The Promised LandPart SixDriving soothed Jean-Luc. The steering wheel of the Stargazer fit his hands like a lover's tits. And even though they didn't make that model anymore, Quark swore their new bus was a good deal. That was all right. Will could fix anything, and Q and Data could always be on the lookout for spare parts. After all, it was air-conditioned. It had a radio. It had lights. It had bunks. Miracle of miracles, it even had a microwave. They knocked off after driving all day and parked right off the interstate in a grove of rumbling eighteen-wheelers. Quark had gone ahead to cut a good deal. Data was cooking something. Q was teaching them a new song. They felt buoyant and cozy. "You believe this, Worf?" Jean-Luc leaned over to his best friend while Q and Geordi worked out a chord progression. Worf stared back with his usual sober expression, but his eyes were warm and lively. Jean-Luc stared. Large dark eyes and chiseled mouth. On impulse, he leaned over and kissed that mouth. Worf raised his hands and pulled Jean-Luc to him. They kissed and ground against each other until Jean-Luc raised his head. "Ladies, let's celebrate." They had never had an orgy before, but they had one now. Jean-Luc lowered the back of the chair so that he reclined on top of Worf. "Who wants to kiss Daddy? Who wants to be Daddy's darling?" Geordi turned his head and reached out his hand, and Jean-Luc reached across the aisle and pulled him close. He guided Geordi's mouth to his. "Let me see that fabled Geordi dick." Geordi gasped and complied as Jean-Luc pumped him and watched the emotions play over his guileless face. Then Jean-Luc grabbed Data's shoulder – "I want to see Q get it both ways. That's the thing I most want. On your knees, Q. Data, help Geordi get into Q and then let Q suck you." Then as they were positioning themselves, he kissed Worf again and stretched out alongside him. Will stared enviously, erect by now, but he did not dare to join unless he was specifically invited. "Will, suck Worf off." As he moved towards them, Will took out his own dick and fingered it in an experienced way. Meanwhile, Q was being pried open on both ends: on his knees, startled by the impact of Geordi, he was sucking Data who was moving his head around: Data had never never never heard of any thing like this -- and yet clearly it could and did happen – his huge eyes slid over to Worf, Jean-Luc and Will – Worf was on his side, being sucked by Will, who was naked on the floor with his legs apart, jerking himself off; Jean-Luc was behind Worf; he must have been rubbing his dick against Worf. Data's eyes met Jean-Luc's – Jean-Luc's eyes were hooded, half-shut, and he pursed his lips at him. Then Data looked down at Q – Q had a talent for taking all of a dick in his mouth, for "deep throating" it - and he looked at Geordi's face. "Oh, God," someone said. Maybe it was Data himself. He moved into Q's mouth more as Geordi was hanging on to Q's ass. Then Data began to shudder; it was getting nearer. Visions ran behind his closed eyelids, asses, tongues, and he came. He grasped his temples. A chain reaction was set off – Worf and Geordi groaned simultaneously, almost bellowing – and Will's body was convulsing. Only Q and Jean-Luc were still waiting. Jean-Luc disengaged himself from Worf. And went to Q, waiting, cow-eyed. "Let me eat Q's pussy, boys," Jean-Luc murmured. And Q sat on the side of the bus's only sofa and Jean-Luc was on his knees between Q's spread legs and he was sucking Q, but the most exciting thing was that he was touching himself, pulling himself, making feathering motions with his hand against his cock. Seeing Jean-Luc against Q was like watching the final aria between the tenor and his diva. He was sucking Q off and Q was helpless, putting his pretty hand against his chest, and then he was coming and so was Jean-Luc who pulled back touching his own nipples. When they were all finished, they opened the back windows to let the sex-and-mushroom smell out into the wind. And they said nothing until they were cleaned up and in bed. Sleeping all together on the bus! And what a nice new experience that was! "Jean-Luc? That was really nice, earlier." Data said from his bunk. "Yeah," Geordi added. "That was special." Q's gentle voice. "Very special, Johnny." Worf added his grunt of assent. Will never knew what to say. He had to make a joke. "Night, John-Boy." Q's voice had a giggle in it: "'Night, Maryellen." "'Night, Grandpa." Jean-Luc stood up. Naked. Furious. "Knock. It. The. Fuck. Off." "Jawohl, mein fuhrer," said Will very quietly without moving his lips. "Oui oui, mon capitain," Data said in a high-pitched, fatuous voice. They both made sure Jean-Luc didn't really hear them. Then everyone but Worf giggled. And Jean-Luc headed back to the bed he shared with Q. Q was lying on his stomach, bare-chested under the covers, smiling, and he rolled back for Jean-Luc to climb in and Jean-Luc was naked too, and Jean-Luc lay on his stomach with Q draped fluidly over him. "It's like prison, isn't it?" Jean-Luc's face went soft. On the road: the air conditioning, the radio, every moment in the Stargazer had a mescalin-like intensity. Not that it was all sweetness and light. Jean-Luc was at the wheel as usual. They passed a young woman, blond, braless, in a white halter top loping down the road, looking as if she owned it. Not another car around for miles. But she clearly knew where she was going. They regarded her: "Marshall Tucker song on the hoof," Jean-Luc concluded. "Should we help her?" Q asked. "Nope. That one wants to be left alone. A country gal that wants no help isn't even in the same species as a country gal that does." "You might mean phylum," said Data. Silence. "Who's hungry?" said Q after a while. Everyone was. "Where shall we eat?" "Waffle Shack," said Worf. He loved Waffle Shack. "No," Geordi laughed. "A chicken place! Please!!" "I myself prefer waffles, I'm afraid," said Data. "Yes, let's do waffles. No chickens," Q agreed. "Waffle Shack, then," Jean-Luc smiled. "Chickens everywhere will be gratified." "Chickens everywhere," said Will so softly they could barely hear him. They ate. They drove on. They passed a field of grazing grain. They passed a junior high school at recess in the sun. "Mmph," said Will. "I was just that age when I started." His head followed the schoolyard as they sped past it. This simply would not do. Jean-Luc straightened up: "I don't like fucking over les enfants. I like people with hardened scruples. That way I can dismantle them brick by brick." They stopped for gas. Everyone went to the gents or stretched their legs. Data perused the postcards; it was hard to say what he was searching for. A boy near him, small, good-looking, pursed his lips and beckoned Data with his head. Data thought this was interesting. He imitated the gestures. The boy came over to him. "What's your pleasure, cowpoke?" Data looked at him curiously, his head inclining slightly. "It'll cost you." Data's head inclined more. "I could cut you a good deal. I like you. What would cost somebody else fifty-fifty would put you out seventy-five. Package deal." Data was about to probe these enigmatic remarks more closely when Worf stepped in. "Go away," Worf growled. "He's mine." Data watched the boy scuttle off. "There are subtleties to the homosexual life style which with I am not quite conversant as of yet." Worf nodded. Then he look at the next aisle. Will had watched the whole thing with his mouth open, his eyes clouded. They got back in the bus; Will was staring out the window. Now, a school bus filled with junior varsity football players was disembarking at the truck stop. The boys were going in and out of the restaurant, laughing, yelling to each other, horsing around, innocently touching one another. Jean-Luc started the Stargazer up. Will spoke cautiously: "How bad is it to really break the law around here? I mean, REALLY break the law?" "Very bad," Worf said. "I would have to kill the lawbreaker." "Okay, that's a good answer," Will said. "That's the answer I want." Quark had gotten them a gig at the Sunshine Lounge; it was a gay bar. Hearing that, Jean-Luc told Quark that, if he stuck exclusively to booking them at gay bars, he, Jean-Luc, would personally tear his, Quark's, dick off. Quark agreed to diversify. Despite the backstage rumble, the two shows they played at the Sunshine went quite well. Jean-Luc was impossible to ignore, so compact and beautiful of body, so impeccable in bearing, so intense in belief, and that was only Jean-Luc. Any of the men who listened to him, and even the few women, would have bent over for Jean-Luc in a second on the strength of a song. Jean-Luc was making people want to fuck him. Q was amazed. He looked at the triumph in Jean-Luc's thick-lidded eyes, the sardonic, slightly threatening smile, and it took his breath away. And when Jean-Luc took the mike over to him and menaced him with his sexy voice, the tension in the room stoked itself so high Q could feel it coming at him in waves. He blushed, and then blushed some more when he realized that everyone could see how red he was. A wonderful evening. They even got a motel room out of the Sunshine deal. Everyone had to crowd in and make do with cots and fold-out sofas, but they still slept well. Warm showers. No road noises. It was a nice change from the bus, but, nonplused by the lack of an engine's hum, Q had awakened early. He eased out of bed, cleaned up and went down to the lobby. Their room had a little kitchenette, so he wanted to buy groceries, if he could find them, and cook a decent breakfast. The desk clerk told him how to get to the store, so he walked out to their bus, got in and drove down the highway looking for the big 'Dixie Maid' sign. Q was expecting a store of the type he was used to, a small convenience store with salted-in-the-shell peanuts and sodas on display right up front, and all the serious food crowded together on little shelves behind the junk. He wanted to pick up Wonderbread,, packaged meats, eggs, and maybe some juice if he could find some on sale. But this place looked more like a warehouse than a food store. Still there were stripes painted in the broad flat parking lot and signs advertising a sale on tuna, so Q parked the bus, got out and crossed the lot into the store. He walked through the automatic swinging doors and immediately had to fight the impulse to turn around and walk right out again. Taking a shopping cart, he gripped its handle as if it might keep him safe while he wandered breathlessly forward, without direction, trying to fathom what he was seeing. This had to be a movie set about a fantasy grocery store, not a real place where real people bought food. Q had never in his life been in a place like this. The clean, bright, high-ceilinged room was like a cathedral. He turned and stared out the broad front window, trying to get his bearings. Yes. There was their bus, so this must be reality, but it was nothing like he was used to. He was still in the middle of a farm belt, still out I n the country, yet these country folk had a temple in which to buy their groceries. For several minutes, he simply wandered around, unable to believe anyone had access to such luxury, much less that he'd had the good fortune to stumble into it. The broad, sparkling white aisles, the glorious, almost sensual symmetry of the piles of fruits and vegetables, the geometric precision of row upon row of canned things, the beckoning warmth of the in-store bakery, the proud deli, the lascivious temptation of the meat counter, the very notion of swordfish for sale where the likes of him could buy it, and the incomprehensible fact of a swanky café with tables where he could sit down and eat food cooked to order. Q wandered into the cafe. There was a pizza and pasta bar and a Chinese food bar, all closed on Sunday morning, but no less miraculous for that. A dairy bar was open, and he ordered a milkshake and then went back to ask for an omelet with mushrooms and cheese. He was almost grateful to be able to pay for such things, not quite able to believe they only required mere money. He took his omelet and shake to a corner table and watched the slow trickle of Sunday morning shoppers. He ate slowly, adjusting to the fact that it was really himself in here, and he felt shiny by association, as if the glamour of glass cases full of good food reflected onto him some effulgence that took away all his sins and washed him Sunday-morning clean. When he finished eating, he carefully put his trash in the trashcan and placed his tray on the rack. Nothing should soil the pristine cheeriness of this unanticipated food store. He walked through the aisles proudly, an altogether different person from the one who had awakened that morning in a cramped hotel room with five other guys. And this different person decided it would be okay if he shopped like a Q who belonged here. In fact, it would be a crime to scrimp in a store like this, so he let his imagination run away with him. He splurged on crazy things. He measured a scoop of pistachios from a bin whose sign encouraged him to take all he wanted. He measured a scoop of shrimp (help yourself, or ring the bell and our counterperson will be pleased to do it for you), as much as he wanted, though he carefully weighed an exact pound. Splurging or no, he still kept a running tally in his head, but that didn't stop him from buying spumoni ice cream, and a kiwi fruit, and mushrooms, and two dozen eggs to scramble because he didn't feel it was fair for him to experience such grace and not share it, and he bought an onion, and almost bought a small bottle of olive oil, exotic in both the shape of the bottle and the flowery writing as well as for the pearly green liquid inside it. He thought, 'Extra virgin. I wonder what that means.' But he put it back on the shelf. They had cooking oil on the bus that was perfectly good. He moved over to the checkout. In front of him a beautiful dark-haired woman was buying a huge wedding cake. She was paying for it with a gold credit card! She made a joke and the counter help laughed! Then she rolled away with her cake. And the cashier smiled at him, and he smiled back, and carried his loot out to the bus in a daze of unexpected pleasure. By the time he got back, everyone was up. A room full of naked, sleepy flesh greeted him, and they were uncurious about the contents of the bags until he started pulling things out, naming them as he did so. The kiwi fruit especially drew oohs and aahs, which finally caused Jean-Luc to come over for an inspection. "Kiwi fruit," Q pushed it towards Jean-Luc so he could see. "And look." He pulled out the plastic bag of pistachio nuts. Worf, freshly showered, lumbered over and began pulling out the wrapped packages as if he had hold of the grab bag at a party. He found the onion and his eyes lit up. By now Geordi, too, had his hands in the bags, gently feeling over the contents. "What's this?" He held up an unfamiliar squishy, fishy thing. "Shrimp," Q announced proudly. "It's going in our eggs." Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows. "It's to the poorhouse then, is it?" "Looks that way," Q ducked his head and smiled, "but you should have seen this place." He described the grocery store that was better than a church. His festive mood infected them all. They ate the breakfast he cooked, murmuring appreciatively over the mushrooms, the shrimp, the pineapple-orange juice, the abundance. "I wouldn't mind taking a look at this place," Will said. "Let's get it over with," Jean-Luc said and threw down the piece of paper towel he was using as a napkin. They went out and got on the bus, excited a bit, but not wanting to admit it. Q pulled to the very edge of the lot again, and they piled out, feeling suddenly a bit shy. They didn't much go to stores, not like this. "You'll see. It's like the heavenly highway in the book of Isaiah." And he took Geordi's arm and guided them in. There were considerably more cars in the lot by this time. "Look," he pointed proudly. There, just like he said, was the bin full of pistachio nuts, all anyone could want. Jean-Luc appeared taken aback, and Q knew exactly what he was thinking. Whoever had seen pistachios like this, so generously offered? Treats, as many treats as you wanted, limitless bins of treats. The concept boggled. They marveled over things none of them had ever heard of except Data -- plantains, cherimoyas, chayote, small red bananas, kumquats (Will and Data snickering at the name) Asian pears, tamarind, and jicama and taro. They described them to Geordi who experienced them by smell and touch. They finally gave up on playing cool and let themselves be overwhelmed by variety and availability. "Gala apples," Q told Geordi, walking him past the bins, "pippin, red delicious, yellow delicious, granny smith, winesap, rome and fuji." His voice was a little hushed with the wonder of it. "I smell bread," Geordi announced, and at once they all smelled it with a single appreciative inhalation. "And pies. Blueberry, cherry..." He sorted through the layers of scent. "I smell lots of things cooking." "They have restaurants in here," Q sounded smug. "And a place to sit and eat." Jean-Luc watched them wander through this amusement park of a store. "Okay," he announced, rubbing his hands. "*One* grocery cart, and when she's filled up, that's it." His face was inscrutble. They bought all sorts of things they didn't need, things to be saved and savored, things that would pacify them on the long boring stretches of road when there was nothing to do but wait for the ride to be over. Squares of dried papaya and bits of candied ginger, and other exotica that would last them a long, long time. Jean-Luc noticed how Q's long fingers brushed that silly bottle of oil with such . . . longing. He went ahead and put the bottle into their grocery cart, and, when Q tried to object, Jean-Luc glared at him. Q lowered his head, but said nothing. The olive oil would reside in a place of honor in their traveling kitchen. 'The first of many," Jean-Luc promised whoever was listening. Quark set dates up all across the South. And Q set up one as well; despite Jean-Luc's irritation, he wanted them to work Pistol Packin' Pete's, the only gay bar in Abilene. Everyone objected, but Q remembered the owner's enthusiasm and his determination that they come out there as soon as possible, and for once, Q insisted that they do this. He'd had to beg. He'd had to apologize for being mouthy. He had to promise Jean-Luc that he would gladly turn tricks for gas money if that was what was needed, and finally Jean-Luc said yes. They had traveled almost two full days. When they disembarked, they stretched out their cramped limbs, staring at the place in wonder. It was much nicer than what they were used to, and, when a pretty, blue-jeaned boy came out to help them unpack, even Jean-Luc was in a good mood. The night could not have gone better. They started off with "New River Train" (*baby, you can't love one, no, you can't love one and have any fun*) and got a full, round of footstomping applause. And, when Jean-Luc sang "Jailhouse Baby", the tops all held their bottoms a little more bruisingly. And when Q sang "True Life Blues", the dancing boys came into each others' arms for comfort and then ordered more drinks, needing to fortify themselves against Q's ragged sorrow and plaintive pure baritone sincerity. Pete couldn't believe his luck. Jean-Luc and The Boys were smiling broadly by the time they were done, clearly playing with their audience. They'd found their people, their crowd. The Boys played two encores and then rushed off stage to congratulate one another. The following night Jean-Luc and his Magic Mountain Boys played again. Word had spread. The bar was packed. And afterwards, when they came out to mingle, their new fans demanded to be able to buy their CD. Jean-Luc looked at Q accusingly. "I take it you and Quark omitted that little detail." Then he scowled and turned away. They were asked to stay another week. Between sets, Q looked up recording studios in the Abilene telephone directory. "How much is it to record a CD?" He asked the person on the other end of the phone. Quark was there in twelve hours. "This little book has helped thousands," he told them and held up a copy of "Management for Dummies." "The main thing about recording is the money is in the publishing. Don't record what you don't own. That's rule 1. And rule 2. And rule 3." "No Chaka Khan for us," Q said and Jean-Luc nodded. "You Boys are going to have to dig up some original material." They all stared at him. "Oh, that's impossible, huh? Well, I gotta say I'm not surprised. But how hard can it be to write a song: ‘ I love you! Where's my shoes, etc. etc.'" Quark was in a creative frenzy. "I wrote some songs once," Q said softly. Working in the prison library brought Q and Jean-Luc even closer together. There they discovered that they could listen to each other's whispered thoughts without getting bored. Neither man had ever had an intellectual equal before. "Look at this, Q," Jean-Luc would say. And they looked together, their heads touching, their arms next to each other, in Q's bunk. Jean-Luc softened imperceptibly when he read and when he sang. It seemed to lift some burden from him. Q wanted to lift Jean-Luc's burdens. He tried to think up ways to make him soft. "I wrote you a poem," he whispered to Jean-Luc. "A poem?" Jean-Luc lifted his black brows. "A poem?" After Q read Jean-Luc his poem (which was about kissing and loving and haylofts), Q kissed him, the first time Q had ever initiated a kiss. After all, it wasn't his right. And then he asked Jean-Luc to come closer. And Jean-Luc did so Q could stroke Jean-Luc's sexy forearms and his perfect chest and his beautiful shoulders and his spectacular legs, and thus distract Jean-Luc from his own single-minded acrobatics. Jean-Luc was a wildly skillful lover, no question, and Q appreciated that a great deal. Nonetheless, sometimes Q wanted to pull him away from fucking and coax him into making love. That night in their cell, in the loving aftermath of the poem, Jean-Luc allowed it, steam rising up from between their bodies, the scent of their sex and their love mingling together on his narrow bunk. It was important that Q do it perfectly, wrapping his strong arms around the back of Jean-Luc's neck, pulling him down to exchange those open-mouthed, wet kisses that made them both lightheaded, grinding his penis up between the heat of Jean-Luc's thighs, driving themselves into frenzies. He caressed Jean-Luc's muscular ass until Jean-Luc pushed back against him and whispered to him to put his finger in. "I love you so much." It was true, Q did love his Jean-Luc. He couldn't get enough of touching him and caressing him. Jean-Luc was everything to him. He wet his finger and stuck it up Jean-Luc's ass, finding the little swell that was his prostate gland and caressing it while Jean-Luc moaned. Eventually their movements became more frantic, and Jean-Luc's urgency, and his own, became more important than exploring and caressing. Jean-Luc slipped inside of him and Q curved his back and ducked his head so their mouths could stay in close proximity. He opened his legs wide, pumping his hips against Jean-Luc's thrusts. Jean-Luc encouraged him, called him his sweet hot cunt, his pretty pussy, his whore. Q loved it. And Jean-Luc began to think up all sorts of new things for their pleasure. In prison, he had learned that he liked to watch. He liked to fuck too, but, if he could fuck and watch, there was a special tang, and, if what he was watching was Q take it up the ass, well, he really loved that, loved watching Q take it and take it and take it, because he knew Q. Q would cry and bawl and boohoo and suffer most enticingly, but he would never leave Jean-Luc. Once, Sisko showed up alone. "Picard, you wanted to see me." "It's time to realize your vision. Q, I want Sisko to fuck you." Sisko looked at Picard. "What do you really want?" "I don't want to worry about Q when I get out of prison. And the only way you'll get over it is to get in him and see he's just another piece of ass." Q sat there silently. What was going on? "Undress, Q. Show Captain Sisko all your charms." "No, no, Jean-Luc!" Jean-Luc hit him and he fell against the wall. "Do what I say." His eyes were so tight the pupils were mere pinkpricks. Q rubbed the side of his face, but he began to unbutton his shirt. Sisko liked this. "I want to see Q get fucked," Jean-Luc said. "Mind if I watch?" "On the contrary, I would love that. I love to perform." "I've seen you before. With Wesley." "Wesley is nothing compared to this." Q was naked now. "If Q gets on his knees, he could suck someone off," Jean-Luc suggested. "Why don't you give yourself a treat? Wouldn't it be splendid to have this pretty suck you as he got fucked? A charming vision," Sisko suggested cordially. Jean-Luc rubbed the front of his jeans deliberately. "Nice one, Sisko, but I'd be too distracted. What would you say to Worf getting some?" Sisko was amazing. He understood everything so quickly. "Let me look Worf over first. Make him naked too." Jean-Luc called to Worf who had been waiting, listening. "Worf, get naked. Q's going to suck you while he gets fucked by Captain Sisko." Worf nodded. He began to undress. Naked he was nearly as lovely as Q. Jean-Luc and Sisko sat side by side watching the two beautiful men. "Make them stiff, boys," Jean-Luc said. Q's face was as soft as Worf's was hard. "Worf, think about Q's mouth. Q, think about those dicks." Sisko took his pants off. "Get your pussy on the floor, Picard." Jean-Luc got a rubber from the desk and, after a moment's hesitation, he handed it to Sisko and then got another one and rolled it on Worf's penis. (He was breathing heavily by now. Q was going to get more of a fucking than he could give by himself. He found himself hoping Sisko and Worf took all night. This was hot. He was already erect himself, wishing Q had another hole somewhere so he could stick his dick inside it.) Q groaned when Sisko entered him. Jean-Luc watched closely. Oh, this was better than anything he'd ever experienced before. Jean-Luc wished he had a dozen Worfs, a hundred Siskos, who would fuck Q anytime Jean-Luc felt like watching. He would deputize them to fuck Q while he slept, reassured that Q's ass was full of cock and he, Jean-Luc, controlled it all. Soon Worf came. He reared back with unseeing dark eyes and gasping made his way to Q's bunk. He lay there just watching and breathing heavily. Sisko withdrew then; he leaned over and kissed Q's damp back and buttocks, and then he turned him over and fucked him face to face, murmuring phrases he must have invented right that second to express how he felt. "Squeeze it tighter," he hissed. "I'm going to soak your pretty guts." Now Jean-Luc was very aroused. Seeing Worf come and Q's surprised, intoxicated face was unbelievably stimulating. He went over and fumbled at his pants front, bringing it out. "Suck me," he said. Q brought his mouth, a point of pure pleasure, to Jean-Luc's cock. But even as Jean-Luc was having all his nerves methodically and rapturously manipulated, he couldn't help but notice how Q's body made everyone weak. There was the omnipotent Sisko in the throes of kissing Q's ass. Worf helpless on the bunk. Q, obedient, incapable of saying no or yes. Curiously, he and Sisko came together. Q was beautiful lying there, pinioned at both ends. "Jerk off, Q." Q did, coming a moment later – Sisko still in him, spent now – and the sight of Q's convulsing beauty would stay in Jean-Luc's bloodstream for months. Then he remembered his manners. "Sisko, have yourself some more of my good lady. She's got a whole lot more to give." Sisko smiled. He touched Jean-Luc's chest. Jean-Luc's eyes narrowed. "Don't be macabre," he said. But the next week Jean-Luc had to meet his parole board and *poof* he was gone. Q tried not to show his terror, but he was petrified. He felt wispy and unreal, and he had to force himself to eat and go through his daily routine. The guards came and moved him and he said nothing at all. He was put in a cell with Kurn. What would Kurn do? He knew Kurn, he'd met Kurn through Jean-Luc. Kurn liked music and sometimes sang with them. But to Q's surprise, nothing happened. Kurn never touched him, though he growled at anyone who tried to move in on him. "Why are things this way?" Q asked after a month. When Kurn didn't answer, Q did not chance asking again, but he began to notice that he was being watched, being hovered over in the yard, eyeballed in the library, scrutinized at meals. Always, one of Jean-Luc's singing friends was wherever he happened to be. Silent Worf; hawk-faced Kurn; deceptively smiling Pardeck with his lethal hands and cold eyes – one of them was always with him. "McConn!" That was Kurn. He spoke more than Worf did, but not much more. "Go with Pardeck!" And Q picked up his books and the notebooks he had filled with poems for Jean-Luc and meekly did as he was told. The burly men did not respect him at all, rarely looked him in the eye, and ordered him about like they'd seen Jean-Luc do, indeed, as they would have done with any bitch. Except they never touched him. Was Q simply a dynastic hand-me down, a possession of the singing group, protected for his skills on the mandolin? Then one night Worf and Kurn showed up at Pardeck's cell unexpectedly and walked Q down the hall. Q said nothing; he wasn't supposed to. They took him to Sisko's cell. Sisko was waiting there with two enforcers. Q thought he was going to die of fright, but all that happened was that Sisko ordered him to his knees. Unsure of everything, Q obeyed, using the rubber Worf silently handed him, taking Sisko in his mouth. All the men's stares burned into his skin. He hated performing in front of them, but he had no choice. He also had no choice when Sisko's two enforcers stepped up for their turn. "That's not our deal." Sisko gazed at Worf. His enforcers crossed their arms. So, rather than start a fight none of them could win, Worf ordered Q to go ahead and suck off Sisko's lieutenants. It was humiliating beyond belief. How much they enjoyed it was a bitter irony. Worf walked Q back to his cell; "Let Pardek stay with Kurn. You stay with me tonight." Q was numb. "We will continue to protect you. But," Worf breathed in, "What happened tonight could not be avoided." "And then what?" Q asked. He felt absolute despair. "Jean-Luc will come for you." Q stopped crying. "Really?" "Yes. He wants you safe. He paid us to watch out for you. Me. Kurn. Pardek." Q was shocked. He'd had no idea that Jean-Luc had paid for his protection. "Are you sure?" "This is what Jean-Luc told me," Worf said with Biblical certainty. Q was much happier then: imagining the kisses and caresses in his future. He lay back in the bottom bunk and looked at Worf until Worf could stand it no more; the next morning Q was covered with bites and bruises. He wore these like medals out to the yard. Someday Jean-Luc would return. He wanted to write Jean-Luc. He wanted to send Jean-Luc some of the poems he'd finished. But how did one write someone who was at an unknown destination? Mr. History was puttering around the library, spinning the globe, gloating over the day's mail with its many tiny fascinating stamps, turning the lights on and off to enjoy the vast mystery of electricity. "Sir," said Q, "do you remember Jean-Luc?" Mr. History was shocked at the reality of someone actually speaking to him. "Your little friend?" "He's gone now, and I need to get in touch with him. I've been writing poems for him and I want him to have copies. But I don't know how." Mr. History took an imaginary envelope out of the air and began to air-scribble on it – "See, you write the address on the envelope this way and then you put your . . . " "I know all that. I just don't know where he is exactly." Mr. History stopped and thought. "Figure out a city where he'll be and send it General Delivery there. When he checks his mail, why, there you'll be!" "Where will I find a list of cities where he could be?" "A map!" "What kind of map?" "Did he escape? If he did, we'll have to use the whole globe!" "No, he's paroled." "Oh, well, then," Mr. History sounded disappointed, "he'll still be in Kentucky. Let me look at our atlases." He poked around and brought out a 1954 Texaco Driver's Guide to the Southeast United States. Prisons were loathe to have up-to-date maps in their libraries. "Here, this should help!" Q pored over the map of Kentucky. He had no idea Kentucky was such a universe. But he made copies of all his poems in his pretty round handwriting and stuffed them in envelopes and sent them general delivery to J.L. Picard in various little places: places in Kentucky that sounded like the kinds of places Jean-Luc might be. Chloe's End, Coal Shute, Tiger Valley, Siam, Big Moody. Q knew he was putting messages in a bottle, but he still sent a new one every day or two. And then he lay back in his bunk, imagining Jean-Luc walking up golden granite steps under a soft afternoon sun to a mighty ivy-covered, marble building. He imagined Jean-Luc receiving these precious creme-colored envelopes in his hard hands. He imagined Jean-Luc in the house he had bought for them putting his letters in a special multi-colored folder. Of course, the truth was that Jean-Luc was not all that familiar with getting mail and anyway never checked in at the post office and these letters were left to languish and glow in the rusty Quonset hut that a place like Sistergod, Kentucky used for a post office. But cold reality never affected Q's dreams. They played a city-fest type of deal and several clubs. They made some nice money. Quark rented some studio time and told them to get serious about the CD. Jean-Luc was pleased with the quality of the first two cuts until their lone sound engineer begged them to let him hire some mixing artists he knew. The Boys had a parley. They didn't know what mixing artists did, and they were frightened by the idea of spending all that money. Geordi spoke up: "It's not like in a . . . store. There you know everything you're buying. You can see it and feel it and taste it." Jean-Luc stared at Geordi. Geordi felt the pressure against his skin as all the eyes followed their leader and turned to him. "Geordi, you can hear it, can't you? I mean, you'll be able to hear it if there's all that big a difference in the sound." He sat back and rested a thumb against his lips, thinking. "Geordi, you go in and just sit there until the sound engineers are done and don't say anything. Then, when you come out, tell us what you think." Geordi nodded. The engineers agreed so casually to their request that they felt a little less like they were being roped in for a screwing. Serious with the responsibility for their well-being, Geordi sat in the corner with a set of earphones on. He let the mixers, quiet efficient men who rarely spoke to each other or to anyone, complete one song and then asked to be taken back outside. Jean-Luc himself came to get him and lead him back to the bus where the others waited tensely. Then he spoke the single word that had been trying to push its way out all across the parking lot. "Well?" Geordi's answer was simple. "Yes. Whatever it costs." Pressed for more, he had a difficult time explaining. The engineers spoke using an arcane language which was just out of his range of understanding, but he could hear the essence of what they said, and make sense by listening to the words and the sincerity in their voices. They did not speak like charlatans. And then there was the sound they created. Everybody simply had to hear it for themselves. There was no explaining it in a way that made sense. And when the Boys finally heard their improved recording, they looked at each other with unqualified delight. They could all hear it, the clear harmony and balanced instrumentation and the very essence of what they were, perfected and pushed forward so that it was impossible to miss. Jean-Luc listened to it again and turned to stare speculatively at Data. Then he fixed his gaze on Q and his eyes hardened. They all knew what he was thinking. Data would gamble and Q would give blowjobs until his jaw cramped. And they all would live on beans and ground chuck, but they would get the cash and make the best CD money could buy. To get some quick cash, Quark got them a gig at a little out-of-the-way place. When the Boys showed up, they found out that they were the entr'acte for a group of busty strippers. Jean-Luc said, "Well, let's do it," but the patrons wanted only the strippers and booed them off the stage. The owner paid them full wages, saying, "You guys were better than most bands that get booed off my stage." The boys ate, gassed up, hit the road. They were bummed. It had been a long time since they had had such a categorical rejection. Maybe the gig in Kansas City would be better. "Come on, Q," Jean-Luc pulled him out of his bunk. They were parked in the back of the bar where they'd played, and to save money they were sleeping in the bus. "Get cleaned up." "Is it . . ." Q wanted to know if it was a professional call . If it was business, Q needed to dress up nicely since Jean-Luc had raised his price. From now on he was to charge fifty unless they found themselves back in another one-horse cow town. "Just us. Just some fun. I need some fun." After the gig the night before, Jean-Luc had been approached by a redheaded pimp who asked him if he wanted a little something special. Jean-Luc was completely uninterested: "I have my own and it's the best." "Really," said the pimp. There was a whiff of challenge in his voice. He threw his unfiltered Camel on the ground. "Q! Get over here!" Q rushed over. "This is Q," Jean-Luc stared the other man down. "He'll do whatever I tell him, won't you, Q?" "Yes, Johnny." There could be no other answer. Gratifyingly, the other pimp was very impressed. A singing pimp and his singing whore. A pimp who was actually making a go at singing. "Pretty sweet. You got it going on." Jean-Luc nodded modestly. "I guess you don't want you any of my Oralee." He leaned his head over, indicating a young woman Jean-Luc had not noticed before. Well. She was quite beautiful, with a lush figure and caramel skin. Hispanic or Native American. Jean-Luc was taken aback. And, oh, that pimp knew how to read Jean-Luc. "Maybe you can do me a favor. Maybe I could just take a few photos: How about yours fucking mine?" Jean-Luc felt the heated blood rush to his face. "Not his face, but his dick's okay." Now he and Q were meeting Oralee and the pimp who said his name was Paris at a famous local porn shop. Jean-Luc and Paris wandered up and down the aisles, and Q and Oralee followed silently. They listened to their pimp lovers discuss their many charms, her big tits, her perpetually wet pussy, his staying power, his big dick. How well they both took it up the ass. Jean-Luc bought a dozen condoms. Paris bought lube and brightly-colored rubber dicks of various sizes, some that vibrated, some that didn't. Paris tipped the cabdriver extravagantly as they pulled up to a fairly nice hotel, and, even though they couldn't really afford it, Jean-Luc paid for the room. Paris dressed conservatively, Oralee had on a modest suit, and Q and Jean-Luc might have been quiet powerful working men employed at the hotel. No one challenged any of them as they made their way upstairs. In the hotel room, Paris ordered Oralee to strip. She did so instantly, her expression cheerful. Q knew it for the lie it was. Jean-Luc didn't care. He ordered Q to take off his clothes and stroke Oralee's breasts. Q did as he was directed. "Roll her nipples between your fingers," Paris told Q. Q obeyed him. They all heard her breathing get heavier, and her face got flushed. Paris had not lied about her beauty. She had the perky pointed tits of a very young woman, and a plump, jiggly ass that swelled out nicely from her waist. And she genuinely appeared aroused. After several moments of him fondling her breasts, she began to squirm. "Reach down and put your fingers in her cunt." Paris ordered. Q did. She was so slippery he could work three of his fingers all the way inside. Paris pulled Q's wet fingers out of his girl and then looked triumphantly at Jean-Luc. "See, what did I tell you. Lay back on the bed, Oralee." Oralee lay back and opened her legs without being told. Q was aching by now, completely able to understand why it was so irresistible for Jean-Luc to order him around sexually. The girl was anyone's for the taking. He heard Jean-Luc breathing heavily, and didn't have to look to know he was erect too. "Turn over." Q and Jean-Luc stood aside and watched as Paris patiently covered the dicks he bought with Jean-Luc's rubbers. Unable to help themselves, they leaned forward a little, watching intently as he upended the bottle of lube with a flourish and dribbled a steady stream over Oralee's puckered asshole. He rubbed it all over her, stopping every once in a while to dip a finger into her ass, getting her good and moist. He rubbed one of the smaller dildos with the sticky gel, poised it against Oralee's flesh, and then pushed it in. Oralee gasped. She reared up on her arms a little, and the muscles of her back flexed with her movements. She let her breath out in a little sigh. It was a lovely performance. She relaxed again in a moment, and lay passively on the bed as Paris worked the little dick in and out of her. It was all Q could do not to moan himself. He knew how good that felt. He took his own deep breaths, tightening the muscles of his ass and letting them go lax again. Paris smiled at him. "I see it. You want to stick it up her ass? That's why I'm getting her ready, so she can take that giant fucker without screaming. You want to do some?" He turned to Jean-Luc. "Can he?" "Q," Jean-Luc ordered. His voice was much lower and rougher than normal. "Go fuck Oralee with that dildo." Q grasped the sticky handle carefully. He could feel the smooth movement in and out of Oralee's body. He could feel when she began to get very excited, gripping the hard silicone with her sweet little tiny ass muscles. She opened her legs wider, pressing her pussy into the bed so there would be pressure against her clit. She made lovely little sounds, soft mewling cries. The cries built. Her body stiffened, convulsed. Q was breathing high in his chest now, rapid and shallow. It felt normal, by now, for him to be naked while others were dressed. It established parameters, set hierarchies, defined his place. He liked how Oralee looked, all spread out, taking whatever was dished out to her. He looked that way, he knew, when Jean-Luc bent him over and fucked him. All yielding and vulnerable. Now Paris told Oralee to get up on her hands and knees. He pulled the little dildo out of her ass and replaced it with a bigger one. Oralee moaned. It obviously hurt her, because she whimpered a little, even as she writhed. She looked so sweet. "Here you go, Q. Nice and slow." Paris handed him the dildo. Q did as he was ordered. He watched her asshole swallow the dildo. Then he watched Jean-Luc and Paris as they crowded around him, savoring her helplessness, savoring the same sight that thrilled him so. His erection was tingling and pressing against his thigh. Paris reached down and milked him and Q shuddered. He was going to give himself to Paris, he just knew it. He was going to open his legs for him and open himself up to him as he did with Jean-Luc, and the idea shocked him. Help me, Johnny. Jean-Luc's big fingers slid down his chest, found his nipples, rolled them firmly. Now Q knew Jean-Luc didn't mind. Q gave himself because that's what he did. He wasn't betraying Jean-Luc. He leaned his head back against Jean-Luc's warm stomach and moaned. Paris was playing with him. Johnny was playing with him. Through him they both fucked Oralee's ass. All was right with the world. When he started breathing rapidly, Jean-Luc and Paris backed off. Oralee was sweating by now, a sheen covering her back and her ass. Q kept on reaming her out, having to concentrate against his own persistent arousal. He could smell Oralee's pussy, and see it, and he was thrilled by the way it glistened enticingly. It was the prettiest thing he'd seen in weeks. He wanted to lick it. Jean-Luc and Paris had other plans. Paris took the second dildo out of his hands and got the big red vibrating one. He shoved it up Oralee's ass and she cried out in pain. Jean-Luc handed Q a condom. By this time Q's erection was throbbing, standing out from his body, looking sweet. Paris had to actually wipe the corners of his mouth. "I swear I wish I had a piece like that one." "Yep. She's a beauty, isn't she?" Jean-Luc sounded very proud. "Get inside her, Q. No. Not like that. Her pussy." Then Q understood. The red dildo in her ass would be pushed in whenever he drove forward. With the simple movement of his body, he would fuck both holes at once, something he'd never known as a possibility until this moment. The dildo had a flared base so it wouldn't get lost inside her. He wouldn't even have to hold on to it. He was scared he'd hurt her, but she took him in until he filled her. She groaned as she strained to get him and the dildo completely inside her. Her sweet dark body was turning dusty rose with her exertions, but she fucked back against him, pounding her little ass against him, making it obvious that she really wanted what he had to give her. Q was delighted at how much she liked him. The walls of her cunt embraced him tightly and he could feel the dildo through the thin layer of flesh between her pussy and her ass, sliding in as the movements of his body pushed it forward, let it out, pushed it forward, let it out. "You don't come until I say." Jean-Luc was asking the impossible, but Q strove mightily to obey him. "Push it in as deep as you can and then ease out slowly." Paris ordered. Q tried to pound his long dick into the girl. He was doing it for Johnny. He was doing it for himself. He was doing it for Oralee who was shrieking and moaning, encouraging him to go in harder, crying that it hurt, begging for more. Q was surprised at the distinctive click of a camera, and a bright flash going off. 'Oh, that's right,' he remembered. He looked down. Paris had his face right down by his crotch, and the camera was going a mile a minute. "Slow down, Q. Give Paris some room." Q pushed in and out more slowly. Paris snapped more pictures. Oralee whimpered. She wanted it. She was almost there. Please, fuck her. "Okay." Paris was finished. Jean-Luc peeled the covers off the Polaroids. "Damn," Q heard Jean-Luc gasp. "Mind if I keep a few?" Oralee was growling deep in her throat, crying "Oh, yes, oh, yes!" Her hair was matted to her skull, and she huffed and puffed, grinding back against Q and shrieking every time he and the dildo smacked into her. Q concentrated on pushing the dildo in with his pubic bone. This was a great idea, and the girl seemed to love it. Thank God he was able to last until she came. He felt her spasm once, twice, and then a series of hard contractions grabbed at him. He watched her ass clutch at the dildo, nearly shooting it out as she climaxed. Oralee was done for. She collapsed against the bed, shuddering in aftershock as Q pulled out of her. The dildo fell out of its own accord, and Paris propped it against her ass and snapped one last picture of it in all its glory. "You can go ahead and come now, Q. Aim for her ass." It didn't take long. Q finished up while Paris took a picture of his cum and Jean-Luc went over the Polaroids. He lay beside Oralee, sweaty and overcome. The two whores did not speak. The pimps did. "So, what's with the pictures?" Jean-Luc and Paris were on the balcony, letting the breeze cool them while the whores cleaned themselves and got dressed. "Well, these days you have to specialize. When I show these around, it'll turn the johns on and they'll give me her price. I'm betting I can get a thousand bucks a night easy with these. That way Oralee will last longer." Jean-Luc nodded. "Makes sense. She's about as pretty as they come." "Thanks. So's he." "That's true. Don't forget that when you see his face on a CD cover." Paris smiled. "I won't. Say, I want to thank you for the loan. He was good." Both playing it cool. They were going to take their girls home and fuck them senseless, but it wouldn't do to break down and lose control in front of the other. Jean-Luc had some Polaroids in his shirt pocket. He and Paris shook hands and walked out, promising to remember this night. Then Paris and Oralee disappeared. Q followed Jean-Luc down to the lobby. Jean-Luc was turning the key in at the desk when Q realized that he hadn't spoken a word all evening. It didn't matter. He'd had a very nice time, and he'd done what Jean-Luc wanted. Everyone discovered that Q and Data were the two biggest roadside-attraction queens ever. The many signs intoxicated them. "An Indian skeleton village!" "The World's Biggest Hatstand!" "The Iron Nail museum!" The first few times this happened, it pissed Jean-Luc off. He took their pleased cries as demands that they should stop and look, and he hated demands. But after a while, he began to to find it somewhat amusing. Sometimes a particularly lurid and fetching sign would make all the Boys (except Worf) go 'ooooh' like a car full of children, and, when that happened, Jean-Luc gave serious consideration to stopping.. The roadside attractions became an important part of their education. For example, they learned not to take Geordi on whirling rides because the first one he rode on made him very sick and disoriented. But they learned other things as well. One time, Data said, "Oh, look, a museum for the blind!" "What?" Jean-Luc said. "A museum for the blind! It has displays of things the visually disabled can feel and smell and hear. Over 200 exhibits!" "I heard about that back in the home. Are we very close?" Geordi said. There was a pause. It was over forty miles away. Then Jean-Luc said, "It's just down the block. Let's go." They were on the way to Baltimore where they were scheduled to play a club called Romeo's, the biggest gay bar in Maryland. They found a cheap motel way up Route 40 where they could shower and rest up for the next day. It was right near a Little Bennett State Park, in a wooded area with lots of picnic tables. A group of picnickers grilled hotdogs and hamburgers, undeterred by the dampness left over from the hard rain of the night before. The Boys had nothing to do but wait for tomorrow night and watch for Quark. He was going to meet them with the first editions of their CD, and he even had some t-shirts Q designed. Jean-Luc had been livid about the tee shirts. "They're red and black. The ugliest colors in the universe." Q was mildly taken aback. They were the sort of shirt he liked. A thin red cotton with black tattered-looking block letters on the back saying Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys, and on the front over the left breast, the words: THE OUTSKIRTS TOUR. Jean-Luc stalked off. Will came up to Q. "You'll have to shake that thing like a circus ride to get Jean-Luc to forgive you those tee shirts." Q looked at Will and then backed up to him, rubbing his ass against the front of Will's jeans. "And I'm just the girl to do it." They both laughed; they were closer than most sisters. They decided to go for a walk. Q loved rain, the smell of water. He never thought he would ever travel this far; what a pleasant surprise to see the sun setting in Maryland as someone's car radio played "Desperado" by the Eagles and Will strolled beside him in his cowboy hat and Hawaiian shirt. Q was very quietly proud of his tall slenderness; he kept his hat on, but he wore a tight, thin, dark brown tee shirt which accented every pleasant thing about his body. He stopped and smelled the air again. The smell carried from where the little group was grilling hamburgers. He loved the scent of octane. And someone said "hi" to him. Q turned around and said "hi" back. It was one of the picnickers who had detached himself from his friends in order to follow them into the woods. Will drifted a little distance away. The Boys always gave each other a lot of personal space. He was a pleasant-looking man, just the least bit burly. "You look like you'd like a good time." Q was taken aback. "Well, it all depends." "Want to party?" Q did not want to party. But if the man were to give him some money, he could buy something for Jean-Luc. A little porta-grill! He'd seen them advertised! Some hamburger! They could grill in the parking lot of the motel! He could even grill some chicken for Geordi and Data! He could brown sesame-seed studded buns on the grill too! "I guess I could be persuaded. What do you have for me?" "How much?" "Fifty?" "For up or down or both?" Q hesitated: what the hell. He still thought fifty dollars was a lot. "Both." The man wordlessly handed Q two new twenties and a ten. He spoke into the air. "Move in." That was odd behavior. Then the picknickers were all over him. They had badges and guns. They were cops. Quark drove like a madman to where they were and handled it. Jean-Luc was beside himself. What if they found Q's old record? What about the gig the next day at Romeo's? Would Q be in prison all night? But mainly what the blue fuck of a crime had Q committed? "Your boyfriend's back," Quark said laconically. "I posted bond, and he's going to come back and plead guilty next week -- after Romeo's – and pay five hundred dollars for . . . unnatural lewdness or some such." "He's innocent," Jean-Luc stormed. Quark shrugged. He had never known innocence. "I think if I play it right I can count that five hundred as a business expense. This is nothing." "This will go on his record." "A iddy baby misdemeanor." "How'd you rig all that? In all my dealings with Johnny Law, he had no qualms about fucking the citizenry in the ass. You must have a talent." "Tee shirts. CD's. Nightclubs. The music business. The cops. There's a synergistic relationship behind all of it. And it's really best if the artists know nothing about it. Catch you backstage at Romeo's." Q meekly sat in the car on the way back from jail. Quark let him have some room, but Q was afraid Jean-Luc was going to be very angry and beat the shit out of him. Sure enough, Jean-Luc was standing in the parking lot waiting, pacing, glowering. Will was nervously peeking out of the doorway of the room he and Worf shared. He wondered if he would be blamed though neither Worf nor Jean-Luc said anything to him. Q got out of the car. Worf called Will away from the door. Will came in and closed the door but both he and Worf kept sneaking out of the curtains. Q walked up to Jean-Luc. He was obviously agitated, his fingers twisting around themselves. Jean-Luc did nothing. Then suddenly the tension drained from his face. Q was back. Q was okay. Q said, "Johnny..." Jean-Luc said, "You hungry?" Q's mouth dropped open a little. He nodded. Jean-Luc leaned over to the car. "Quark, let me have your keys." Quark got out but left his car running. He took a CD and a boom box out of the back seat. Jean-Luc drove Q to a diner. They walked in, sat down and looked at the menu. Q said, "I guess I'll have the burger special. Well done." Jean-Luc said, "Get the steak." Q looked up timidly. "Are you sure?" Jean-Luc looked away. He ought to beat the shit out of Q. "Eat," he said. Q wolfed his steak. They went back to their motel and listened to their CD. Jean-Luc was ecstatic. He put his arm around Q, glad he had a excuse. |
