The Promised LandPart EightQ spoke. "Before you say anything, Jean-Luc, let me put my stage costume on. It'll work. I promise." Jean-Luc leaned back, staring as if he were seeing Q for the first time. "We've rehearsed enough." Worf was staring too. When Will looked over at him for approval, he smiled faintly. Will gave a small smile in return, blushing deeply. "Agreed," Worf said to Jean-Luc. "We should take a little break." Jean-Luc took Q's arm and led him into their room and shut the door. Still blushing, Will followed Worf. "Sit on it. I want to see those earrings dance." "You like them?" "Sit on it," Jean-Luc ordered. He took his pants and shirt off and lay back on the bed. Q was a bit slower in taking on his clothes; he knew Jean-Luc liked a little tease. He took off his hat, his jeans but left his thin tee shirt on. He tucked his long black hair behind his ears. "I better get wet, Daddy." Jean-Luc watched as Q reached around his body and lubricated himself. Then Q stroked his growing erection, showing off for Jean-Luc. "Stop this, Q. Just sit on it." Q straddled Jean-Luc on his knees and slowly lowered himself onto Jean-Luc, noting the way his lover's breathing became ragged. Then he moved back and forth and up and down as his eyes never left Jean-Luc's face. This went on for some time, each man enjoying the solid comfort of the other until Jean-Luc finally came, gripping Q's smooth thighs so hard they bruised. "I want to watch you come," Jean-Luc whispered to Q. "Get over and..." he frowned, thinking. "Okay, see the dresser mirror? Face it and jerk that thing. I want to see your ass and your dick at the same time. I want to see your little wet pussy all over the place." He got hard again while Q did this. Every now and then Q would look back at him with an intoxicated expression, the gold earrings gleaming in the soft light. Jean-Luc could indeed see it all. That seed-wet ass. That huge inflamed cock. Soon Q grimaced and his hand was covered with his own wetness. Jean-Luc let Q gather himself for a moment and then slid off the bed and headed for the shower. "I'm going to clean my dick off," he said. "Then I want you to suck me. I want to fuck that pussy mouth of yours with those earrings on." Really, nobody on earth could suck cock as tenderly as Q did. Jean-Luc opened his eyes. This morning he would get up, go out, and do a live performance on national television. National television. Today. Live. He shrugged. If he couldn't make it happen, then it didn't deserve to happen. Q was already awake. He came out of the bathroom in his earrings, but otherwise he was naked as he could be. He sat on the bed beside Jean-Luc and teasingly pulled the covers down. The hotel air-conditioning was freezing, but Jean-Luc said nothing, willing to let Q have his fun. Q stretched out beside him, his body only inches away from Jean-Luc's, talking about nothing in particular. "Will said Worf had been after him for months to do something like get his ears pierced." Q's body heat radiated against him in their cold room. Jean-Luc wanted to squeeze closer but restrained himself, picking up on the conversation instead. "What were the alternatives?" "Pinky ring. Eye makeup. Something to show everybody Worf was boss and Will was puss." Q opened his legs so that Jean-Luc could see more of his dick and his balls. He was getting hard. Jean-Luc was getting hard, too. Q naked was something to see, especially when he was pretending not to show off, like now. Still, Jean-Luc felt a bit lazy. He decided to see how long he could ignore the enticement that was Q. "I bet Worf loved those earrings. I bet he made Will suck him good. Then Worf went down to the lobby and bought Payday bars as a reward. I bet their whole room smells like cum and peanuts." "Mmm." Q was obviously thinking about sucking and fucking. His dick was standing away from his body, looking sweet. "What did Geordi and Data do?" "I bet Geordi stuck that fireplug in Data's ass and rocked all night. Just because." "Daddy, I like it when you tell me dirty secrets." Q was completely erect now. Jean-Luc's expression was very soft. "Where are we?" Q looked at him; then he understood. "Oh, you'll love it. Okay, peep this, Daddy, we're on an interstate and my car's broken down. I'm standing by the side of the road, and I'm one of those kind of boys who wear only cutoffs and socks and workboots. Except my cutoffs are the tightest, shortest, most ragged cutoffs anybody's ever seen. They fit my ass like skin." Jean-Luc shut his eyes. Q's long legs. He breathed out. "I'm hitching a ride and you're a big butch trucker and you stop and I get in your truck. And I start moping and bitching. See, I'm sitting there with my knees apart. My cutoffs are riding so high up my legs, you can almost see my ass, you know? And I say, I don't know anything about machinery! It always breaks down on me! Even my zipper won't work! And you say, well, I don't know much about cars but I do know about zippers. Can I look at your zipper, you say. And I say, be my guest. And I kind of lean back and you kind of lean over and reach down to examine my zipper or lack of one, and, I wasn't lying, my zipper doesn't work. So you say, you'll have to take off those pants so I can look at the zipper more closely, and I do and my dick is so big and stiff. . ." "Stop this, Q," Jean-Luc's eyes had been closed the whole time Q was talking. "Fuck me, Q. Now. Hard." He lay back down with his legs open and his hips slightly up. Q gasped. He fucked as tenderly and skillfully as he sucked. No fuck was quite like Q. Jay Leno's familiar paunchy face came on. "America's newest singing sensation. Here they are, America. Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys." They were on camera then. "Howdy," Jean-Luc said in his grey-black voice, "we're so proud to be here." America paused. Then the six of them rushed the mike like a calvary charge: "It's mighty dark for me to travel. But I must be a-travelin on. The road is rough and filled with trouble. But I must have that blacksmith's son."Now Data stepped in with his fiddle ("Oh, it's mighty dark to travel," Jean-Luc observed almost off-mike; he managed to be both superbly suave and very scary: a first in American history.). There was something distant in Data's face and in the way he played, as it were being transmitted from the moon. Jean-Luc dragged attention back to himself; he was ferocious. "To me he was a little angel, Sent down to me from God above. ‘Twas on the day that I first met him that I taught him how to love."(This confession was made freely. A piece of history telling the damn truth for once. Was that a man singing about loving another man? Right in America's face? Saying 'get used to me because I'm not going anywhere.' ) Then they all sang: >blockquote> "It's mighty dark for me to travel. But I must be a-travelin on. The road is rough and filled with trouble. But I must have that blacksmith's son." (Yes, America decided. That's exactly what was happening. But before America could decide anything else, Worf was firing invisible bullets with his banjo. Except for Q, there was no more handsome man on television than Worf; his beauty was unearthly. Jean-Luc became outraged and tender. He wanted to say something.) "Many a night we strolled together talking of our love and more."America held its breath, and Jean-Luc rewarded it for its patience. "Tonight that love will go much further than it ever has before."Then the voices burst again: "It's mighty dark for me to travel. But I must be a-travelin on. The road is rough and filled with trouble. But I must have that blacksmith's son."And Q took a mandolin break; he smiled at Jean-Luc. (There's that smile, America said.) "Traveling down that lonesome highway "(Q's mandolin impulsively broke in again and Jean-Luc's eyes lit up) "Knowing how much more I have to go, knowing soon we'll be together, He's the only love I own."The others joined him; were they his brothers? His sons? His slaves? "It's mighty dark for me to travel. For my sweetheart he is gone. The road is rough and filled with trouble. But I must have that blacksmith's son."America heard: My sweet hard. My sweet hard. Sweet. Hard. Then Geordi played his guitar like the beating of a thousand hearts. And everyone burst in again, truthful as thunder, honest as lighting. "It's mighty dark for me to travel. But I must be a-travelin on. The road is rough and filled with trouble. But I must have that blacksmith's son."And Q tipped his hat (it would become his trademark move.) America quit holding its breath. Oh, that lucky blacksmith's son! "What the blue hell is that noise?" said Dad. The Leno show was generally quieter. "Oh, my," said Mom looking up from her cross-stitching. She breathed deeply. "They're cute, Mom," said little Sally. There was a moment of silence in the living room. "I'm so sleepy! I better turn in," said little Sally. As soon as she left the room, Dad's tongue was down Mom's throat. Up late, elderly couples grasped each other, the spark not extinguished yet. Alone in their bedrooms young girls touched themselves. Sally touched herself. In a college barroom where the Jay Leno show was going full blast, a coed, pink-faced and sweaty, pushed herself away from her companions and rushed towards the bathroom. A boy, on his way to do the same thing, almost collided with her. They stared at each other; then they gave in. It was dark in the hall by the restrooms, and nobody saw them grappling and groping. She canted her hips up, pumping her juicy little vulva against his erection, getting as much as she could get, fucking herself against his mound of hard dick as if their jeans had suddenly disappeared. He put his hand under her shirt and nearly swooned because she wasn't wearing a bra. Then he reached down and pressed her clit, and she groaned against his mouth and he felt her body shudder and shake and suddenly go limp. It didn't matter that they had never seen each other before. John Mack Madred stalked over to the television and turned it off with a hard snap. Jean-Luc was no better than any of them! Whoring! Showing off his enormous gift to the total fascist Golgotha that was America! "John, I was enjoying that. Turn it back on this instant." "All right, Mother. But I won't listen to that poison. I'm going to bed." But after John Mack turned the television back on, she heard him go down to the basement instead. The Boys didn't let it show, but they were so petrified they couldn't see straight. They were aware this was a pivotal moment for them. Would they hit the national landscape like Tiny Tim and then disappear, just a blip on history's screen, or would this be it? The Boys could barely breathe as they waited for any sign that they'd been noticed. They needn't have worried. Jay Leno's switchboard broke down with people calling "Who were they? Where are they appearing next? Show them again." And Jay said to the producers, "See if you can get them back right away." Sales of the last CD leapt 40 percent, and the first CD climbed into the top 200 for the first time. Ten days later, they were on again, and the audience was full of screaming women and gay guys, and the same thing happened all over again. Jay was quite pleased to have discovered them. He felt responsible for their success. He interviewed the intent, unsmiling, irresistibly handsome Jean-Luc who pimped their two albums a bit and told everyone where their next engagements would be. Back in Kentucky, the Crusher clan was annoyed with Beverly for letting Quentin out of her clutches. Beverly shrugged. Nothing she could do about it. Besides, she had no real reason for keeping in touch. She liked Quentin, but she just never felt close to him, especially when she compared him with Bubba and Junior and Sonny. Bubba and Junior and Sonny had always been possessive of her, as if she were something that mattered. Even when they'd been children, they'd touched her as if they owned her, and over time their hands moved with a sinister deliberation that thrilled her, even as it frightened her. Then one day, down by Cooter's hideout, one of them held her down while the other lay on top of her. "Quit that screaming now. We'll tell Momma if you scream." That it had been another trick, she found out later. They just didn't want Momma to know what they'd been doing. "I ain't gonna scream," she assured them. She was nine years old. After that, her brothers pretty much went to work on her any time they chose. She started to like it after a while, even after she knew there were words for what they were doing together, words that meant something bad. At one time, she had not known any better than to tell her friends when they giggled together at the movies and at the occasional slumber parties. But when all the other girls went ewwwww, she quickly lied and said she was only kidding. She never said anything again, but after that one or two of her friends had carefully and deliberately mentioned certain words in her presence and allowed as how it was pretty bad, especially if babies came. As a matter of fact, it was illegal. She decided she was too old for slumber parties. Once, desperation on his features, Quentin had said a certain word to her, whispered it really, and asked if it meant anything to her. She accused him of being mean, but she knew it had something to do with her brothers -- with the things they did. "I don't think there's any such thing," she finally said and flounced out, but after that she had always felt a little nervous around him, as if he knew something about her of which she herself was unaware. So, when he got sent to jail, she was relieved. She hadn't known what to do with him anymore. She was even more relieved when he didn't come home. Actually she never actually expected to hear from him again, but every once in a while the kids got big boxes full of things, Spam and pancake mix, clothes, socks, shoes, underwear, and books (for some reason). The boys wore the clothes, ate the food, and even read the books. "What's Daddy doin' now?" she would ask when they got a letter, but the boys never said anything that made any sense. "He's at the circus," they said, or "he bought a bus". Her family told her she should get the boys to ask him for money, but she had no way to get in touch with him. The return address on his letters was always Quentin's mother's house, and Mrs. McConn had blamed her for getting Quentin sent away to jail. Then people started telling her Quentin had been on television. She hadn't believed it. Q was probably bundling tobacco or something in North Carolina. "He ain't in North Carolina. You look at this." Her girlfriend shoved the color part of the Sunday paper in front of her face and there, believe it or not, was Quentin with some other guys, even some black guys. He was singing in a band? Jean-Luc and His Magic Mountain Boys? Beverly hadn't even known he could sing. She'd read the article slowly, moving her lips wonderingly. The article called them rising stars and said the unabashed truthfulness of the lyrics and their beautiful harmonies made them one of the most talented bands to ever to be misunderstood. Oh. Beverly stared, trying to figure out which one was Jean-Luc. In the inside picture, her husband smiled shyly out at the camera. Beverly almost couldn't tell it was him. He looked different. But there was the name: Quentin McConn. His hair was much longer, and there was something about the way he smiled. He looked more relaxed. Or something. Her momma grabbed the paper and guessed right away. "He's in love," Momma declared. "Look at him. I've never seen him look that way." Beverly gave her mother a cool look. Then she read through the article again, looking for mention of girlfriends, lovers, a second wife. There was no other woman mentioned at all. It did say Quentin was very close to that Jean-Luc. "Momma, what's doting?" Her mother didn't know. "On the bus there are three bunks," Beverly read. "Each bunk has two pillows. I tell myself I'm here to talk about music and ignore the obvious, but I can't help but wonder if I've found the real reason for the group's eerie unity, both on stage and off." What did it mean, "the other five spend their time doting on Jean-Luc, especially Q." Was doting the same as sucking? Was Quentin queer? It couldn't be. He'd been with her plenty. It hadn't ever been all that great between them, but he knew what he was doing, she supposed. Her brothers smirked at her. They said they knew all along Quentin was a big queer. But Beverly knew something had happened. She eyed the picture of Jean-Luc with a sense of hostility and confusion. If she only could find out what doting meant. "Zefram, Hildred's here. We're going off to Ladies Club. There's cold fried chicken on the sideboard." A more distant scratchy voice: "Tell him you might be late. We've got a lot of quilting to do." "Zefram, did you hear that?" "Yes, Momma, I heard you." He hears his wife get in Hildred's old Ford and then he hears it go down the road. The moment he had been waiting for. When he first saw their picture in the Sunday-color supplement, he had to go out behind the pig barn and just stand there gasping and breathing and he wasn't even hard, he was just that shocked. Because he remembered what he had. At first, he had felt betrayed, because he thought what had happened at the fair that Valentine's Day was special. And private. Now, alone at last, he takes the picture out and stares at it again, trying to fully absorb the magnitude of what's happened to him. With that boy. That mouth. He recognizes him, big as life for all the world to see. It seems impossible, but Zephram's been sucked off by a person who's now famous. He says the words to himself. Sucked off. He gets impossibly hard. Sucked off. He closes his eyes. He swallows. Now his breath is shallow, and beneath his t-shirt and boxers his skin feels incredibly sensitive. This moment is too good to waste, so he does something he's never dared try before: he goes into the bedroom and rummages through his wife's chest of drawers. He gets her bright red lipstick, some of her shiny jiggly earrings, her garter belt, her women's-size nylon stockings, a pair of spiked-heel slingbacks he can wedge into, and puts it all on. It feels better this way. He knew it would. He'd dreamed all along of doing this. It was never enough to touch himself as mere Zephram the farmer. He has to be glamorous and languid and beautiful, worthy of the memory of Q sucking him off in that men's room. He looks again at photographs of that mouth. That mouth. He's never felt like this before. He moves his round shaving mirror down to the edge of the sink so he can see it when he does it. As soon as he's finished, he feels exhausted, guilty and ashamed, but he's already looking forward to next week when his wife will go to another woman's club meeting and leave him alone in the house again. He wants to do it some more. He feels grateful to Q for this. A month later he drives ninety miles to the nearest big city to buy a wig and better fitting heels. He tells the keen-eyed clerk it's for a church skit. After Leno, Pistol Packing Pete's was their first stop. Pete loved them and was thrilled to have them back. He even got a reporter from the local gay rag to come in and drum up more business for Pete. "So what made you want to start a gay bluegrass band?" was the reporter's first question. "We wanted to sing. We liked to sing. These are the songs we sing," Jean-Luc said. "We didn't aim to start a gay bluegrass band and we haven't started one. We're singers first." "Ummm." The reporter was staring at Q. His expression clearly said *jump me.* Q was smiling; he had one hand under his chin. But his expression clouded. Surely the reporter couldn't mean . . . Worf had seen enough trouble start this way; he said. "Q, come with me." He stood up and went out the door, clearly meaning for Q to follow. Q looked at Jean-Luc who nodded. They went outside, and Worf made Q stay outside until they saw the reporter get in his car and drive away. Then everyone went back in. Jean-Luc was seething: "The nerve of that guy." "What is it?" Geordi demanded. "The way he looked at Q." "How'd he look at Q?" They were at a loss. Finally Data reached down and caressed the front of Geordi's pants. "If that could be distilled into a look, that would how he was looking at Q." "Ah." Geordi politely declined to say anything more. Thanks to Quark and his mailing list, they even got the beginnings of a fan club. It got huge immediately because everyone loved them. Sometimes even a few members were allowed to come backstage to see them. Tommy and Q sat Jean-Luc down for a brief but intense talk. No touching anyone in any of their fan clubs. It was business, not personal, so Jean-Luc listened. Then he said: "Anybody who's been awake during any part of the twentieth century knows I don't make promises about my dick. Isn't that right, Q?" Q said nothing and Jean-Luc walked out of the room. Despite that, Jean-Luc was gentle, almost fatherly with the fans. He spoke to old fat gal fans, to hopeless elderly men with hearing aids the sizes of dictionaries, and to young teens in braces. They took pictures with him; they kissed him. They were surprised at how short he was! They were surprised at how big he was! They were surprised he looked so different in real life! They were surprised that he looked just the same! They gave him tapes and songs and pictures they'd made – in some of the drawings, he looked just like a decorated Easter egg; in some, the artists were careful to put all his features on the very top of his skull. And once he took one fat gal's two autistic children on his knee – in the Polaroid she took, the children were beautiful and Jean-Luc looked like the original Saint Nicholas, unselfish, unworldly, ascetic. He gave each of the fat gal's children a twenty-dollar bill. "You've not only circumvented the decades-old restrictions that country music stations have placed on bluegrass, but you've reshaped and revitalized a music form that was, frankly, buried by tradition until you came along and blew down all the barriers." Jean-Luc laughed because he was nervous. "I didn't do any of that, but I'm pleased if you think I did." The reviewer mistook his laughter for genuine modesty. More orthodox country singers, realizing they might have unintentionally overlooked a critical indigenous art form (losing potential bucks and adulation and endorsement deals as a result) began to yodel, just slightly. The banjo and mandolin began creeping into some of the older and newer bands. The engineers in Muscle Shoals that the Boys had used were booked up almost a year in advance. There was so much pussy that summer that Jean-Luc became very picky. After a while, he even got bored with novelty, so he made his groupies debauch themselves in creative and original ways. He would take them into the bathroom. "I want to watch you wash yourself. Bend over. Yes, scrub your ass so I can see it. Stick your finger in. Now two fingers. Fuck yourself with them. Slowly. Let me see you come. See how hard you've made me? Not everyone can do that." For Jean-Luc that was close to a lie; almost anyone could do that. But still they opened themselves to him, performing for him. Then the reward. The lucky boy or girl who followed his instructions was rewarded with his heavy breathing and the chance to rub his penis or suck on it through a condom. It was frightening and erotic to submit like that, but Jean-Luc was so matter of fact about his pleasures that his victims blamed themselves for not being able to get the scene out of their heads for months and months afterwards. Many would have done anything to be used by him. Big hard leather tops bragged that they could turn him in a heartbeat, but they never got the chance. Jean-Luc wasn't one for super-masculine types. He preferred a dusting of softness -- youthfulness, innocence, vulnerability were major turn-ons for him. Once he found a lovely Vietnamese boy named Tranh. Tranh dyed his hair blond and wore elaborate eyeliner and lipstick; he was as small as a child. Jean-Luc kept him in his room for hours, and actually kissed him and fucked him. After that, the temperamental boy demanded a memento, so Jean-Luc autographed one of his cowboy hats and gave it to him. The boy wore the hat the next night and became the hero of all his friends. Once, Q came back to the bus to find Jean-Luc watching as Will fucked a college boy. Jean-Luc's pants were undone. He seemed sated as a Caesar. Geordi walked by naked. He was semi-erect. "Have you ever been done by two at once?" Jean-Luc asked the college boy. "One in your mouth and one in your ass?" The college boy started coming when Jean-Luc spoke to him. The bus had turned into some sort of pleasure palace. It smelled like semen. They played a concert hall which was managed by a man named Riva. He was redheaded and deaf. He was also a minor Jean-Luc in his own right. The moment he and Jean-Luc were alone, he tilted his head at him and smiled, and then let his features morph into one of the most invitingly sensual expressions Jean-Luc had ever seen. Then Riva sat down next to Jean-Luc. He held Jean-Luc's eye as he reached down and opened his pants. His expression changed again, becoming harder, saying in all but words that he would have this, he would do this. Then he knelt and took Jean-Luc in his mouth, and not a word was exchanged the whole time. Jean-Luc was delighted. But when Riva next turned his attentions to Q, Jean-Luc, who had been quick to catch on to Riva's nuanced body language, crossed the room quickly and interposed his body between Riva and his lover. He bristled, his face tense. He shook his head firmly and then wordlessly pushed Data forward. Riva gave Jean-Luc the fish eye, but then he easily turned his attention to Data, parting his lips. Data parted his own lips and cocked his head. They smiled at one another. Later that evening Jean-Luc held Data on his lap as they watched Geordi do Riva. "Those sounds he makes as he gets fucked are quite intriguing," Data remarked. Later that week, Riva screwed Will in the ass. Jean-Luc found it very pleasing to watch these two burly bearded men fuck. Very animal. Only Worf said no thank you. But it was no matter. The band moved on and Riva got to brag to his friends that he had had almost every one of The Boys, and that Jean-Luc was the best there is, bar none. No one was surprised. Not one bit. And, of course, that summer the Boys all fucked each another, as a matter of course, everyone except Q. Jean-Luc never wanted Q to get any unless he ordered it, or at least approved of it. "Jean-Luc, is this fair?" Jean-Luc paid Q no attention. He was enjoying all the many shapes and flavors of the pussy available to him and he had no intention of stopping. One night, at Pete's, there had been a young man with a high, round ass like a girl's. Jean-Luc brought him back to the bus and made the boy suck him off while the others watched. He especially made sure Q saw it. "Q, you should be taking lessons." He mostly said it to flatter the boy, but Q's hurt look spiced his shuddering orgasm. Once Q was not in their hotel room when Jean-Luc came back. "You know better than to move from where I tell you to be, don't you?" Then he slapped him. Hard. Q gasped. "I get lonely all by myself." "Live with it. You go sneaking around and I'll beat the living shit out of you up there on that stage." Q knew he would have to wear heavier makeup for the next few days to hide the bruising. He didn't really mind the beating so much, but he didn't want those other people to know about it. Those people who weren't Boys. He would stay put. After all, Q still loved Jean-Luc more than life. He loved the way Jean-Luc smiled at all the raving, pleading, adoring boys and girls who told him how much they loved him. At these moments, Jean-Luc let go of some of that anger that always seemed a permanent part of who he was. Happier Jean-Luc was a glorious sight to him, and Q couldn't help but want to add to the things that gave him pleasure, even when that meant Q himself was sad. So when Jean-Luc picked a pretty boy or girl to take to his hotel room, Q tried to smile as he said, "You go on and have a nice time." And when Jean-Luc came up to Q with an erection the size of a mountain and demanded Q finish him off, Q did without comment. Once in a while, they had a two-day break. That was when Q found Jean-Luc thumbing through his notebooks. Then Jean-Luc looked at him."Jesus, Q, why don't you write a plain and simple fuck song anymore." "Well," Q lowered his head and looked up, hopeful, flirtatious. "I suppose if I could get a plain and simple fuck from somewhere I might be inspired to do just that." Jean-Luc opened his mouth. His eyes were tender. "You want a plain and simple fuck, do you?" He unzipped his pants. "Get me ready, Q." Q was on his knees in less than two seconds. He loved doing this for Johnny, loved the fact that Jean-Luc went so crazy when Q went to work on him. He sucked Jean-Luc's cock until Jean-Luc was gasping. "Turn over, Q." It had been weeks. Q had been with Sisko, and every last one of The Boys, not to mention all those johns, but Jean-Luc gave the smoothest ride of all of them. His dick was the perfect size. And even though his loving was cruel and hard, Q liked it that way because it was Johnny's. "Somebody got some," Geordi singsonged at breakfast the next day. He paused a few moments. "Now you're blushing," he announced. Q was indeed blushing. "How'd you know?" "I could hear you limping when you walked up. And your voice sounds like this." Geordi made his voice purr. Worf and Jean-Luc exchanged smirks. Q and Will exchanged smirks. Data elbowed Geordi. "I believe you are correct on all counts." Q's merriment made them all feel more cheerful. Then Jean-Luc went right back to tomcatting around on him that very night. She was called Allison. "Q, I want you to watch me with Alison. Alison's a very hard worker, aren't you, darling?" The clueless Alison nodded and smiled. When Jean-Luc told her they were going back to his hotel room where Q waited, she hoped he meant she would get to do Q and Jean-Luc both. It turned out that Jean-Luc got turned on by making Q watch. Well, okay, Alison didn't really mind. It was a thrill to be here with two of the sexiest Boys, even if one of them was only sitting across the room, watching them. Alison was enjoying herself, enjoying Jean-Luc's incredibly brutal pounding, until Jean-Luc asked Q if he loved it too. "Sure, Johnny," said Q; his voice was laced with an extraordinary amount of pain. She maneuvered herself so that she could see his face. He didn't look like he was having a good time. Alison shut her eyes resentfully. Here was her one opportunity to get it on with two hot guys and Q was spoiling it for her. "Your friend is so totally not turned on," she said. "He doesn't know what he's missing." Jean-Luc wasn't really listening. He twisted her big legs around so she was now on her stomach. "I'm a bad motherfucker, and that asshole knew it from the start." Mollified, she fucked back. Even if she hadn't enjoyed herself -- and she was enjoying herself, Jean-Luc was a great fuck -- the point was to be able to truthfully say she'd been with the lead singer of the Magic Mountain Boys. Q was just gravy, so she could do without. When they played a week of shows at Romeo's again, Jean-Luc and The Boys scheduled an interview during the prized morning drive time on one of the more progressive radio stations. Then they immediately piled into a rental car and drove fifty miles into D.C. ("The nation's capital! Just think!" cried the unbearably excited Q) to talk with a very intelligent and self-important host on a talk radio show on National Public Radio. "I hate that guy," Jean-Luc growled. "Okay, but it's publicity, it's free, and the show broadcasts all over the country," Quark shrugged. So they went and listened to the guy's self-aggrandizing chatter for an hour, barely got a word in edgewise, and then spent the rest of the day as tourists. They rode past the White House, got out and took reverent pictures of themselves in front of it. Q bought every postcard and gewgaw he could find--tiny replicas of the White House, the Capitol Building, the Washington Monument; snowglobes of the cherry trees and the Lincoln Memorial; hats, t-shirts, decals. Jean-Luc stared at the thousand iterations of beautiful black women, surprised somehow that there were so many of them in Washington. "More black folks than I expected." "I can hear," Geordi said. He was excited too. New accents, new smells -- the flat oppressive steam of a Washington summer. Will tried to help Data pick out the gay guys. They had little success until Quark took them to Dupont Circle. "This is your end of town, Boys," he said. "Suck my cock," Jean-Luc said. There was even a bookstore where they could buy naked pictures. Will was panting. Proud lesbians swaggered by with short hair and outrageous earrings. It was like heaven. "Look!" Q pointed to a Vietnamese restaurant. He'd never seen such a thing. Jean-Luc thought of Tranh. "Let's go," he ordered. In the restaurant, there were more exotic smells and intriguing accents for Geordi. Jean-Luc had to force himself to stop staring at their tiny waitress. Q looked at the lovely carved pictures of oxen and grassy waterlands. He pored over the menu, asking questions about how the food was prepared, what went in it, how spicy it was. He ordered for everybody--noodles and chicken for Data, the three-starred pork dish for Worf, noodles and shrimp for Geordi, fish for him and Jean-Luc and Will. He ordered coconut chicken soup because he'd never heard of such a thing, and delightful crunchy spring rolls that came with a tangy sauce that had red pepper flakes and shredded carrots floating in it. On the bus back to Baltimore, Jean-Luc drove while his boys slept. Constant travel carried an erotic friction for Jean-Luc. He thought of the lovely brownskinned girls, all sizes, all temperaments, all his. And all those gay men in Dupont, just hanging out, going about their business, being themselves and therefore potentially available to him. He had been used to the world saying no to him; now the world was one yes right after another. And Q had been the first yes. Jean-Luc was spoiled. He now looked at people in terms of their desirability and the degree to which they idolized him. And he still liked them young and beautiful with big packages. More Q's. John Mack could not wait to see Jean-Luc as he stood in the autograph line. Of course, Jean-Luc would recognize John Mack as the soul brother he'd needed all this time and stop what he was doing, drop everything, and go with John Mack on the back of John Mack's bike (pressing himself against John Mack's thigh). And then Jean-Luc would lie down on his special altar in Mother's basement and be ever so grateful for his completion. The blood anointment. The final grimace. The last sighing expulsion of air. Jean-Luc in repose, so giving and still. Maryland was hard on Q. He felt the whole state knew he was a whore. Signing tee shirts with Jean-Luc at his elbow was poor substitute for being with Jean-Luc. And, as he signed tee shirts, he could tell Jean-Luc was cruising for something new. Actually, Jean-Luc wasn't looking for something new. Will had brought in some videotapes someone had given him or he'd bought or found in a dumpster (you never knew with that odd motherfucker) and they had watched them for a while and it was standard fuck-suck stuff but Data had been very attentive as they watched, sitting with his hand draped casually very near Jean-Luc's groin, wiggling as if some tiny fire was licking at his ass. The film had some grainy ill-lit footage of somebody getting a rim job. Everyone had cheered and clapped. Data had very deliberately turned to Jean-Luc and said, "I've never done that." "Have you ever noticed how the countertops are so nice and wide and sturdy in the dressing rooms at Romeo's? Meet me there before the show." Data seemed taken aback, but his face flushed and he took a conspicuously deep breath. "Meet Daddy there," Jean-Luc said and ran his fingers through Data's careful hair. Data had swallowed and then nodded. All Jean-Luc wanted was to get this damn tee shirt signing over with (the big bright idea of Q and Tommy, those time-wasters) and get backstage with Data. Jean-Luc generally signed tee shirts and album covers without looking too closely at most of the people who were getting his autographs. But, when John Mack came through and murmured his name, Jean-Luc was caught up in the vision of the boy right behind John Mack, a boy who was blond and cute with a narrow jaw and pale blue eyes. He signed John Mack's tee shirt without looking at him. ‘Well, you can't hurry love,' John Mack told himself. He stopped to look back at Jean-Luc who was now aiming his feral smile at the blond. Then John Mack looked around. No security people whatsoever. "I hate it when you do stuff like that with Jean-Luc and then come back and tell me all about it. It makes me feel really bad." "I do not wish for you to feel bad, Geordi. I will never tell you again. But..." "But what?" "You are the person to whom I tell everything. I do not wish to have things I cannot share with you." "Data, I don't want to share this." "I really do not understand. This can not be a surprise to you." The next day there was a autograph-signing at a mall record store. As John Mack handed his copy of the CD to Jean-Luc, a flash went off. Someone, an angel perhaps, took their picture. Jean-Luc smiled at John Mack this time. "It's me," John Mack was ready to say, but he was already supplanted by a group of squealing girls. John Mack had many useful personality characteristics, but perhaps the most useful was his ability to hide his rage. Jean-Luc watched Q put some vitamin E on his skin. Where had Q learned about that? He must have heard something from somebody. "Q, how much younger is Data than you?" Q looked at Jean-Luc in the mirror. "I think . . . five years or so." It was actually seven. There was a pause. Then Jean-Luc said in an easy way, "Data learns more quickly than anyone I ever met." Romeo's management had rented them a nice hotel suite for the week. Four bedrooms faced off a sitting room, and one was being currently used. Q sat by the window looking at the rain. Geordi was in a corner softly playing his guitar, just chords, no music. Worf and Will sat together on the sofa. One hundred and twenty-one dollars ahead! Nice. Worf had a little battery-powered game of Las Vegas solitaire he liked to play with because sometimes, when things were as intense as they were right now, he had to have some downtime. For a moment, he watched Q stare at the rain and then he returned to his game. Will was the most obedient lover imaginable (well, except for Q), and he gave Worf his space. He would simply look at his porn books and dirty photographs as Worf played with his game or dozed. Or remembered. Q and Worf had conducted themselves as model prisoners, and their probation reflected this. After six months of reporting in, they would have complete freedom. So they got jobs and lied about their associates, swearing they did not keep company with other former inmates. The truth was, they were sharing a dismal month-to-month apartment with Jean-Luc. Sometimes on weekends, they played at local bars. The patrons were usually far more interested in getting drunk than listening to the band, and often Jean-Luc's velvet singing voice was not even enough to pacify the crowd. Still, being on stage was a way of saying their dream could come true, even in this small way. "It'll be nice when we can finally go out of state, don't you think?" Q said hopefully. They'd just finished packing up their instruments and were ready to head back to their rundown rooms. "It'll be nice when we're finally paid more than shit," Jean-Luc was counting their fee, making sure they got their money. Suddenly his face grew pale, and he left the room. He was headed to the owner's office, anger radiating from him in waves. Q and Worf jumped up and followed him. "Eighty-seven dollars. Where's the rest of it?" Jean-Luc slammed the money down on the table. He was between the owner and the door, and Worf and Q were crowded right behind him. "What's the problem? What's the problem?" The owner was a skinny man in a red and white polyester shirt and dirty white pants. "I gave you your hundred." "It's not. All there." Worf growled. Trapped and outnumbered, with all his bouncers working the front door, the owner caved in. "Can't a man make a mistake?" But all three of them noticed that he counted exactly thirteen ones into the pile. Jean-Luc picked up the money, shoved it in his front pocket and turned on his heel. "I won't need you boys to come back anymore," the owner said, trying to save face as best he could. "Kiss my ass," Jean-Luc murmured. Worf and Q stepped aside for him and followed him out to the Impala. The engine cranked up without a problem for once, and they were on their way. "I hate this piece-of-shit life," Jean-Luc said suddenly. In their simple shabby flophouse apartment, Worf slept on a lumpy daybed and Q and Jean-Luc had a mattress on the floor. But some things never changed. After the lights were out, Worf was patient. Soon enough, he heard Q's soft exclamation. It was so close it felt like he was on the bed with them. "Johnny, that hurts." Worf believed it. Jean-Luc still took his anger on Q. Sometimes Worf saw bruises on Q's arms. "That son of a bitch." Jean-Luc's voice was a low, angry growl. "I should have kicked his ass." "Ouch!" Q gasped. "I didn't do anything wrong." "You little pussy, can't you take it like a man?" Worf listened carefully. Q was moaning softly, the sound of pain, not passion. Worf knew the difference very well. In prison Jean-Luc made Q cry out like this. It was nice to know he was continuing the tradition. Worf had listened in then , too, touching himself as he was doing now. Q was such a sweet little pussy. You could tell when Jean-Luc entered him just by listening to the way Q cried out, a distinctive catch to his indrawn breath, then another one, quickly, then a moaning sigh. He sounded as if he were was suffering. Worf's mouth fell open slightly, and he whipped the covers off his body. This was what he'd been waiting for. He could hear Jean-Luc's whispered command to shut the fuck up. "It can't hurt that much, Christ!" Then the mattress started squeaking as Q moaned in counterpoint. Worf imagined what it would be like to be inside Q's body again, imagined it was himself in there, and his hips moved rhythmically with Q's sudden expressions of pleasure. His hand moved slowly up and down his throbbing erection, and he heard his own harsh, gasping breaths, disguised by the sounds in the other room. Eventually Jean-Luc cried out. Dazed, Worf pulled his hands away from himself. There was always a second half to this little drama, the good half, and he wanted to wait for it. It was hard to stop – but it felt so much better if he waited. There was a moment of silence, then the rustling of bodies shifting places on a bed. Finally, a soft exclamation. "Oh, Johnny!" In the darkness, Worf moaned deep in his throat. His hands sped up as his imagination taunted him with the thought of Jean-Luc's mouth wrapped around his penis. He writhed on the bed, heavy with pleasure as the impossible image of Jean-Luc sucking him filled his mind. He would have gladly traded places with Q in order to experience the last twenty minutes in Jean-Luc's bed, even as far as enduring the inevitable bruises. Or if by some impossible miracle, Jean-Luc should ever bend over for him, well, he would still be under Jean-Luc's will, obeying because it felt too good to do anything else. ‘Tell me what to do, and I will do it,' Worf thought. Q must have been getting close. He could hear it in the pitch of Q's strained exhalations. Any moment now. ‘Tell me!' Worf cried silently. His fingers moved faster. ‘Tell me yes. Tell me yes!' Then he felt the wet warmth on his hand, and he lay panting in the darkness. Q came a moment later with a muffled groan, and the night was still again. Now Jean-Luc didn't even bother to make sure everyone was asleep before pulling Data into the bedroom with him. Worf glanced over his game to steal another glance at Q. Q seemed to be bracing himself against some terrible pressure by pretending it didn't exist. Meanwhile Geordi was hiding in the music. Well, there was nothing Worf could do about it. He reached over and picked up Will's hand and pressed the palm to his lips. Will looked up in amazement. He always seemed surprised at any gesture of tenderness, which was why Worf liked to make them. "Baby, tonight? Let's do the wildest shit we can think of." "Wow!" Will said and grinned. Wearing only a towel, Data came out of the bedroom and walked to the kitchenette. Q did not move, but Geordi lifted his head. Then Data came back; his eyes were narrowed. "Will, I thought I saw you take that doughnut I was saving for Geordi." "That wasn't me!" Will had a little smile on his face. "Oh." Data stiffened. "I see," his head ticked to the side a bit, "perhaps it was your evil twin I saw take the doughnut." Will sat up straighter: "Well, Data, maybe it was YOUR evil twin." Worf had his arm securely around his woman. When he was Jean-Luc's favorite, Data was a real asshole. "Data," he said, pulling Will closer, "perhaps it was... your mother's evil twin." Despite the rain, the concert at Romeo's was SRO. Everyone who heard them wanted more. It was of one the nights when Jean-Luc used the music to make it clear to the audience that the beautiful, talented, yielding Q was his and his only. When this happened, it made Q happy; he did not mind at all being used to enhance Jean-Luc's reputation as chief macho stud of the universe. All it was was Jean-Luc smiling at Q as he sang with him, but the vibration was so incredible that all the voyeurs, not to mention tops and bottoms, knew exactly what was going on. Afterwards, John Mack just walked backstage. A hundred other fans were there and no one was stopping anyone. His anonymous look allowed him to walk down the corridor which led to the stage without being questioned. "Excuse me," Q said graciously to the generic-looking janitor standing in the corridor watching them. Or maybe the guy was some sort of security. He turned back to Jean-Luc. "Please, Daddy." "Shut up, Q. Here comes tonight's special.". This one was a sturdy young man, Hispanic by the sight of him, short hair. He started stroking his shirtless chest when he saw Jean-Luc and Q. "You can both fuck me," he said. Q bolted. Jean-Luc grabbed the boy's neck and kissed him hard. His hand went down to the boy's groin, feeling him up, making him moan. John Mack could not believe his eyes. |
