NEW Promised Land 29/80 (four-series x-over)

[Miss Sunbeam]

NEW Promised Land 29/80 (four-series x-over)
Author: The Enigmatic Big Miss Sunbeam
Warnings, Disclaimers, etc.: See 01.

*************************

Fajo let Q rest for a while. (He could hardly wait to
do it again.) He brought Q an early supper made of
things he knew Q liked: grape leaves wrapped around
ground spiced lamb, a local cheese with the faintest
taste of turpentine, honey-soaked baklava. Wrinkly
black olives. Walnuts preserved in oil and vinegar.
He liked to watch Q eat. Q was naked. Fajo
swallowed.

Q's eyes were shadowed -- perhaps he was emotionally
fatigued from what they had gone through together.

"Have you had enough? I want to show you something.
You have earned this." He led Q through the large
stone-paved central corridor of his home. There was a
small door to one side, with an ostentatious digital
lock.

"I can't wait for you to see this." Fajo keyed in the
number which would unlock it. "Here you go! Just for
us! Only us!"

Q entered and looked around. The room was not large,
but it was handsomely decorated. The walls were
covered with oxblood leather and studded with brass
star-shaped nailheads. There were several lamps with
black marble bases and golden shades; the soft light
made Q and Fajo gleam in the dark red room.

There was not much furniture: a daybed with dark
upholstery, a curious arrangement of wooden tables.
And more presents in designer bags. Or artfully
wrapped in large scarves with hempen ties. Or hidden
in shiny pasteboard boxes imprinted with mysterious
store names.

"Open them, Q. Let the revels continue!"

Q did enjoy unwrapping presents. These gifts were of
a slightly different nature. Fragrant oils in
alabaster jars. Powders and ointments to rub over . .
. And what was this? Q looked at a little jar of
shiny red capsules.

"Those are Soviet-made, Q. For those times when Frau
Marouka is visiting her extensive family." Fajo
sighed. "It's getting weird in the CCCR."

Then, an astonishing variety of sex toys. Some
battery-operated. All designed to be stuffed up
somebody's willing ass.

"Here's something very special, Q. An old
acquaintance and business partner of mine is the
designer Ransom Amozoki"

Q looked at him blankly.

"Well, Ransom is very famous. Makes me a lot of
money. And of course his private life is quite
intriguing as befits a man of our world. I told him
to stitch up the perfect garment for the perfect man.
That's you, needless to say. Let me help you put
it on."

The perfect garment would fit in the palm of a man's
hand. Fajo made him stand up as he fitted him with his
new outfit. It was absurdly simple: a tiny apron of
the softest thin black kid leather which fit over Q's
genitals. It was fastened in the back by twelve tiny
silver chains which followed perfectly the curve of
Q's ass. Ransom Amazoki knew what a lover liked.
Fajo carefully fastened each chain to each side of the
apron, smoothing it carefully over Q's perfect
buttocks, then smoothing the front of the apron over
Q's aroused cock. Twelve times. Both Fajo and Q
were breathing hard.

"You're so pretty," Fajo said. He could barely speak.
"Now while you're wearing that, let me stick
something in you. And then let you walk around. I
know I'll come just from watching that."

The large dildo he chose was made from black rubber;
Fajo oiled it carefuly and with teasing and stretching
got Q to take it up his ass all the way to the flared
base. Q's little moans of discomfort were music to
Fajo's ears.

Fajo was right. He came again, hard.

*************************

"Merry Christmas, Jean-Luc baby! Quark here! Santa
Claus must be on the payroll because he's come through
bigtime!"

"Hmm?" Tommy and Q had always been the ones to
understand each other.

"There's a bigbigbig article in the next Rolling Stone
on the Boys! Cult Band on Cusp of Superstardom! And
in the year-end People, you're one of their
twenty-five most intriguing! So I called up the boys
at DCA, and asked for, and got another six-figure
advance! Merry Christmas! We're already booking big
directors for the videos! You'll love them!"

"They advanced that to us without Q?"

"Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc! Without Q? Those two
words have no meaning! I told them Q was still in the
band. Who says he isn't?"

Jean-Luc was silent. Too bad that fuckhole Madred
hadn't killed Quark by mistake

"They're sending you a present. No advance. No
payback. Just a nice decent Christmas present to
insure that you'll be their slave. It'll be parked --
oops! I'm giving a hint! -- in front of your house
this afternoon! Check you later! I've got a date
with
a lapdancer. But she's three times a lady. I swear.
Don't scold, Jean-Luc. You know animal passions as
well as I do!" He hung up.

Jean-Luc ran his thumb across his lower lip. Then he
went and called the other Boys into the dining room; a
big shiny table there served as their informal
conference room.

Everyone assembled expectantly. Data was wearing an
ice-bag on his head.

"Okay, boys, let's talk. First off, what did all
think of Brandon?"

Worf and Will smiled.

"Nice pussy," said Worf.

"She gave it up like a real cunt, a
hundred-and-ten-percent cunt," said Will.

Brandon had indeed been delightful, squealing,
moaning, sweating, bent over, helpless as they took
turns fucking his big pink ass. "Break out some more
rubbers," Jean-Luc had had to say. Brandon was worth
multiple fuckings. (Data had begged off, not wanting
to spoil Jean-Luc's love life by his imminent death
and loyal Geordi had stayed by Data.)

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking he
reminded me of Q. Well, fair enough, but so the fuck
what? I defy anyone to get some good puss and not
think of Q. That's something we'll have to live with
the rest of our days." Data made a tiny moan.
Jean-Luc shot him a hard look. Then: "Quark says DCA
is advancing us more and the press is still crazy for
us. If we play it right, we'll have more ass than we
can use. The roads of America are paved with Brandons
just lying there ready to fuck and fuck and fuck.
And I want to travel those roads. Are you with me? I
mean, as far as I'm concerned, the sky's the limit."
He lifted his elegant head.

"I'm in," said Worf.

"Me too," said Will and Geordi.

"As long as my health permits," said Data.

*************************

The next time they went to Fajo's leather chamber, he
brought out a ball gag which he stuffed in Q's mouth.

"I don't like to use things like this. I think
they're props, fakes, substitutes for real passion.
This time, however, I do believe it will be useful."

He tied the ends around Q's head and pulled another
surgical glove on. This one had a sleeve that went all
the way up to his elbow.

Fajo started with two fingers, then three, then four,
then his fist. He was ecstatic. He fucked Q with his
fist while Q howled and screamed behind the gag. With
the gag, Q wasn't able to make treacherous words.
They were both safe.

And Fajo was good at fist fucking; Q wanted more. If
he could have, he would have taken two fists up his
ass, or a hundred. Suddenly then he wanted Johnny's
big old fists, and, as he thought of Johnny, he became
more frenzied than ever. He was totally vulnerable,
open, naked inside and out, and he wanted it this way.

He gave it to Fajo, all Fajo could ever want.

When they were done, Q peeled Fajo's glove off for him
and pulled him down to the daybed with him. Then he
began to kiss Fajo all over, reverently lifting Fajo's
fist to his lips and bowing his head over it. Then Q
touched it to his mouth, to his forehead, to his
heart.

Fajo was very still. He had won again. Q's heart
clearly no longer belonged to that awful Jean-Luc.

He should buy something nice for Q.

*************************

After Jean-Luc's little pep talk, the recording
improved.

They rehearsed some of the older songs of Q's. They
practiced the one that Geordi had written. They had
new song-writing sessions. They even did silly things
like record "Here Comes the Sun" by the Beatles.

Jean-Luc took everyone for rides in the classic 1954
Cadillac convertible DCA had given him for Christmas.
It was white and turquoise, "a real pussy wagon," Will
said admiringly. Worf thought it was obvious -- and
touching -- how much Jean-Luc would have liked to have
shown it to Q.

The Boys seemed to have turned a corner.

Data offered to take charge of redecorating their
still nearly-empty house. He did a pretty good job
for the most part, though Jean-Luc frustrated him by
refusing to have anything done to his room. Data put
pictures up, and he bought TV trays and standing
lamps and a throw rug. The place echoed a lot less.
Geordi wanted a hot tub. Data bought him one,
thrilled by the novelty of it. All the Boys had to
get in and try it out, but soon it was almost
exclusively Data and Geordi's since they both liked it
so much.

*************************

Q and Fajo enjoyed Fajo's little forays into Q's
rectum with a consistency that drove them back to bed
again and again. Fajo always looked so eager, coming
in with his little tray of unguents and rubber gloves.
He was hungry for Q's loss of control, Q's
passion, his enigmatic silence.

Q was beautiful on Fajo's island. He walked, he
looked, he drank a glass of water, he scratched his
shoulder.

He walked around some more.

The door to Fajo's office was open. Q wanted company,
not really Fajo, but Fajo was the only game in town.

Fajo looked up and smiled; he was on the phone again.
Q smiled back, but Fajo had already turned his
attention away from Q. Q looked around the office.
Suddenly, Fajo heard something on the phone; he
snapped his fingers at Q and pointed to a file box. Q
brought it to him. The maid came in; she had the
mail. Giving a quick, disdainful look at his little
robe, she handed it to Q. There was about six pounds
of it.

Fajo said, "Q, be a love and throw out these
catalogues out for me."

Q obeyed, but, instead of putting them in the trash
can, he looked at them. He was astonished. Q most
certainly knew what a catalogue was. He had pored
through the Sears catalogue and dreamed of owning the
things inside it, but this was more than riding mowers
and aluminum sheds. Q hadn't known there were so
many ways to be pampered for mere money. He was
clearly shocked. He looked at Fajo.

Fajo was off the phone by now; he seemed amused at Q's
look.

Q pointed: And why did this catalogue have a picture
of a man with a pig on a leash?

"Does him want a truffle?" Fajo asked fondly. He
reached out to caress Q's flaccid genitals. "Has him
been a good boy? Does him know how to be a good boy?
Be a good boy for Fajo and I'll get you all the
truffles you want."

Q knew how to be a good boy. He got down on his
knees.

48 hours later a grayish-white wrinkly thing was on
his plate.

Q stared.

"It's your truffle," Fajo explained. He told Q about
how they were hunted and how they were cooked and how
rare they were. He took a bite of his truffle. Q ate
all of his.

Fajo gave a crooked smile. "These truffles go for
eight hundred dollars a pound. You just ate three
hundred dollars." Fajo found this information
trivial, but Q began to choke and gasp. He had
consumed this little bit of food so casually, and now
he was still very hungry. But if a man had enough
money, he could eat of this until he was full.

Fajo could.

Q could too, if he prevailed upon Fajo.

This was an octave above that time in the grocery
store. This was a higher order of existence.

Fajo laughed at his charming, backwards American. "I
love you people."

After that, Q looked at all the catalogues very
carefully. One catalogue personally addressed to
Fajo claimed to enjoy catering to the tastes of a man
with such refined sensibilities. It showed beautiful
male models dressed in clothes much like the ones Q
wore. There was a catalogue of one-of-a-kind objets
d'art. There was a catalogue of cooks who would
travel to your house from anywhere around the world
and cook a meal for you right in your kitchen. There
was a catalogue of artists looking for sponsors.

Q took some of the catalogues to his room and stashed
them away under a table. Fajo saw him, and one day,
when Q was off getting his enema, he went into Q's
room and inspected Q's little bundle of loot.

Nothing important. Just catalogues. Why did Q keep
these? To keep himself entertained? Fajo smiled. Q
was so sweet and silly. Fajo couldn't wait to fuck
him.

Fajo got used to Q being in his office. He forgot
that Q was only mute, not deaf, and he carried on
long, complex conversations in front of his little
human toy. Q often merely lay on his stomach and
listened to Fajo's end of the discussion.

Sometimes Fajo would get off the phone and talk to Q,
venting his emotions as with a pet parrot. Q forced
himself to listen attentively. Fajo seemed to have it
in for everybody. He was vengeful and played vicious
games, gloating when he appeared to win over his
imaginary enemies. Q didn't like to hear about
Fajo's little battles.

The only time he really perked up was when Fajo talked
about charities.

"Look at this one! They have to ask me for money to
feed their own children. How grotesque." Q came and
hovered over Fajo's shoulder which pleased Fajo
enormously.

Then Q pointed.

Fajo smiled when Q pointed at things. It was fun to
guess what Q was trying to find out. Q was like a
little boy in Daddy's office, or a little intern or an
ingenue.

Q began to pick charities he liked and flirted with
Fajo (head tilted to one shoulder, demure little
smile, pleading expression) until he said yes.
Certain charities who were simply casting messages in
a bottle unexpectedly got their desires met because Q
interceded on their behalf. Q pointed and pointed.

(And hoped this would help God to forgive him for
being away from his own children for so long.)

Once to show his gratitude and affection, he sat on
the floor with his head on Fajo's leg but Fajo wasn't
Johnny. Fajo made a joke about Q's insatiability and
shooed him away.

Q was learning what it meant to be a rich man. And,
he told himself, he was doing some good.
Schoolchildren in Borneo got puppet shows. Youngsters
in Ireland got to see a traveling exhibit on ancient
Egypt. A reservation in Arizona got a luxurious set
of encyclopedias and learning aids. Three teachers
in the Brazilian rainforest got miraculous stipends
that allowed them to teach for another two years.
Fajo learned what would interest Q, and he made a game
of it. He would show Q a letter requesting money. Q
would nod, his eyes shining. Then Fajo would point to
the floor and Q would eagerly kneel. Small lives were
enriched the world over, all because Q was so good at
giving blowjobs to Fajo.

-end 29-

__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Send instant messages & get email alerts with Yahoo! Messenger.
http://im.yahoo.com/

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages
can be found at http://www.egroups.com/group/ASCEML.