The Promised LandPart SevenWay over on the other side of town, in the kitchen of his mother's Highlandtown rowhouse, John Mack Madred unlocked the door to the basement. He told his mother that he kept the door locked because he didn't want her accidentally falling down stairs, what with her arthritis acting up like it sometimes did. When she protested that her canning jars were stored down there, he told her not to worry because he would always bring the jars up whenever she asked for them. She told him he was a good son. He took a good look around his hand-crafted dungeon. To the uninformed, it might look like a mere torture chamber, but to John Mack it was a temple, and he was its high priest and chief caretaker, endlessly devising new details for his lower room. He had bolted chains into the foundation. He had installed handcuffs, suspended by a baroque system of chains and pulleys from the beams that ran along the ceiling. And he had a real mortician's table with little channels down the side for the blood to run off. John Mack could only imagine what it would be like if he had the money to really do it up with spotlights and soundproofing. Still, it wasn't so bad. The really important thing was to find the perfect vessel. This basement idolarium, however finely crafted, was only the setting. The vessel itself, now there was the problem. John Mack knew what he wanted. It had to be male because women screamed too much, and that released all the lovely tension before it had a chance to build. It had to be gay because, while John Mack himself was certainly not gay and had absolutely no interest in gay sex, still only a gay male could be readily convinced to come home with him and visit his basement. Most important, the vessel had to have a certain beauty and a certain quality of purity. Sometimes, in desperation, John Mack brought home vessels he knew weren't pure. He didn't mind this so much – he thought of it as practice for *the* one. He just had to be patient. The perfect vessel would *know* why he was in John Mack's basement. He would smile gratefully at John Mack, even as he screamed. He would thank him. He would offer himself wholeheartedly, even through his tears and pain. It would be perfect. John Mack felt good just thinking about it. He sang to himself as he went back upstairs, shut off the lights, and locked the door behind him. Know ye not, know ye not, Ye are the temple? Ye are the temple of the holy ghost.He got out his light jacket. It was almost ten thirty. Time to get busy. John Mack stood in line at Romeo's. He'd been here lots of times. The place was a bit more crowded than usual, but he liked it because he could stare without being noticed, especially when everyone else was staring too. John Mack despised these people. All the thin-faced blond boys in tight jeans; the older bearded men with indulgent smiles; the gaunt queens with their hands at their throats, indulging their plegian appetites, the cigarettes, the margaritas, all the panoply of life at Romeo's. John Mack held himself aloof. None of these people were capable of understanding the rarified mission that made forced him to troll this dance floor on weekend nights; only his vessel would see that at once. And when that happened, John Mack would finally be able to share the vision that defined his life. But he was still surprised when it happened. His back had been turned as he searched the shoddy dance floor with all its imitations of perfection, when he was suddenly overcome by a sound like bells ringing and wasps swarming and silk tearing, and then he turned to see Jean-Luc looking right at him. And Jean-Luc sang to Madred, a secret, coded message of three simple words: Here I am. The crowd went wild, and John Mack could almost celebrate with them except these people were too vain, too banal, too shallow for him to deign to share their ebullience. They had no idea that a miracle had happened right in their midst. High magic, the clockwork order and precision of a mage's universe. The angels never failed him, and Destiny sang on that stage. John Mack was so happy he was almost disappointed. 'Well,' he thought to himself. 'Hunt's over.' He collared the nearest gyrating body. "Who is that?" "John Luke and his Magic Mountain Boys," the dancer shouted back. John Mack made his way to the exit. By the entranceway, there was a little table. The guy behind it was happy to sell him several t-shirts, a CD and a tape. John Mack inspected his loot. On the back of the CD were pictures of all the band members and their names. "Jeen Luck?" "John Luke," the little salesman corrected. "And if you're interested, you can write down your name and address and I'll send you information about our fan club." If he was interested? John Mack took the lined yellow pad from the man's hand. The top sheet had nothing on it except the heading 'Fan Club List.' His name would be first. Synchronicity all over. This was truly the hand of God. John Mack signed his name. "I got these tennis shoes for Data," he reported to Jean-Luc. "They're hardly worn at all. And I got Will an extra blanket that only cost three dollars, and if you lay it down *this* way that stained part will be at his feet. He won't even see it." Q wanted to make himself needed, and he was needed because Jean-Luc did not think about buying aspirin until he had a headache, nor would he think about getting food until he was starving. Jean-Luc could only see the big picture, "let's go, let's play, let's keep going." Q saw the things they needed on the way. In their rooms, Q stayed on the phone, always talking to Quark, arranging dates with other clubs, sending out tapes, consulting maps, examining their finances, poring over slim telephone books to find parts for the Stargazer. He had learned not to bother Jean-Luc with the details, but he ran the band like a general or a mommy, consistently thinking ahead to the inevitable next crisis, whether major or minor. "Q, the G string on the banjo's broke." "Q, there appears to be lipstick on my jacket and we are due on stage in less than an hour." "Aw, man, Q, isn't there anything else to eat?" Q noticed things nobody else knew. Geordi was tickled pink by jelly beans because there was no way to tell by scent or feel which flavor would burst on the tongue (except for licorice which he set aside and savored last). When it was Worf's turn to cook, Q made sure there was bread and luncheon meat for Data who didn't like spicy food and would pick at his dinner and then wander forlornly back to the kitchenette and make messes unless he was directed to make a sandwich. However, when it was Data's turn to cook, Q made sure every ingredient was available or else Data would make bizarre substitutions based on a logic so peculiar that it would have the others shaking their heads. ("This cinnamon toast tastes so strange," Geordi said, "it even feels funny." "Oh, we had no cinnamon, so I used cloves. They are chemically almost identical.") Q learned to buy national brands of bottled water, always. He learned to hide the make-up kit because sometimes Data got into it and experimented. He learned Will sometimes had nightmares, but, after staying up with him for two nights, Q discovered that he slept better when he could ball a pillow against his cheek. Q had power of a distaff sort and control over the things nobody noticed. It suited him. He did not take pride in his smooth day-to-day administration. It was simply what he did, that was all. Sometimes he sneaked small vacations -- a few hours all to himself in a matinee, the calming thud of a laundromat, the peace of a lone park bench, and always the dusty silence of a library. "Mr. Picard! Jean-Luc! I love you!" Jean-Luc turned questioning eyes on him. "I do, I really do. That whole thing tonight was a spiritual experience for me. I swear, I'd do anything for you." Jean-Luc was taken aback. This man, little more than a boy really, was beautiful and lush-featured; his body had the mannered beauty of someone who worked on himself daily. "Just tell me what you like. I promise I'll do it." Jean-Luc kept staring. "Please, please, please," begged the boy. His voice dropped. There was no one else around. "Anything. What do you like?" Jean-Luc finally breathed. "I like it simple. I like them pretty. And I like them with big ones." The boy unzipped himself and brought it out. Jean-Luc gazed at it. "You're that big soft?" "Want to see it hard?" "All right." "Talk to me. Tell me you'll be my daddy and spank me hard. Then tell me to bend over. Tell me we'll have that hot anal love." The boy was touching himself and he was quick to become aroused. Jean-Luc was trying very hard to keep his head. "Kiss Daddy's dick first. Then we'll see about the rest of it." "Guess what I've got!" he said in a sing-song way. The Boys were tired from touring; they looked at him with fatigue-glazed eyes. "Aw, you won't guess! It's a contract from DCA for your next CD! Including a fifty-thousand dollar advance." They were too stunned to speak, especially Q who had always thought Quark's deals would never amount to anything. Still: "Let me examine the contract, Quark." "Here ‘tis." Q was dumbfounded; everything was on the up and up. "I want you to do some song writing and rehearsing. Winter's a hard season for you country boys. But I've got a lease-option on a cute little cabana in North Alabama, three bedrooms, get it? It's out in the woods so you can rehearse all you like, but it's only about forty miles from Muscle Shoals and a hundred from Nashville. You could do some good work there. Also I'll get you a New Year's gig at a Mississippi redskin casino so you can ring in the new year with some of fresh pieces of ass, if you want, and meanwhile we're kings of the world. Sign on the dotted line, boys." Q recommended that they sign. "Looks like you'll have to renew my contract, kids!" Quark gloated. "Quark," said Q, "this is wonderful work. But what's in it for you?" "Q, I know you could give a shit, pardon my french, but I'm getting more pussy than Rhett Butler. The music business has been very very good to Little Tommy Quark." So, when they weren't rehearsing the new songs Q had written, Worf and Q started painting, fixing the roof, repairing the plumbing, doing a thousand householder things. And Will was so touchingly eager to help that they eventually taught him how to do what they were doing. Jean-Luc liked to stare out of the window over the sink, watching approvingly. The work tightened up Will's body and helped him lose a bit more of that flab. Often, the weather was so mild that they would take their shirts off. Jean-Luc savored this sight. Four. Four. Six. John Mack Madred looked at the new combination lock on his bicycle. It was a sign. John Mack Madred. John Luke Picard. Four four six. He turned and looked up at the winter sky. The clouds had a broken, falling quality that made him highly uneasy. Maybe he should spell his name with a hyphen too. John-Mack Madred. Didn't the Knights Templar invent the hyphen? A curious innocence had surrounded them. It was the first time any of then had cable. Of course, it meant there was always a debate about what they would watch, and, being very different from each other, quarrels erupted. But the sheer novelty of it kept them glued to the set together. Jean-Luc had the center seat, the "big chair", a plastic-covered lounger, and Q always sat at his feet. On the other side of Jean-Luc sat Will and Worf in a sort of wicker love-seat. It made provocative groaning wicker sounds as the two big men moved. There was another comfortable chair on the other side of Jean-Luc where Geordi sat, and Data would sit with him, occasionally on his lap, sometimes on the floor beside him. At these tight little gatherings, they always leaned a lot more about each other. At first, the other Boys were surprised that Geordi liked television so much. But he did; he especially loved cartoons with their side-splitting sound-effects. And Data liked old shows like "Industry On Parade" which showed how beets got canned and hats got made. He loved footage of things traveling on conveyor belts. Q was very fond of how-to shows, the home decorating channel, and cooking show, especially those with stories about vineyards in France and stuff like that, and he loved the Discovery channel because it gave him new things to think about. But Worf always insisted they watch a western if one were on. He was also fond of the sort of war movie where everybody dies in the end. And he loved Kurosawa. Will plagued everyone by wanting to watch "Three's Company." "What a lifestyle!" he always said. However, Jean-Luc always had the last word about what they watched, and he made everyone hush up when his favorite shows came on. He couldn't get enough of television evangelists. And although everyone else grumbled, these shows were fascinating to them too. Fascinating in the lies they told. Fascinating in the downhome charisma they wrought. But Jean-Luc watched them from the viewpoint of a colleague; he wanted to know what was right and wrong in how they controlled and manipulated. It was his equivalent of reading a professional journal. Geordi wondered if Q were sick because he could definitely hear him breathing heavily. They had been sitting in their den watching television when Q started making strange noises. "Q, why are you breathing like this?" Geordi demonstrated, making his breath sound raspy. The others noticed the moment Geordi mentioned it. Q sounded a little gaspy. "Well," Jean-Luc's dark voice sounded amused. "Tell them, Q." "Johnny's messing with me." Q sounded demure and embarrassed. Johnny was indeed messing with him, a little thing, almost trivial. He was idly rolling one of Q's nipples between his fingers, and that was all he had done, but he'd been doing it for almost half an hour and Q was squirming, his legs open in the darkness, trying to work off his sexual tension as surreptitiously as possible. And he might would have succeeded, too, if not for Geordi. "Can't leave the poor girl alone for five minutes," Will murmured. He slid his eyes over to Worf. "Poor Q," Worf breathed in. "Has a hard life." "I bet that's not the only thing he has that's hard," Geordi said. Data moved his head back. I believe you are being impolite, Geordi." "Oh." Geordi couldn't have sounded more insincere. "Sorry." JLP. And he went out into the woods and cut down a fragrant young cedar and put it in a bucket of wet sand right by the television set. And then he put mysterious packages under the tree. "To Geordi from Santa!?" read a card. "To Will. For being a good boy! From You Know Who!" was another. "To Data. Do not open until December 25!!!" "To Worf! Merry Christmas!" And "To Jean-Luc with all my love! Your secret admirer!!" Geordi had spent most Christmases painfully pretending with his family that they had something in common. Data did not observe any religious holidays, but he could explain the sociological implications of the need for ritual. Will had never imagined he would participate in a Christmas occasion because he'd spent so long on the outside looking in. Worf was indifferent to holidays though he liked the food. Jean-Luc likewise. They weren't quite sure of what to do or why. But the idea of presents intrigued them. Especially distracting was the fact that they each had a gift they weren't allowed to open until a specific time. What a cocktease! Will, Geordi, and Data spent time playing with their packages. Shaking them. Feeling them. And Data and Will had Geordi listen to and smell their gifts. "Something electric," he said to Data. "I can tell that much." "Peanuts," he said to Will who raised his eyebrows. On Christmas Eve, they opened their gifts (except for Data who pointed out that he had very explicit instructions to wait until midnight at least). Will had gotten a six-pack of Payday bars! "You better share them," Q teased. "I don't think so," said Will. Geordi had gotten a smart new pair of wraparound sunglasses from the sales rack at the drug store. Everyone whistled in admiration when he put them on. Worf got huge black rubber gloves to do chores in. He put them on and showed them off. Jean-Luc got provocative underwear which he immediately hid. He made a mocking fist at Q, who blushed. "Data, open yours!" said Will. Data turned even paler. "What might occur if I fail to obey these instructions?" "Nothing compared to what might happen if I have to come over there. Now open it," said Jean-Luc. It was a toaster! A hour's scrubbing and some electric tape on the cord had made it good as new! "Oooooh," everyone said. And while they settled down to watch television, Data took his toaster back to the kitchen. Geordi said, "No one got Q anything." "Q gets a big present from me later," Jean-Luc remarked. Everyone smiled. They were going to watch a highly-advertised special called "The Love Hour." It was the Christmas service from the pulpit of the somewhat controversial but very entertaining Reverend Earl Garak, the newest sensation in the televangelist-field. Reverend Garak was something. It was hard to say what was the most horrible element of his appearance. Was it his hair, which reminded everyone of a clipper ship in full sail? Was it his voice which had a snake's sibilance? Was it the incredible glittering suits he wore? (Although terrifying to contemplate on a color television set, they were supposed to glow in a heavenly manner on black and white sets, much to the gratification of his less fortunate parishioners.) Was it his hideous eyes which bulged and nuzzled the television camera? Perhaps it was his mannerisms, artificial, effeminate, pouncing like a spider on the weaknesses of his audience? But most people thought it was his smile, a slow slice of alligator in a televised tank. The Boys couldn't tear their eyes away. "Data, what are you doing in there?" Q said, "I've been smelling toast for twenty minutes." Data came back in. "I have been doing a statistical analysis of the operations of my toaster. I have tried different stages of toasting. And then I have toasted different types of breadstuffs. It is a fascinating device." "Q, put a stop to this," Jean-Luc said from the big chair. Q was loathe to leave the fascinating Reverend Garak, but he went back to the kitchen with Data and put the toasted bread in one sack and the untoasted bread ("future toast!" Data said) into another. Then he dragged Data back in to see what else Reverend Garak was up to. The highlight of Reverend Garak's Love Hour was always the hymn he sang with the aid of his huge simpering choir. "And, dear friends, ALL the Love Hour tunes are available on CD, cassette and 8-track at this address on your screen," he leered. Tonight's ditty was "Satan Changed the Lock on Heaven's Front Door." As usual Garak accompanied himself on the piano; he ran his stubby little reptilian hands up and down the entire length of the piano until he finally calmed down and began his hymn. It seemed that Satan changed the lock on heaven's front door. And the Reverend Garak's key won't be fitting in that lock no more. The Reverend Garak had been standing on heaven's front porch all night long, and he knew something was definitely going on wrong. Heaven's lights were dim, he continued, and God's shades were way down low. And the Reverend Garak had knocked and knocked until his fists got sore. Then Garak eyed the camera in a terrifying way as he played a mutant hybrid of New Orleans whorehouse and child-ballet-recital. His hideously-robed choir was always very supportive of Reverend Garak. Oohing. Ahhing. Oh-lording. And part of the fun of the Love Hour for the Boys was to speculate on what each chorister's favorite sexual position might be. Tonight Will said: "See the fat gal – she likes it in the kitchen, she likes it in the hall, but, when you come in the back door, she likes that best of all." Q said seductively: "You know, I think I did that organist when we were in Tennessee." "I think I did his wife." "I don't think he had a wife when we were in Tennessee." "Well maybe I did his dog." "What's the difference?" "Say, is that where you got that last case of fleas?" "Yeah, but the organist is still scratching." "Scratching his organ, you mean." "See that redhead? Doesn't he look like he's wearing a buttplug?" "He does not. He looks like he's wearing two buttplugs." "I think I fucked him." "Me too." "And me." "And me." "And me." "Okay, show of hands, who didn't fuck the redhead?" "Geordi, why not?" "I refuse to fuck anyone who sings in a choir that sounds that bad." They all laughed. It was a good Christmas. Above them, the silent stars went by. "What are you saying?" Q said, genuinely confused. "Oh, someone here doesn't quite . . . oohh, you know what I like. Just stay there and do that til I get off the phone, okay, honey?" "Quark, are you okay?" "Oh, just playing with what Santa left in my stocking. If you know what I mean. But here's the big deal: you know Rolling Stone magazine?" "Yes?" "Well, in the next issue they're going to have a round-up of trends for the New Year. And Guess Who Gets Mentioned? Along with their new CD! The songs for which, by the way, better sure-as-fuck be finished." Q shouted the news to the others – they were beside themselves. "I'm putting this item in our newsletter." "Quark, what newsletter?" "The newsletter I'm generating even as I speak. That's my typist you hear squealing in the back ground. We're debating pica versus elite. Regina! Yes! Yes! I'm sending it to all the fans whose addresses I've been collecting. Brilliant PR move, doncha think? Regina! DON'T STOP NOW!" And soon the newsletter would whisper where they should gather. He looked at the cover. Who was Johnny Depp? John Mack paid for the magazine at the convenience store counter. A flouncing hussy, just the kind he went to high school with, no doubt a drug addict and clearly a whore, took his money and then said to him: "Why are YOU buying this?" John Mack looked at her. "My son enjoys Johnny Depp. But he has cerebral palsy and cannot get out much. I am buying it for him." That shut the slattern up as well as if he had soundly lashed her. Odd. He had never been a glib liar before. Another sign from God, clearly. Q went to bed alone. He was reading an American poetry anthology he'd bought for a quarter at a second-hand shop. There was a little lamp by the bed, and Q had placed an orange scarf on the lampshade so the light was mellow and golden on the cream-colored acrylic blanket, on the patched white sheets. Jean-Luc came in the room, naked and clean. He saw Q lying there reading; Q was bare-chested under the covers. "Don't expect me to fuck you. I just fucked both of them and I'm chewed. I'm going to sleep." "Do you mind if I go on reading?" said Q. "Be my guest." In a moment, Jean-Luc was breathing rhythmically. "I want to say good-bye to Warden O'Brien. He's been so helpful," Q said. An awkward moment. "O'Brien is in Louisville talking to some people. What did he do for YOU?" "Oh, nothing really, it's just he was there." Worf stepped in. "Thank you, Warden Dougherty. Good-bye to you." And they were free. What was waiting for Q when he walked out of the gates of Fear Alley? He probably needed to see Beverly. He wanted to see his boys. He had to see Jean-Luc. And when he walked through the prison gates, his wife and family were not there, but Jean-Luc was. Something like a pillar of flame burned all the oxygen from the atmosphere, and no one could breathe. Jean-Luc said, "You owe me big for this." Brightness was all. "Okay," Q answered. The three of them standing there, Q and Worf freshly released in their prison-issue new suits with their prison-issue three twenties in their hands, and Jean-Luc waiting in jeans and tee shirt and seeming to turn to stone as he regarded Q -- at last Q was free to be his -- but there was one piece of etiquette he had to go through with: "Worf, you want to come with us? Your banjo would be a good addition." "I have nowhere else to go." It was all Q could do not to throw himself into Jean-Luc's arms. He waited, excited, for Jean-Luc to acknowledge him. His hand fluttered and twisted around themselves excitedly, and Johnny hated it when he got twitchy, but he couldn't help himself; he was just that happy even though there had been no presents, as he'd hoped, and no big reunion. All that happened was that Jean-Luc looked him over, nodded, and then turned to Worf and invited him along. None of that mattered to Q. The important thing was that they were back together at last. Jean-Luc wanted to sing. Q hadn't cared. If Jean-Luc had said, "Let's be winos, or nuclear physicists," Q's answer would have been the same: "Okay, Johnny." He took them to a very cheap motel in the Impala. Two beds in one room. Very cheap. Worf was a very gracious roommate. "I want to walk around. Here's forty. For gas and lodging. This twenty will see me for a while. You need to be alone." Then he left. Jean-Luc held out a white plastic bag. "Go in there and put these on and come back out." He indicated the bathroom. Well, it was a sort of present. Underwear. A package of three large white tee shirts. Vee-necked. And three pairs of tiny briefs made of some kind of nylon. Sort of transparent. Pastels. Q cleaned himself up again and put some of the new underwear on. The briefs fit very well, very tight. They were ideal for someone built the way Q was built. He became slightly aroused looking at himself; in a way, the garments caressing him was Jean-Luc caressing him. He went out. Jean-Luc was standing there, leaning against a dresser, waiting. "Time for bed, Q," he said. Q got in the bed; he pulled the flimsy bedspread over him. "Didn't you forget something? Daddy wants to see you say your prayers." Q got out of bed and knelt by the side of the bed. He put his hands in front of him, bowed his head and began to pray. Something. Anything. "God keep Johnny and God keep Worf and God keep . . ." Jean-Luc was kneeling behind him; he was pulling up the tee shirt and then he put his large warm hands on Q's ass where the briefs were. "What a good little girl. What a good little ass." Jean-Luc was caressing him. "I bet you have a sweet little pussy. Let me look at it-- let me pull your panties down to your knees -- just keep praying." Q gasped; Jean-Luc had pulled his briefs down and now his big hand was between Q's thighs, was on Q's stiff cock, was on the end where Q was already damp. "Why, your pussy's wet, how did that happen, did you touch yourself in the bed? No wonder you need to say your prayers." He began to pump Q with his hand for a few seconds. Q was delirious. Then he heard Jean-Luc unzip his pants. "Let Daddy get ready for bed. Let Daddy help you say your prayers. Look, Daddy is so hot and big for his girl." Q turned to Jean-Luc; Jean-Luc was naked by now, naked, pale, erect, glistening. Q bit his lower lip. "Your little pussy is so tight I need to be wet. Why don't you kiss it? Just open that mouth and let me stick it in." Q was quick to take Jean-Luc in his mouth and so hot for Jean-Luc and so good at what he did that Jean-Luc had to draw back and collect himself. Then he began to tease himself, sticking his dick into Q's mouth and then pausing and doing it again. "I want to help you say your prayers." Q's briefs were still around his knees. And Q knew what Jean-Luc wanted. He edged his tee shirt up around his waist and stuck his beautiful ass out, presenting it, writhing a bit, saying "God God God" over and over again. Moving his ass as if Jean-Luc's big dick were already in it. And then Jean-Luc was in him, straddling, fucking, pounding. His huge hands gripping Q's slim hips. "Keep praying, cocksucker," he directed. "Don't mind me. Don't mind Daddy. I'll be done quickly. You won't know I was here." That was of course impossible. Q wanted to come badly; he writhed more, pulling his tee shirt up under his arms so he could touch his nipples, and Jean-Luc was coming, pumping so he could get all the sensation out of it he could. Then, panting, he stood up and Q stood too, still erect. Jean-Luc smiled at that and kissed Q, and Q kissed back, a full wet Q kiss. "Change your underwear and we'll try something else," Jean-Luc whispered. Q did. When he came back out of the bathroom, Jean-Luc had put his jeans back on. "Get under the covers. Daddy says it's time for bed." Q did; he was intoxicated by this, by Jean-Luc's potent purred suggestions. He felt drugged, he felt huge and weighted, all his power collecting in his cock. Jean-Luc sat on the bed and reached out and rubbed his hand on Q's head. "Let's get that pretty head ready for bed." He rumpled Q's hair; he pulled some down over Q's eyes. Then he said: "Don't you want to touch yourself under the covers?" And Q did, still watching Jean-Luc. "Rub it." Q was soon breathing rapidly. "Don't you feel guilty? What if someone saw you? What if Daddy sees you touch yourself?" Q kept his hand moving; he was breathing through his mouth now. "Do you still have your panties on?" Q nodded as he panted. "Why don't you pull them off again for me? And spread your legs. Maybe you could stick something in your pussy while you touch yourself. Something hard. Something big you can move back and forth." "You can help me, Daddy. You have a big thing." "No, I want to see you. Maybe Daddy can go to the store tomorrow and buy you something big for your pussy." Jean-Luc pulled the covers down; Q had slipped off his briefs and his legs were wide apart. "Wait, let me use my hand too," and he wet his fingers and put them in Q as Q jerked off, and, with that, Q became completely undone and came so hard he almost lost consciousness; all he knew was that his head had fallen off the pillow and he was writhing on the bed, saying inarticulate things, and Jean-Luc kept pounding his fingers into him. As soon as he had calmed down a little, Jean-Luc stood up. His jeans were undone, and he had pulled himself out, erect again. He climbed on top and fucked Q the way he had in prison, drawing it out now that he knew he could last a while inside him. On the hotel bed he had room, so he fucked Q on his back, then on his side, then thrown halfway off the mattress, then kneeling and bracing himself against the headboard -- after prison, the big bed was a luxury to them. Jean-Luc held off coming for a long, long time, fucking Q until they were both lightheaded. He was actually zoning out a little bit, like having white line fever, but he kept fucking, coming back to Q's moaning voice and grinding hips. Q tried to keep himself silent from force of habit, but Jean-Luc didn't want that. "We're not in prison anymore, girl. Let me hear you make some noise. You remember me now, don't you? You remember who this is? Then say it." "Oh, Daddy," Q cried. "You're all I dreamed about. I could never forget you." "I know, motherfucker. Me too. Me too." His hips ached from pumping, but he looked down at Q's sweaty grimace and got renewed strength. "Come for me, Q." Dutifully, willingly, Q ground it out for him, his big hands covering his dick, moving rapidly, making it happen. All too soon they were both crying out and Jean-Luc watched Q's dick twitch as he felt his own orgasm, almost painful in its intensity, wash over him. They could not leave each other alone. In their half-sleep state they kissed, rubbed against one another, stroked each others' bodies. Q finally got up to shower, but, unable to stay away from him, Jean-Luc got in too. Teasing, Q refused him the soap. "Let me," Q said and touched his chest. "I always wanted to." Jean-Luc nodded, amused. Q washed him methodically from top to bottom, wasting shampoo on his bald head, gently stroking around his eyes and mouth, behind his ears, between his fingers, between his toes. He swabbed from the top to the middle and from the bottom to the middle, saving his ass and penis for last. Then Q lathered up his hands and then slid his soap-slick fingers between Jean-Luc's cheeks. He rubbed the outside gently, slipped a single finger in until Jean-Luc started to moan, and then abandoned the back for the front. Reverently, he knelt to cradle Jean-Luc's testicles and penis, rubbing and rubbing until Jean-Luc sighed and canted his legs open. He could have stayed like that all night but Q pulled him back to the bed again. "I want to dry you too." More sensual stroking. The towel felt like silk because through it Q's hands brought him pleasure. Methodical as usual, Q dried fingers, arms, feet, legs, chest, saving the best for last once again. He gently parted Jean-Luc's legs and patted softly against Jean-Luc's testicles, not so much drying them off as stimulating his lover to another erection. Jean-Luc heard his own heavy breathing. "Are you done?" Q looked up and nodded. "Then quit this fooling around and suck Daddy's cock." Q threw himself on the floor and on Jean-Luc; he took almost all of it immediately, massaging, his hand moving back to Jean-Luc's ass. Then Jean-Luc grabbed Q's head and began fucking his mouth, careless of Q's feelings, careless of Q's heart, the way Q liked it. "After this I'll have to beat you," Jean-Luc murmured and then he was coming down Q's throat, panting, eyes closed; he sat back. They looked at each other. "Lean over again, Q." And Q did, watching Jean-Luc adoringly as any dog. Jean-Luc slid down beside him on the floor. "Let's get our money's worth." Q was beside him, naked and gleaming, lean where he should be, curvy where he should be. Jean-Luc stroked his curved ass, again and again. Then he slapped it. Once. Once more. Q's skin pinked up in a very enticing, arousing way. Jean-Luc liked the way this sounded. Q was handsome and solid. He kept hitting harder and harder; Q was breathing harder and harder. And Jean-Luc began to whisper to him: "See what happens to bad girls. Better than this will happen too. I'm going to dick your ass everyday from now til heaven." He hit Q repeatedly with the flat of his hand. Q was wiggling now, backing away, backing up to the blows. And suddenly Jean-Luc grabbed him and wrestled Q to the floor, his shirt still pulled up. Q felt the grit of the motel carpet under his back. Then Jean-Luc swooped down and began to suck Q. He was very good at that, rough, but good. He pulled away briefly. "I like to eat pussy," he said and started in again, and Q's hands had folded in front of him like animal paws and he felt the crisis approaching again and he found himself bucking into Jean-Luc's mouth. Then Jean-Luc pulled back; his lips were wet. They looked at each other. Could they say "I love you"? If a person were in the very middle of a prairie fire whose flames were taller than his head, could he say to the fire "I love you"? And what would the fire say back? They slept fitfully, waking to caress each other, to watch each other, to keep damp clean flesh pressed to damp clean flesh. At five a.m., they decided they could lie in bed no more. "Let's get up and eat somewhere. We can come back and fuck a lot more," Jean-Luc said. They went out to the parking lot and then guiltily realized that they had forgotten Worf, who was standing out by the car, patient as stone. Had he been there the whole evening? He nodded when he saw them. "Worf, I'm sorry. You should have come back and gotten some real rest." Jean-Luc was genuinely contrite. "I don't know what to say." "Do not worry," Worf smiled a tiny smile. "Don't take this the wrong way." He breathed in. "But I have spent seven years in small rooms listening to men fuck men. It meant more to me to walk under these stars. On these streets. Than to sleep. Last night, we all got what we wanted." He smiled again. He had seen the free world again. Free things in motion. Cars traveling all night, their lights sweeping brick buildings like movie star entrances. Their radios playing all kinds of music. And women. Women arguing. Women laughing. One woman, young, white, in a new car, driving by, fixing her lipstick in her rearview. When she saw Worf look at her, she laughed out loud, amused to be caught in her vanity. Worf laughed with her, and she waved and drove on. He was free as a star, more free than a star because he had no place to be. "Worf, are you sure?" "I am sure." "Well, why don't we go to Waffle Shack then?" Q reached out and placed his hand on Jean-Luc's chest. "I'm here, Johnny. Always." Jean-Luc grabbed Q's hand, shaking his head to clear it. Then he yawned and lay back down: "A nightmare. Ugh." "You should take that l-tryptophan I bought. It's supposed to help you sleep." Q pushed himself deeper into the covers; he was very aware of their nakedness. He wondered if Jean-Luc might possibly have recovered some of his stamina. Disappointingly, Jean-Luc only pulled Q closer before settling down and closing his eyes. "No way. I have a feeling about that shit." These engineers and mix artists were even calmer and smoother and more priest-like than the first ones. And when Jean-Luc sang, he did not try to hide the fact that he was nothing but a piece of bloody soil but he did have something to say. And Geordi was their most brilliant musician, but he was teaching the others how to be brilliant. And Q's songs were all about what the fire said to him and what he said back to the fire. It was going to work. "Huntsville, A-Ell-A," said Will. They had driven over to Huntsville so they could go to a decent bar for once; it had been a particularly grueling and draining session in the studio. Geordi and Q kept wrangling with them to get one little procession of sounds correct. And the damnedest thing was that they had all agreed to the ten hours it took to get those 90 seconds of sound right. In the bar were soldiers. Fair enough. Huntsville was a big military base. Jean-Luc cruised them with his eyes narrowed, his chin uplifted; he liked soldierly boys with good posture. And Q watched Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc walked across the room with every atom in the room in his wake. Suddenly he nodded as he passed by two soldier boys. The soldiers were alike as twins, shaved heads, pink skin, snub noses, beefy. He went to the exit and turned to them and they stood up and walked to the exit too and then all three disappeared. Q hated alcohol; there was nothing for him here. A few songs played on the jukebox. Q had fearful thoughts, thoughts he couldn't explain, and Jean-Luc came back in and touched Q on the elbow. "In the toilet, boy," he said. Q followed him into the men's room. They went into a booth together, and Jean-Luc fastened the door behind them. Then he unzipped his pants and rested against the door of the stall. Q didn't move, so Jean-Luc put his hand on Q's shoulder and pushed Q until he was kneeling on the floor. And Jean-Luc's old power took over and Q had Jean-Luc in his mouth and, worse than that, he suddenly wanted to make this the best Jean-Luc would ever know and he massaged him and sucked him and caressed him with his tongue and Jean-Luc's eyes rolled back in his head and he was finished. Q stayed on the floor: I love you, he thought silently. Jean-Luc patted his head and smiled at him. "Those two assholes were a real disappointment. One had a big dick so I had the littler one fuck him, but . . . " he shook his head in disappointment, "it got old quick." "You still got hot?" "It was hot," Jean-Luc shrugged. "Two boys sticking their dicks around is always hot, no matter what. But guess what: I've had better." Q held his breath. "Don't look at me that way. This is hardly the first time you've sucked cock in a toilet." "No, that's not what I meant." "Then what did you mean?" Q wanted to say, am I the best you've had, Daddy? But he knew that wouldn't do. "I didn't mean anything," he said, and that ended that. Quark cleverly got two cuts put out on cassette as a promotional tool, and then he got them a gig on public radio. Jean-Luc knew what the radio audience wanted to hear: "The Celtic influence has been predominant in mountain music, obviously, but the Cajun and African roots cannot be underestimated in the formation of the quintessential bluegrass sound." Geordi elbowed Data. The rest of the Boys all stared at each other around the studio when that big chunk of verbiage came out of Jean-Luc's mouth. Jean-Luc continued like this through the entire interview. And then they played their tape. By the time it was over, the interviewer, a city girl who spoke through her nose and laughed at her own jokes, was clearly in love with Jean-Luc. But he merely tipped his hat at her and said, "It was a pleasure, Miss Anij," and headed down the street with the other Boys when the interview was over. Worf walked up. "The Celtic influence. Has been predominant. In mountain music." He was right behind Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc looked up to see if he was being mocked. He was. They swapped hard little smiles. "Nice phraseology, Jean-Luc." Jean-Luc leaned back against him. "Let's get Data tonight and take turns. I'll hold him down and you can fuck him and then you do the same for me. Deal?" This vision made Worf gasp. But conscientiously he said, "What about the ladies?" Jean-Luc shrugged. "You know how they are. Let Geordi fuck them. Then they can share hairstyle hints and pop popcorn. You know, watch reruns of ‘Welcome Back Kotter'. Shit like that. Who gives a fuck? Let's get Data." "Agreed." It wasn't a long review; the young reviewer had said only, "To learn about Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys is frankly provocative, but they are next of kin to chaos, upsetting the orderly and frankly stultifying categorization American music has fallen into. Nothing can prepare you for their sound. Macho homosexual traditional hillbilly music is the best description I can come up with. And that's only a fraction of it. "In a way, Jean-Luc Picard, Quentin McConn, Will Riker, Gordon LaForge, Worf Rodshenko, and Dave ‘Mr. Data' Soong together make a new Elvis, blending everything that's good about America with everything that's scary about being human. All I can say is buy this CD and change your life." And because they were who they were, these were their best performances ever. Q's earnest, beautiful face would lean towards the mike as he poured out the lyrics he'd written. There would be sadness in his voice, and showmanship, and Jean-Luc would stiffen just a bit, his smile becoming a little bit fixed as they sang a duet about faithless lovers and broken hearts, but their voices blended beautifully, rendering a poignant and tender sound, and every once in a while they would lean very close, Johnny possessive and tender, Q maidenly and demure. Their faces would touch in a way that plainly said they were used to being very close to one another, and at the end of the song they didn't move and neither did the audience until Jean-Luc suddenly walked to the middle of the stage, breaking their obvious, intimate connection while Q stared yearningly. Then Jean-Luc would launch into another song, and Q and the other Boys would follow, obedient as always, and the audience collectively shook itself, realizing that they've been rudely eavesdropping on real life. What happened on stage was not a show, and, if the audience were to come back the next night, they would realize how real it was. Some things (like life) would be the same; some things (like life) would be different. The audience paid good money, but nonetheless they left feeling somehow that they owed Jean-Luc a debt, and it was all very powerful and spooky. They screamed like banshees when Jean-Luc walked across stage and said, "I hope this song makes you burn the way it makes us burn," because no one could pronounce the word ‘burn' the way Jean-Luc Picard did. He said, "What a relief." He said, "I look like a soldier but I fuck like a thief." They couldn't quit screaming. Jean-Luc realized that he could have any of the full-lipped damp-eyed boys in the audience. At any time. In any way. In any combination. They proved it to him night after night after night. He had reached a strange Zen universe where the word 'no' never occurred. Their sound was getting better, and their act was more and more polished. Q tried to console himself that it was due to his excellent management skills and Geordi's excellent musical skills, but he suspected the truth was that they were famous because Johnny wanted them that way, the fates bowing to his seductive croon. Earlier that week, they'd played the Mid-Atlantic Gay Rodeo Gala and had brought the crowd screaming to their feet. The Boys had been thrilled at the way they were received, and Jean-Luc wore a small cruel smile, intent on the crowd's adulation. Q was sick with prophetic misery. Sure enough, the pretty boys threw themselves at his lover. They also threw themselves at him, but he never noticed that. "Which one should I pick, Q?" "Which one do you want, Johnny? Oh, by the way, guess how many CD's we sold tonight? Quark just told me." He refused to acknowledge Jean-Luc's attempt to hurt him. Jean-Luc turned narrowed eyes on him. "Is that all you can think about, Q? Little Q. Work's over. Let's play." "Work's over for you." Q was priding himself on his virtuous behavior. "Go ahead and have a good time. I have to count the receipts and pay the stagehands." Jean-Luc made the tiniest bow. He took revenge the next night. After Q finished his mandolin solo to wild applause, Jean-Luc smiled at the audience. "Q's all mine, you know," Jean-Luc said in his seductive voice, "I bought him in prison for fifteen cartons of cigarettes." His eyes rested on Q for a moment, knowing and possessive, before turning back to drink in the audience's reaction. They ooohed, nervous and titillated. After the show, the middle-class gay boys who were lurking backstage for Q's autograph stared at him as if he'd suddenly become exotic and foreign. One of them asked, "Is it true what he said?" The rest clustered close for the answer. Q signed pictures of himself and considered what to say. It was true, but what was he, private property or public? He breathed in: "We were in prison together," he hedged. The gay boys stared harder, but then Jean-Luc stalked by with a groupie right behind him and broke the moment. Q forced a smile, thanked his fans and walked out to the bus. Johnny was near the front, feeling the new boy up roughly as if no one could see them. Jean-Luc looked feral, but that boy really was extremely pretty. Q walked back to his bunk, but then some defiant masochism forced him towards the front where he took a seat behind the new two lovers. Geordi and Data were together in the seat behind him, and Will and Worf were together in their bunk. Q didn't blame them one bit. Sex was the best way to come down after a show. Sometimes you couldn't even help yourself. Jean-Luc and his new boy were now moaning together. The lad sounded very responsive. Q stared out the window. Jean-Luc collared Quark. "This isn't enough. Let's get it kicked in." They played some dates in the Southwest. Lots of pretty hot boys in the Southwest. Jean-Luc liked the dry deserts full of boys. Quark could be a very accommodating item when he wanted to be. "Is that what you want?" "NO!" "Well, good, because that's not what I represent. Listen to this," he played the CD for the organizer. Who became an immediate believer. "How many days can I have them for?" he said so fervently that Quark thought they'd misunderstood each other. The festival went extremely well. Everyone in the audience loved everyone on stage. At the end of the show, Jean-Luc shouted, "Get hot! Get rubbers! Rave!" And he stalked off in disgust as if these emotions were just too much for him. The audience would have fainted if it had been that kind of audience. There was a boy there waiting by the bus. He told Jean-Luc he had already greased himself up on the off chance that Jean-Luc would take him, so Jean-Luc did, walking him behind the bus, propping him against the exhaust vent and driving into him, pinning the boy's neck with his powerful forearms, quite careless of the fact that their cries of passion were clearly audible to the other waiting fans. No one dared go peek. After ten minutes or so, Jean-Luc made his way back to around the front of the bus and calmly started signing autographs. A few fans stuck their head around to have a look at the aftermath. They found a boy with purple lipstick, kneeling, breathing heavily, his pants still down around his knees. He looked as if he were in shock. "Was it good?" Someone asked him. "The best." They accused him of palming the used condom as a memento. "And I suppose you wouldn't!" She said to the network owners, "Obviously we're competing with 80 bozillion cable channels, so let's not dispute the fact that we're going to have to go to pussy. And, guys, this band is pure pussy." The day before they were supposed to appear on Jay Leno, Q wore his outfit most of the day and studied himself in the big hotel mirror. Around three o'clock in the afternoon, he changed to street clothes and spoke quietly to Will; then they both disappeared. Everyone else shrugged and kept on rehearsing the one number they were going to perform. About an hour later, Q and Will came back. Everyone was silent. How would Jean-Luc react? Will and Q had gotten their ears pierced. Each now sported golden hoops in both ears. |
