sing their favorite Christmas carols! Q was determined to make this Christmas better. Last Christmas had been awful. Last Christmas had been one thing after another. They had been in Harlan County, the car was making funny noises, and Jean-Luc was looking grimmer each second as he stood by the car with his arms crossed. Watching Q like a hawk. Because he was pissed at Q. Q had lied to him. But there had been no choice, really. They had been in a squalid juke joint earlier, singing for a few drunks, when someone new walked into the bar. They clocked him. Just another loser. Sad and fat, with thick glasses. But he never took his eyes off Q. During the break, Jean-Luc went to talk to him. Q had sighed. He knew what was up. Before the last set started, Jean-Luc had looked directly at Q and said "Fifteen dollars, Q, fifteen dollars more than we would have had." And, after the set, Q and the sad loser had gone out to the sad loser's car. "You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen," the loser breathed. "Thank you," said Q. "Your . . . friend said you'd do it for fifteen dollars." Q nodded sadly. "Then I can . . .?" asked the loser delicately. "What would you like?" said Q timidly. "You could just show me it." Q unzipped himself; he wasn't hard at all. He began to will himself to be aroused. Jean-Luc. Prison. "My God," said the loser, as Q wordlessly handed him a rubber. The loser knew the drill, and he leaned over and began to take Q in his mouth. Q was mighty confused. Would he still get paid? He wasn't doing anything. The loser looked up. In the soft light of the late winter afternoon, he didn't look quite so awful. "You don't like that?" Q shut his eyes. "Of course, I do. It feels so good, baby. Do it some more." And as the loser wound his mouth and tongue around Q's cock again and again, Q tried to make hard. Jean-Luc. Prison. At a campground the night before, Jean-Luc grabbing Q's hands and opening Q's legs. Jean-Luc once in the backseat of the Impala -- Worf was driving, Jean-Luc presented himself and made Q suck him off in the back seat "Oh, my," breathed the loser as Q's true magnificence revealed itself. "Oh, my, I have never . . ." and he dived back in. Jean-Luc and himself in an outdoor shower, kissing and embracing, himself above Jean-Luc, their hard-ons stabbing at one another, kissing, hugging, and Q began to come as the loser frantically tried to engulf every inch of him. Then they both sat back stunned. Q was panting, but he leaned in and kissed the loser who frantically kissed back, his awkward wet tongue thrusting again and again. Finally they came up for air. The loser gaped at Q. "Your friend said you'd do it for fifteen dollars. Here it is." He handed Q two damp bills. Q looked at them. A wrinkled five and a more wrinkled ten. And it was Christmas. "You were so good I ought to pay you," Q said. The loser stared at him. "Really, I can't take your money. Thanks. Merry Christmas." And Q climbed out of the car. As he walked away, he heard the car slowly move away. Now to face Johnny. Who was waiting with Worf at their car. "Can you believe it? That no-good . . . stiffed me?" Q said in what he hoped was a jaunty manner. Jean-Luc's arms were crossed. "Indeed." He knew. Q knew he knew. And Jean-Luc knew Q knew. "Only for five bucks. Look, here's the ten I got," Q said hopefully. Taking out the secret stash he was saving to send his sons. And after all that, it still took four dollars and thirty five cents just to call his boys on Christmas eve. Four dollars and thirty-five cents that Jean-Luc said he was going to take out of Q's ass. Four dollars and thirty-five cents to make a call with a connection so bad Q finally told the boys he was at the North Pole with Santa and the static they heard was just the Arctic wind blowing. "Let's go around a circle," Q said to the other Boys , "and share our happiest Christmas memories." There was a great silence. They stared at him curiously. "One time I saw one of Sisko's whores give himself a blow job on Christmas Eve. He was so skinny he could do it," Jean-Luc finally responded. "Does that count?" In January, they found a nearly abandoned campground; they were the only people around for miles. The park was their world. Pine trees. A beautiful mirroring lake. Somewhere always the evocative smell of burning wood. And in their park, they sang together. They suggested old songs together and were surprised at how many they shared memories of. They hated some of the same, they loved some of the same. Then a curious park ranger drove by on his three-wheeler. Jean-Luc tensed. There always had to be one sonofabitch who . . . The ranger smiled and nodded and drove on. By midafternoon, they had their new songs down, and they cut loose and sang and played them full out, there among the pines. They hadn't noticed him, but the park ranger was back, this time on foot. They froze. He smiled. He was a pleasant-looking man with blondish hair, soft pink features. He reached behind a rock and brought out a . . . large cooler. And opened it. It was filled with sandwiches and soft drinks. "I gotta tell you, that's the prettiest music this side of heaven. Will you join me? You deserve a break after all that. My wife made these sandwiches. I guess you can tell by looking at me that she's a really good cook." He patted his stomach. Q was first. "Thank you. Thank you so much." Then they all smiled and pretty soon everyone was sitting and eating and drinking as if they were on the most normal picnic ever. "I mean it. You're a great band. Do you have a record?" "Not yet. We just started," Jean-Luc said. He was being surprisingly gentle to the ranger. "These are good sandwiches." "You deserve to make it. You really do. Will you be here tomorrow? I have two little boys -- four and six," he smiled, "we're expecting a third I'd like to bring them out here. Th ey both sing in the church children's group. I want them to hear as much good music as they can." "I'm sorry. We have to hit the road. We're trying to make enough money from club gigs to buy a used van or bus, and we've got what looks like a promising job about seventy-five miles down the road." Jean-Luc was surprised at how normal it sounded. It was true but . . . normal. "Well, maybe you'll be around here some other time." "We will try," Worf said. Nothing as simple and sweet had ever happened to them before. Jean-Luc was driving them to the gospel gig in Roan Mountain, North Carolina. What the . . . The Impala was acting strangely the temperature gauge was fluctuating wildly. They all got out. Surely Will could cure it. The others stood back; Will opened the hood steam rolled out and they couldn't see him for a moment, and then the steam rolled back and they saw him grimacing and clutching his arm. "Will," said Worf. "I'm all right. It's nothing. It's really nothing." "What is it?" said Jean-Luc, exasperated, concerned. "Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing." His arm was badly burned. The next day Will's arm was redder and he grimaced repeatedly. "Maybe he should see a doctor?" Q said timorously. Jean-Luc's jaw was furiously working. "The next office we see, we're pulling in. He needs his arms. WE can't do what we need to do if he doesn't have his arms." The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day, but there was a certain desperation in the Impala. Finally a sign appeared: "Cumberland Clinic, Dr. Leonard McCoy with Dr. Julian Bashir." They pulled in the lot and stared at the sign for a while. "Let's go in," Jean-Luc said tonelessly. In the waiting room, Jean-Luc lied and said he would pay the bills; he had no idea how. He wasn't even sure how much money they had. It was a long wait with much patience required. Everyone watched them and they watched everyone. Occasionally, a child screamed as it was being vaccinated. Finally one of the doctors came into the reception room. He was tall and slender, foreign-looking. And then he saw the Boys. He looked at his nurse questioningly and she looked back knowingly and pointed to Will's name. "There you go, Dr. Bashir," she said and smiled. There were a hundred bumpkins ahead of Will, but Julian was curious. He called the name "Will Riker" and Will stood up. Oh, my. Julian was growing a bit weary of Leonard: his cigarettes, his amphetamines, his wheezing. "I can see you now," he murmured to Will. Will followed him into the examination room. "What's the situation, Mr. Riker?" "I burned my arm on a radiator hose," Will said. He opened his knees a bit, and Bashir's eyes flew there. Will opened them more. "Nurse, I don't think I need you for this. Go on and run up those rural VD stats the government wants and I'll call you if I need you." When she left, he locked the door. "Let me see your arm first." "I'll probably need a lot of painkillers." Will reached down and cupped Julian's ass tightly. "Ohhhh," Julian groaned. "Do you want me to top?" Will asked. "Oh, Christ, more than anything." Julian started unbuttoning his shirt. "Hey, I like your little boy ass." Will was also undressing rapidly. "Get on the table. Maybe we can play doctor." "Oh, yes," Bashir said, "but this is our secret, isn't it?" "Oh, yeah did you see the big black guy out there he owns me." And Bashir was sitting naked on the exam table with his legs around Will's solid waist. And Will was all the way in and Julian began to gasp and twist to get the most out of it. "Oh, you're beautiful," said Julian, and he slid his wet lips against Will's broad shoulder. "So are you." Will held Julian's shoulders and shook himself against Julian repeatedly. "Oh, God, can you come like this?" "Grab me from the front." And they were both coming and gasping. Julian had to steady himself, and it took a minute or his eyes to refocus. And just as Will leaned back, there was a knock. "Hoolio," said a soft voice. "Fucking shit old man," Julian whispered. Louder: "What is it, Leonard?" "I need in there now, boy." "It's okay," Bashir whispered. "Leonard's one of us too. To use your rude country parlance, he *owns* me. Actually, he owns everything. He won't kill you, but he might want to join the party." And, as they reassembled their clothing, Julian unlocked the door. "Got you a new patient, I see. My oh my." Leonard was skinny and wheezy and old, but those poached-egg eyes had seen it all, and that was not un-sexy. "What's the problem, Mr. . . " he looked at the chart, "Will Riker?" "I burnt my arm on the radiator of a Impala." Will showed him the arm. "Impalas never were no good." The doctor folded his arms over his scrawny chest. "You look pretty healthy to me, boy." In response, Will spread his knees. "Nice. What's with all those other girls out there?" "We're a band. You've probably heard of us. We're Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys," Will said blissfully. Fame! Fuck parties with rich doctors! This was greater than he'd ever hoped for! "Can't say that I have. A famous band who drives an Impala, huh? I noticed two of em. Who's the pretty one?" "Q." "And your bald-headed boss?" "How could you tell?" "Baby, Ray Charles could read that. He's Jean-Luc?" "Yes." Leonard left the examination room. "Nurse," he said, "I want to take the afternoon off, so you'll be the one dealing with the patients. Codeine all around, okay? Just write out the receipts and scribble my John Henry on it. Then send em over to my pharmacy. As per usual." (It was a very synergistic work place.) Worf had gone out to the parking lot, he was under some stress, but, in the waiting room, Q was sitting between Data and Geordi and reading to them from a tattered "Good Housekeeping." "Can this marriage be saved," he said in his dramatic baritone while Jean-Luc sat there like a stone. Oh, yeah, the whole fucking waiting room was now in love with Q and his goddamn story. Then Leonard came into the waiting room and eyeballed the band again. Jean-Luc nodded at him. "Sir," said McCoy in a courtly manner and inclined his head. Jean-Luc rose and stalked back to an examination room. "How's Will?" he asked. "Real good." Leonard looked him over. Jean-Luc crossed his legs, making the muscles in his thighs more prominent. Leonard pressed his lips together, and his eyes raked Jean-Luc's body. "What do you boys need?" Jean-Luc gazed steadily at the doctor. He needed to drive, and he needed to take the Boys with him. That wasn't much to ask from this hellhole of a world. And he could almost feel what the old doctor wanted. "What's our bill like?" "It's serious without Medicare, and you sure don't look like you're made out of money. What's with the radiator hose?" "We're going to need a new vehicle. That's no joke." "Maybe I could loan you a starter fee." "I don't like loans, but I imagine we could barter," Jean-Luc said. "Well, now, boy, what do you have that I might want?" "I wonder," Jean-Luc said and undid the top of his jeans "I might have some medicine too." Both men looked at each other. "I could fuck you," Jean-Luc said. These were high stakes. It would be worth being a whore for a little bit. He gave the doctor a tight smile. Q. Can this marriage be saved? "I ain't no Miss America," Leonard said. "Nonsense, I like an older ass. When little Jean-Luc wants some jump, I don't want to have to go through that one-finger two-finger song and dance." "My lucky day." Jean-Luc began to undress. Slowly. Pulling his shirt off over his head. Taking off one boot and one sock at a time. Peeling those tight jeans down. Now he stood there in his tight little dark briefs. He was distinctly hard. And so there was one more thing that McCoy had to do. He went over to a cabinet and prepared a syringe. Jean-Luc was taken aback. "It's just Demerol, boy. Mother's milk to me." Jean-Luc said nothing. "Boy, it takes a heap of dope to keep all Leonard's pots and pans on the front burner," and, when he was through with the needle, he began to take his pants off, leaving the white jacket on. "Oh, I like that," said Jean-Luc, "I like lifting clothes up" he grabbed McCoy's surprisingly limber and lean hips and began to penetrate. "You're sweet." "Keep working that dick," McCoy said dreamily. He was touching his own nipples through his jacket and shirt. And Julian and Leonard even had servants! Their cook fixed beans and cornbread and green onions for the guests and, for dessert, they had Moonpies and moonshine. A hounddog named Bones barked and bowed at the Boys; she clearly loved company. "Let Will stay til his arm gets better," begged Julian. "Mr. Worf'll have something to say about that, boy." "Oh, like he's number one and I'm just the second. She told me she's been freaking for seventeen years." Julian had a pretty amusing grasp of the idiom. Will and Worf and Julian went in the bedroom, and in a few minutes they came and got Geordi. "You gotta see this number," Will was saying as Julian shut the door. "Q, Data, you can go if you want to," Jean-Luc said in an amused fashion. "We want to play with Bones," said Q. McCoy looked startled; probably the post-prandial dope was kicking in. "You got a fun-lovin bunch of boys there." "Fun's nothing new to you," Jean-Luc watched the emotions shimmer on Q's face as Bones chased a red rubber ball Data meanwhile watched intently. "So how long were you in for?" "It's that obvious?" "Baby, even John Milton could see you're ex-cons." Jean-Luc shrugged. "Depends on which prison you mean." "Give me some jailhouse fuck yarns." And Jean-Luc told the one about the nimble Sisko whore, not Wesley, but another, older one who would take two in the ass at once. McCoy was not really impressed. "Did you ever do that, McCoy? Do two? Give me a fuck story too." "I did do two. I had two for a long time. We were inseparable. Two that remind me of you and your girlfriend." He inclined his head to Q in the yard. "One was a little bossy guy, big old barrel chest like you. Big hot thighs. The other was like him, tall and pretty and dark-eyed. A real good-looking gal. Had the biggest one I ever saw." He gestured at the size with his hands, but what he indicated was impossibly romanticized. "We did it all, man, we did it all. The good old days are a fact." "Is that what you want?" "Is that what you want?" said McCoy dreamily. "We need money. My traveling circus of big ready dicks will do what you want for money. That's all there is to it. You want two at once, just tell me which two. But I'll have to have money." "I don't want no two-at-once for me." Then McCoy thought. "But I wouldn't mind seeing a couple of those old boys do Hoolio. I think that would be a right inspirational sight. Yeah, I'd pay five big go-go's to see that." "They'd have to be very big go-go's." "All Leonard's go-go's are big." "What's Julian going to think?" McCoy paused for so long that Jean-Luc thought he had drifted out of consciousness, but then he spoke: "Green card fever. Hoolio has green card fever. He don't want to go back to emptying bedpans on the Himavant. He'll do what we say." The Boys spent a night in simple pleasant amusement. Worf and Geordi were the designated two to do Julian. The play of toned skin on toned skin was gratifying, especially to Jean-Luc. In spite of Julian's pleading, they had to leave the next morning. They had that gig. "These boys are good," McCoy said. "Let's giv'em a going away present. Medicare pays for it. Your tax dollars at work, good buddy. Write him a check for five large, boy." He watched Julian write one for five thousand dollars. "Aw hell, Hoolio, we're not in Rawrawpindi no more add another 10 kay to that." "Fifteen thousand dollars," Julian said wonderingly. "On that line there where it says what for write project', no, wait, write new project'. I got pull with the government. Yall come back, y'hear," he said airily and went in the house. "Whom do I make it out to?" There was a silence, and then Q spoke: "Make it out to Magic Mountain Boys Incorporated. I'll incorporate us and do the paperwork when we light somewhere." Julian handed the check to Q; his eyebrows were circumflexed with irony. "That McCoy. This is just the drugs talking," he waved the check. "And I like what they have to say," said Jean-Luc. "Girls, let's hit the road." Will and Julian embraced and kissed; no one missed how frantic Julian's embrace was. "Do come back, boys!" and he watched the Impala limp down the road until it disappeared. Then he went back in the house. Leonard was over at the wet bar. "I'm gonna mix me some Xanax with my brandy and spike it with some of that Nyquil. That ought to do something." "Don't forget your nitroglycerin," Julian said, and the way the boy's wicked mouth curled around the word "nitroglycerin" made McCoy's asshole pucker right up. It was odd, the way the dee jay couldn't keep his eyes off Jean-Luc. His gaze kept wandering to just below Jean-Luc's belt and then jerking away again, as if he couldn't quite permit himself the pleasure of really checking out Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc was amused. He posed for the man as they were introduced all around, legs apart, hands on hips. Brother Odo seemed to have trouble speaking. He cleared his throat several times before he started his amiable studio patter. "So what do you boys call home?" The silence was embarrassing. Fame would not be easy. Then in a rush Jean-Luc said "the world is my home" at the same time that Geordi said "home is in the music" and Q added "our home will be heaven, someday, I know." The scrawny disc jockey pushed his black glasses back on his nose. "Brother Odo, we're from a little bit of everywhere," Jean-Luc said. "Let us sing a song or two for you." Then Jean-Luc's voice took over to the simple accompaniment of Geordi's guitar, and Brother Odo forgot to breathe. Jean-Luc sounded as if every door that had been closed was opened. "Oh well I'm tired and so weary but I must go alone til the Lord will come and call me call me away, oh yeah"Then Q came in, "oh, the morning so bright and the lamb is the light and the night, night is as black as the sea."And his soft fresh baritone seemed to edge into a dark sadness. Why? Because Jean-Luc had pointed a finger at Brother Odo and leaned his head over, and Brother Odo and Jean-Luc left the studio and the Boys had to keep singing. "Whoo yeah." And, as Jean-Luc pushed Brother Odo down behind the console where he couldn't be seen, the voices of the other five blended into one sad, yearning voice. Then a distant yet relaxed look crossed Jean-Luc's face. And Q continued in soft sorrow: "There will be peace in the valley for me someday. There will be peace in the valley, for me, oh, lord I pray. There'll be no sadness, no sorrow, oh my Lordy, no trouble I see. There will be peace in the valley for me.""For me," his friends added. Then Q took over again: "Oh well the beast will be gentle and the wolf will be tame and the lion will lie down by the lamb; oh yes and the beast from the wild will be led by a child and I'll be changed from this creature that I am , oh yes."Q's voice showed how clearly he saw these dark turn of events. By the console, Jean-Luc was putting both huge hands to his face and shuddering. "There'll be peace in the valley for me, someday."The others were singing now, trying to comfort Q, but it was useless. He was beyond comfort. "There'll be peace in the valley. For me. Oh, lord I pray."Outside the studio, they saw Jean-Luc smiling with satisfaction; his big hands were clearly pushing Odo on. "There's will be no sorrow, no sadness, oh my lordy, no trouble, I see."Q looked at the rest of the band; the song had one more line, and then they would have to be silent and everybody in the whole tri-state listening area would wonder what had happened to Brother Odo. Q lifted his palms. Leave it to him. "There will be peace in the valley for me."And Q began to speak in a robust ingratiating way. "Thank you very much. You know when Momma and Daddy first let me go running around at night by myself, the only places I wanted to go was to the camp meetings where they would sing those good old songs, and I got to learn all my favorites and one of them I like the best was *I Am a Pilgrim,* and I hope it will be one of yours. Geordi, play that guitar now." Geordi played loud and strong. Jean-Luc's head was whipping back and forth. "I'm a pilgrim and a stranger traveling through this worrisome land I've got a home in that yonder city" ("Good Lord," Data sang) "And it's called the Promised Land. "Outside the studio, Jean-Luc was becoming very still; his eyes were out of focus. "Well, I have a mother And a host of brothers We'll go to that sweet home You know it's sure not made by hand (Good Lord) But it's called the Promised Land. "Now they could see Jean-Luc soundlessly gasp and then stand straight and adjust himself. "As I go down to bath my soul Just in the river of Jordan"And Jean Luc came back in the studio and took up the song again. "If I could touch but the hem of his garment (Good Lord) I'd believe I was in the Promised Land."Jean-Luc sang as if he were gloating, which he was. He gave Q a triumphant look. Brother Odo followed Jean-Luc back: he was clearly shook up. He said nothing, merely tapped a button that gave a raucous prefab message for a funeral home. A woman at the sink washing her breakfast dishes and listening to the radio put her hand to her throat. Now, why was she thinking of THAT? At Lucille's Beauty Loom, Lucille leaned back and looked at Mrs. Tolliver, her best customer. And Mrs. Tolliver looked back at her. What . . . the . . . "You don't need a new perm. That is not what you need at all," Lucille whispered. Over at Mooney's Garage, Mooney had already pulled his jumpsuit down to his knees to let the youngest Purvis boy do what he did best. It was wrong and he knew it and the youngest Purvis boy knew it and Mooney's garage sat at the top of a winding hill and when he let the youngest Purvis suck his cock with the garage doors up he was tempting fate and would go to hell, not to mention lose the garage, but it was only for a minute and how could he deny the world he lived in. For fuck's sake he was listening to the Brother Odo's gospel hour wasn't he. He began to beat his heated manhood against the back of the youngest Purvis' throat. And a man in a car pulled over to the side of the road. He was sweating. He was breathing hard. Fucking hillbillies. You would like very much to mark up the shoes 400 per cent and sell them and get your money and go to the next town and live happily ever after, but they in their hillbilly intransigence tore at you. And you sold the shoes at a 300 per cent mark up and cursed yourself night after night in the sandy sheets of whatever Godawful tourist court you were in that night and you could never get a decent radio station during the day and ended up listening to farm reports and now out of the air came this: this stuff, a cross between the sound of the human heart and a Bacchante chant and a cry from the moon. He looked at the road ahead. A neon sign outside a stuccoed shack that read WWDD and beside it a radio tower. A sign. He didn't want to be a shoe salesman the rest of his days. He scrambled out of his car and went over to the station and walked in. No secretary. Nothing but a homely little studio, a bunch of stunned-looking gents. "Where's those Mountain Boys?" "We're them," said a powerful-looking bald man. That voice. "Where will you be playing next?" "Down the road. Why" "Who's your manager?" the shoe salesman had the oddest little high-pitched catch in his voice. "We are our own manager," the bald man said. Everything about him was beyond belief. "Is that your Impala out there?" The Boys nodded. "You need a little help in the management department. I can be that help." "Oh, really?" said the bald man. "I'm your man. We'll make thousands together." The Boys just watched him. "Okay: believe it or don't, but nobody fucks with Little Tommy Quark. You'll like having me on your side." They had almost decided to give the Impala a Viking funeral by burning it in an open field, but scrupulous Q said to sell it to an auto junkyard. (Data loved the junkyard; rows and rows of things. "Look at All! This! Stuff!" Jean-Luc was entertained.) And then they filled out a few papers incorporating the Magic Mountain Boys and signed a six-months contract on lined paper with Little Tommy Quark (Quark was outraged: only six months! But Q insisted. "You need to prove yourself," he said. And Jean-Luc wandered over: "Is there a problem, Quark?" Quickly: "Little Tommy Quark never has problems.") And they went to buy their bus. And came home empty-handed. Who would have ever thought it? Jean-Luc was not an asset when it came to dickering with car salesmen! When Q and Quark were just about to sign, Jean-Luc came up with some cold-eyed unforgiving demand and the car salesman said he'd have to talk to his manager and they waited for him to come back for forty-five minutes and then they found the salesman had left the lot and nobody knew when he'd be back. After this happened several times, Quark decided something. "Jean-Luc, I gotta be honest. Don't come with us to buy a car no more." "I bought the Impala. That's gotten us everything so far." (A winter morning in old Kentucky. An older couple, their lives playing out, were going to use that 400 dollars to help out their worthless daughter. "Are you sure?" Jean-Luc said. "We're sure," said the old woman in a resigned distant way. Before he left with the Impala, Jean-Luc powerwashed their siding and cleaned their windows. Then he used the Impala over to bring them back two large cans of special-roast coffee. He wanted no memory of their ruined faces to pursue him down the lonesome highway.) "Jean-Luc, listen to me," Quark said. Jean-Luc hesitated. Then: "I'm not going to sit in the car like a fucking woman." "Look, Jean-Luc, I got some connections in Knoxville - I know I can get us a good deal. Why don't we rent you a little room here and you take a little break? Rest your voice? Smoke a little boo? Even out your moon-tan? Sounds tasty, huh?" "Q stays with me." Well, that wasn't what Quark had in mind. Q was valuable; Q could do baffling things with his eyes and mouth that made men give him things. "Let Worf stay here with you. I bet yall could have some real fun." "Q." "How about both Worf and Will?" Quark tried to make a smacking noise with his mouth. "No Worf. No Will. No Geordi. No Data. Q. Only Q." Johnson's Tourist Court was cheap. Other tourist courts were funky or gnarly or depressing or hopeful. But Johnson's was cheap. The proprietress seemed to have no other customers and, for all that, she was completely uninterested in the two men who walked up and wanted one of her cabins. "Looks like rain," Q said cheerfully to her, trying to make conversation. She was three hundred pounds, toothless, sixty, her gray hair in a scraggly bun at the back of her head. "I suppose," she said, not meeting their eyes. "We'll probably stay for just one night while our partners are in Knoxville, but it might be two. Is that okay?" "I suppose." She pushed the registration book toward them, and, while they were signing their names, she got the key to their cabin. "Could you tell us where the nearest convenience store is?" This was critical. It had been a long day and they wanted to eat. "I suppose." She sounded utterly unconcerned about the needs of hungry men. Jean-Luc and Q exchanged glances. Despite himself, Jean-Luc was impressed. This woman's indifference was wholly admirable. "I'm Maw. Holler if you need something." They paid in advance, and Q walked down the road and came back with provisions: ice, cheese, crackers, bananas, whole milk. "Look!" He indicated the food. Jean-Luc was miserable: nothing to drive. They ate quietly with the door of the cabin open so they could see the storm roll in over the Smokies. After supper, Jean-Luc stood at the door of the cabin: he was singing random gospel phrases to himself the food and the coming storm made him feel a bit better. He loved the look of the mountains before rain. The phosphorus-colored layer of sky by the mountains, then a strip of gray, and then a black sky low and wet, making it hard to breath. "I'm bored. I'm going crazy," he said to Q. "Let's do something." Q tried to make his voice as alluring as possible. "Like what? Fuck Maw?" Q smiled: "I suppose." Jean-Luc turned and looked at him. Q sitting on the cheap bedspread was nothing but charm. And nothing but his. The storm was getting closer. Jean-Luc unzipped his jeans and took them off; he was now standing at the door to the cabin in his tee shirt and briefs. Q had forgotten the perfection of Jean-Luc's little body. The perfect pitch from chest to waist. His wonderfully proportioned legs. Then still standing in the door way, Jean-Luc took off his tee shirt. He was standing there naked from the waist up. Q couldn't tear his eyes away. "Jean-Luc, what if somebody comes by?" Jean-Luc looked over his shoulder at him, saying nothing. And then he turned to face Q and, although Jean-Luc was wearing his briefs, Q could see how hard Jean-Luc was, how erect, how ready. Q longed to take it all in his mouth. "It's just us at the edge of the storm, Q, why don't you fuck me?" Q had never . . . "You mean that?" "I suppose." They gave each other little smiles. Then Q got up to shut the door, but Jean-Luc stopped him. "I want it with the door open. I want to know when the storm comes. I want to feel your dick all the way in." He went to the bed and took off his briefs, and then crouched on the bed on his hands and knees. Q was dry-mouthed; he looked at Jean-Luc's flawless body. "Let me do this for a bit," he said, and he knelt at Jean-Luc's ass. He had never used his tongue this way before, but now was the time. Jean-Luc sighed when Q touched him there with his tongue, and then Q put his tongue all the way in, and Jean-Luc laughed and moved back against him. "Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ!" Then Q positioned himself and moved all the way in. Jean-Luc adjusted his position so that it felt better and then whispered: "Be rough. Pull most of the way out and then pound back in. I want to feel every inch. I want to feel every cell." Q was so big it was a painstaking procedure, but he began to pound Jean-Luc who rocked and faced the door the whole time watching the lightning, watching the shreds of stormy black sky dance against the white horizon. "It makes me nervous, Jean-Luc, what if . . . someone comes along?" "The more nervous you are, the longer you'll fuck me." Q gripped Jean-Luc's waist: why fight it? He watched himself, all dusky rose-colored and slick and long, disappear and reappear; the way Jean-Luc's ass flared out from his narrow waist was quite . . .intoxicating. He gripped Jean-Luc's ass harder, appreciating the whitened skin where he was grabbing him. Then he pulled Jean-Luc back against him Jean-Luc's small hips, wet with his perspiration, were like shiny beacons, and he aimed his cock between them sure as a ship pulling into a slipways. He put one hand around to Jean-Luc's front and began to caress him. The storm was growling in earnest now, and Jean-Luc was breathing heavily. Q shifted a bit; he must have been doing it right because Jean-Luc groaned, "Don't stop." They both watched the open door the storm threatening more but a friendly storm, their own storm, the storm they welcomed in each other. And Q knew he was getting close to - he was sweating and pounding and he felt curiously omnipotent and he pulled at Jean-Luc who was beyond groaning who was making inarticulate sounds like bones grinding in his throat. And Q grabbed more fiercely at Jean-Luc's cock and at the same time grabbed his shoulder with his other hand and he was coming, surprised yet not, and then he felt Jean-Luc twitching and jerking and a sudden wonderful warmth on his hand and they both collapsed and the thunder growled on the mountains. He kissed Jean-Luc's damp back "I love you more than anything." And then the rain began. They lay there, naked as Gods, watching the storm roll in on their own private Mount Olympus. Jean-Luc narrowed his eyes. "How'd you learn that licking business?" "You don't remember? I thought I told you. That old queen in Vicksburg. He bought me for a hundred." "I don't remember any of this. You whore." "He had this big old antebellum mansion. And he licked me out while I jerked off on this antique mirror. The silver was all blackened." "As soon as I get to Vicksburg, he's a dead queen. Stone. Cold. Dead." They both loved these rococo declarations of possession. |
