M A R A N A T H A
    

    

    
© Osfer, November 2004
    

    

    
All rights reserved.
    

    
May only be distributed for free.
    

    
May not be altered in any way.
    

    
Contains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be illegal to 
read in your country, state, province or region.
    

    
The author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part of the reader
    

    
Comments welcome at
osfer.kesh@gmail.com.
    




Available on 
paperback in 2005 - mail the author for information
    

    
~ Enjoy. ~




                
 



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Chapter VI – As Told By Q. I. Malloy
    

    

    
I walk.
    
From the second I step out of Nezzy's shop and lock the door behind me with her 
spare key, I walk. My emotions drained into the shower's cold water, leaving me 
dulled and I would be uncaring, but for the unyielding determination I feel 
burning in the furnace of my stomach. I have my suit, which clings so tightly to 
my body I might be mistaken for a bouncer, were it not for the expensively 
tasteful cut of the cloth, I have my spare key and Nezzy's, I have my cell-phone, 
slightly recharged, I have my passport, slightly altered, and I have a 
hand-written letter in an envelope. With these, and nothing more, I'm going to 
take on the world.
    
Okay, I'll cop, I wish I'd brought Lola as well. She could've tucked down the 
small of my back in a splendidly-concealed holster that made this suit twice as 
expensive as it needed to be – but, then, if you want the best, you've got to go 
to Clemens. He's the one who once provided Owen with a wrinkle-free light grey 
suit that had built-in knee padding and a concealed split down the seat so he 
could make his arse available for entry simply by gripping his buns and pulling 
at the fabric–
    
Owen, that's right. That's who I'm doing this for. Or maybe I'm not doing it for 
him, and I'm just doing it because I'm angry, I don't know. My emotions feel... 
filtered, somehow. Like when you've stayed awake for two nights in a row, the 
way things sound – they're muted, they don't seem quite real, even though 
they're really loud. But it's because you sense them in such detail that they 
become unreal and don't affect you. That's why I feel such anxiety at having 
left my precious gun Lola back in my apartment, but that anxiety doesn't affect 
me that much.
    
The walk back to the bank is long, but it can't be helped. Everything hinges on 
the strut, and getting out of the wrong kind of car or arriving too early or too 
late could arouse suspicion, and once one red flag goes up I'm screwed. So I 
walk, and think, and try not to think.
    
The city's waking up, now. Traffic's starting to form, gushing into the streets 
like freshly poured Guinness and then congeals like the thick head of foam. 
Maybe Guinness is a rubbish metaphor; I suppose the black stuff could count as 
asphalt and the foam would be the gridlocked traffic. No, that's a stretch. I 
could murder a pint right now, though. It's tempting to make a quick stop at the 
Firkin pub as I pass it – bloody poser's place, ain't a single Brit ever been 
involved in setting it up or running the place, yet they've still got the balls 
to call it an Authentic Irish Pub – but I have to restrain myself.
    
I wonder what people must think when they see me walking. I'm still a few 
minutes away from hitting the business district and I look seriously out of 
place. Maybe they think I'm a mobster, perusing new real estate to claim, or 
maybe that I'm some kind of hustler like Owen, heading to a new client. Both of 
those seem like a ridiculous idea, so I guess nobody really has any thoughts on 
who I am or what I'm doing.
    
God's honest? I don't even have much of a clue what I'm doing.
    
I've got my plan, for certain, the whole ‘new solution' thing again. I've got it 
planned out. But only up to a point, or rather, several points. In half an hour 
I'll know if I'll end up in jail. In two hours I'll know if I'll live. By the 
end of the day I'll know if I can get Owen back, or if I'll never see him again. 
But even if everything goes as it's supposed to go – which you and I both know 
is seriously unlikely – I don't know what'll happen tomorrow. Or the day after. 
I don't know if anything I do today makes a damn fucking bit of difference, or 
if it's all just a waste of time and worry and money and lives.
    
Oh, fuck. My feet carried me quicker than I expected, and now I'm standing where 
I was not two hours ago: in front of the glass walls of the Northern 
Transnational building. The bank's just opened, but inside it's already buzzing 
with business, people in expensive suits, some of them better than mine and all 
of them obviously newer, walk in and out of the building with purpose. I don't 
slow, I just keep going even though I'm getting a little worried. I thought I'd 
have time to prepare myself during the walk but I was so caught up in my 
thoughts that I completely missed that opportunity. Ah well, can't be helped. 
And I can't help smirking, either, when I notice the stain on the glass next to 
the rotating doors, where I licked it earlier.
    
Inside the building I notice the smell first. That stale, businesslike smell 
that tells you nothing real ever happens there. Just plans and ideas, pieces of 
paper, words and promises. It's important, I'm not trying to diss the whole 
banking world, as the kids are sayin', but you just get this vibe about places 
like this, you know? I walk straight toward the reception desk, where a white 
squirrel, who after a moment I realize is female (I have a hard time telling 
with rodents, sometimes) smiles at me.
    
"How may I help you?" she asks in that helpful, sing-song tone receptionists 
often have. She's wearing a black blazer and a crisp white shirt with one of 
those ladies' ties, two diagonal black strips at the collar. 
    
I smile at her, effortlessly, and pull the envelope from my inside pocket, 
laying it down on the desk as if it's supposed to mean something. "I'm here to 
close my employer's account. Account name Malloy, initials Q. I."
    
She types at her keyboard and shows me that blank, friendly face cashiers 
normally show. "Malloy... Ah, here it is. Of course, sir. Please take the elevator 
to the fifteenth floor, a clerk will be waiting to help you with your business." 
She smiles and waves in the direction of the elevators.
    
Do you know why she didn't ask me my name, or check out the contents of the 
envelope? It's the strut. What you need to do, is give people an impression of 
who you are, let it be their first impression of you. In my case, a slick 
businessperson. Most people, when they do disguises, leave it at that, and 
confirm the first impression through their act, but you can't do that. People 
are used to judging other people wrong. So you've got to modify their 
expectations, which they're used to doing. In my case, because I'm not a slick 
businessperson, I'm just a flunky, holding a letter that gives him permission to 
close his employer's account. 
    
There seems to be extra security around, plain-clothes, and not just around the 
metal-detectors... Or maybe I'm just paranoid. The guard I molested earlier seems 
to have gone home, but, on a whim, I walk up to the door of the closet next to 
the elevators and open it a crack as if looking for the bathroom. I smile as I 
peer into the little closet with its cleaning materials and, oddly, a 
shaving-mirror and see the wet grey splash on the bare concrete floor where the 
Shep gurgled out my load. God, I'm hot.
    
It's a few minutes after the hour. The people who are always on time for work 
are already at their desks and the people who're running late ain't arrived yet, 
so there aren't that many people at the elevators. The walls are plated with 
that poncy faux-marble that should look classy but with the light greet tint it 
has to it ends up looking like that lobby from that sci-fi movie with the slow 
motion and the digital world. Right now, I sure wish I had superpowers like that 
guy. 
    
The last thing I hear from the lobby is the receptionist saying "Sir! You forgot 
your letter!" and then the doors close. Ding, goes the elevator. Ding goes. 
Dingoes. Really, my mind's all over the place. Like the fine, fine bum on the 
young fox clerk that just stepped in. Polite wee smile when he got in the 
elevator with me, as if he was asking me permission, even though there was four 
other people in there already. On a better day I'd give him the ol' smile, pinch 
that fine bum and score me some quick fox-arse in the mens' room without even 
leaving him my number, but today I've got business on my mind. So I start 
coughing.
    
"Scuse me," I say and start coughing some more, really heavy-like. I pull my 
handkerchief from my breast pocket, really hocking into it, snarking up some 
snot and spitting in it. I look at it with worry and just as the doe next to me 
loses her cool and tries to see out of the corner of her eye I start coughing 
again, my whole body shaking.
    
Ding-dong bingo gringo, we have a winner. The doe leans past some miscellaneous 
businessperson and presses the button for the next floor. The doors open and 
she's first out, followed by mister Misc. That leaves my boy the fox and two 
stags, who look at each other for a second and when the doors start to close, 
first one and then the other pushes through and exits the elevator. Guess they 
must think I'm contagious or something. 
    
So now I'm alone with my fox. He looks at me, and then at the large colour 
screen showing the floor numbers in 3-D animated glory, real fancy. We're 
approaching the tenth floor, which is the button he'd pressed when he got on. He 
looks at me again. He's pretty cute, for a square office-clerk kinda guy. Hair 
styled short and neat, crisp white short-sleeved shirt, pressed slacks. Probably 
some exec's son or nephew, given a cushy job to prepare him for his initiation 
in the Old Boys' Network.
    
Looks like this boy's been ‘initiated' already. He notices the bulge in my 
fucking expensive trousers which in all honesty was brought on by the thought of 
fucking some exec's son than the features of this fox, who's certainly 
good-looking but by no means out of the ordinary. And, remember, I just fucked 
the single most beautiful lion on the planet for half a dozen hours and then, 
sicker than I've felt in months, muzzle-raped the least dignified member of the 
security branch you're ever likely to meet, so going for somebody who's simply 
nice-looking is a serious step down from my standards. But then he hits the 
Elevator Stop button, I suppose because he thinks the maintenance guy isn't on 
time and won't be at his desk to ask if we're all right, and unbuckles his 
pants. Ah, why the fuck not.
    
He doesn't even look at me, which I think is pretty good. He's facing the wall 
to one side of the doors and as I unzip my fucking expensive trousers, let me 
remind you, they're really expensive, he pulls his trousers down just far enough 
that the waistband hangs below that soft-furred bum. It really is quite fine, 
and he's thoughtfully flagged his fluffy tail to the side. Now he looks at me, 
over his shoulder and just for a second, then he places both hands on the wall 
in front. I guess he was wondering if he should reach out and grab me to guide 
me in, but he decided the better of it. 
    
I step up, enjoying the silence, which breaks when he lets out a soft little 
sigh as I grab his hip, press my tip under his glossy orange tail, and start to 
press into him. He's not even that warm, inside, just... average. And once I'm 
balls-deep in his arse, holding his hip in one hand and his shoulder, I start to 
wank myself off under his tail and take ten minutes out of my busy 
world-conquering day to have myself a perfectly average fox-fuck.
    
There's honestly nothing to describe. If you've fucked a fox, then you know what 
I'm talking about and if you haven't, words simply won't express the kind of 
experience it is. It's completely satisfactory. I've never met a fox I couldn't 
get off in, never in all my life. But with very few exceptions the sex is 
standard, ordinary, you know? It's like McDonalds' food. No matter where in the 
world you go, you can stand in line with furry-hat-wearers or squint-eyes or 
yanks or Masai but you still know, even before you reach the end of the line, 
what the burger's going to taste like. That's what it's like to fuck a fox. It 
always takes me nine minutes, I never feel the urge to have a chat the way I 
usually do when I'm fucking somebody – the German Shepherd from a few hours ago 
excluded, naturally – and afterwards I feel the same as before.
    
Which is how I feel now. I'm just looking at the numbers – eleven, twelve, 
thirteen – and I've completely forgotten about the fox I just shot a load in, 
probably something that'll cheer him up throughout the day, the knowledge that 
he's got a stranger's load in him. A strange businessman, he probably thinks. 
Me, I think nothing. I don't remember pulling out and zipping up, I don't 
remember the satisfaction I saw when he simply pulled his pants up, lowered his 
tail, pushed the Elevator Stop button again and got out on his floor without 
looking back.
    
I do remember to press Elevator Stop myself, just when we pass the fourteenth 
floor. The lift is wider than it's long so I spring forward and plant my foot 
against the sealed, gleaming metal doors and as I push myself backward I 
straighten my leg to plant it against the other wall with a resounding thump, 
keeping myself up in a splits. It aches a little in my hip-joints, obviously I 
ain't as young as I once was, but the stance feels solid enough, I can hold this 
for a while.
    
You see people do this all the time in the movies, slide up the ceiling panel of 
the lift and climb out, as if it's that easy. And sometimes, just sometimes it 
is. Which is the second of three reasons I picked the Northern Transnational 
bank for my little transaction – the first, of course, being my acquaintance 
with its weekday night-guard. And the third, you may ask? Let's go find out, 
shall we?
    
The ceiling's side-panel slides sideways. In any other building I might have had 
to yank out some bolts or unscrew some nails with my very claws. After all, I 
couldn't bring my old lock-picks any more than I could bring Lola for fear of 
setting off the metal detectors. But no, not in the Northern Transnational 
building. Just push up and the panel slides sideways along a little rail. 
Perfect. Now it's simply a question of grabbing hold of the edges of the gap and 
lifting myself through without letting my clothes touch the oily rim of the 
opening. I'm grateful that I'm an upper body kinda guy. I've got beefier legs 
than Owen does, that's for sure, but while his legs are his greatest strength, 
mine are good for fast running and long jumping but not much else. Not much use 
in a fight.
    
Now, my arm... My guns, as Owen likes to call them. I push myself up with no 
difficulty, my upper torso suspended in the sci-fi bleakness of the lift tube, I 
swing my legs up, bent at the knees and part them again, bracing them on the 
rims of the opening. The I stand up and step sideways and as I slide the panel 
back into place I can hear the little intercom give a discrete little beep, 
which is a hell of a lot better than the burst of static you usually hear, and 
some bloke with a voice like he just had a laryngectomy asks if I'm all right. 
Sure I am. I'm standing in the void, the sci-fi bleakness of the elevator shaft, 
in the lion's den in more ways than one, gambling more than I've ever earned 
based on instinct, feeble observation and sentimental loyalty. I guess I didn't 
turn out as quite the kind of bad boy I'd hoped to be, when I came to Maranatha.

    
I wait for another elevator to come up. It takes a while, since it's early in 
the morning still, but then from the dim abyss below I see no less than three 
carriages rising. I wonder which of them have occupants enjoying some quick 
elevator sex. After all, if that clerk was so easy to get into there's bound to 
be more employees as ‘sociable' as he was and plenty of managers enjoying a 
quick foxfuck on the way to work.
    
The first one up is too far away and it passes me, opening at the fifteenth 
floor. I can hear some stifled gasps when the doors open, some serious voices 
asking people to step out of the elevator, another saying "Where the hell is 
he?" before being told to shut up. Seems some people were waiting for me on the 
fifteenth floor. Gosh criminy, what a surprise. 
    
The next lift passes and I get ready, pulling up my sleeves a bit. I stand at 
the side of the elevator, feeling it shake a little as its doors are forced open 
and somebody steps inside. "Hello?" that croaky voice asks, probably a lizard of 
some sort. Fuck it, just wait a second, I think as I hear him slide in a crate 
or something to stand on, just give me two more seconds...
    
The second lift whooshes past me with the speed these modern contraptions have 
and when it's passed, I make my jump and only then does it occur to me that I 
just threw myself at a fourteen-storey drop, not counting the basement floor, 
and if I miss this grab I'm going to die.
    
I'm going to die. 
    
That realisation hits me as soon as I feel the cool plastic of the thick 
electrical cables under the elevator against my face and it's all I can do to 
swing my arms forward and grab the nearest part of the lift and hope, fucking 
hope that it's not the electric cable I can feel on my cheek because if it is 
it'll snap and even if I don't get electrocuted or fall I'll still be fucking 
dead.
    
If I were a religious man I'd be saying a prayer now, as what I've gripped is 
metal, the underside of an I-beam that forms the cage of the lift carriage. It's 
a precarious hold, one I can feel starting to slip, but it's the best I can do 
with that hand. My other comes up and grabs the other side of the frame and now 
I'm suspended between the front and back end of the lift with my arms 
outstretched, almost exactly the same position as when I was doing the splits in 
the first lift.
    
The first lift, whose hatch just opened to reveal some reptile in blue overalls 
with a red baseball cap sticking his head through and shining a torch. "Hello?" 
he asks again, looking around and shining that damn flash-light all around and, 
fuck it, if that beam comes near me I'm screweder than hat fox I just had. 
    
I freeze like a deer in head-lights when I feel that beam on me and hold my 
breath... Nothing happens... I crack open one eye and look down, seeing the 
maintenance lizard in the hatch of the elevator, shining his light up at me but 
looking down at somebody talking to him. I don't think I need to tell you what 
I'm feeling right now, the numbness in my dangling legs, the sweat on my aching, 
white-knuckled fingers, the tightness in my stomach and the burning in my lungs...

    
Then I can't take it any more and I bark out a breath before slurping in a new 
one and as I look around, spitting away some drool so it doesn't drizzle down my 
suit, I realise I'm ten floors up and that the light's gone and the hatch is 
closed and the lift is finally on its way back down. It's a good thing, too, my 
fingers are starting to ache like nobody's business and while they're petty 
strong – piano practice as a child, don't you know it – even they have limits. I 
can stand the ache in my biceps and I can stand the stabbing pain in my 
shoulders, but the fingers, man, and the muscles in my hand, the pain's almost 
more than I can take. And there's still two dozen floors to go...
    
I try to distract myself, to think of something else. My mind goes back to that 
night in my apartment with Owen, naked in bed, just talking, and he said 
something that stuck with me. He said, "If I leave town, I'd leave without 
telling you. Otherwise it wouldn't be like leaving, at all." And that didn't 
hurt me when he said it because I knew what it meant and I agreed, if I wanted 
to leave I wouldn't tell him either. But now that memory mingles with the last 
night I spent with Owen. Well, evening, really. With Alice between us. It's only 
been a few hours but, cliché of clichés it feels like weeks. And that makes it 
hurt. I know it doesn't make sense but right now, I feel like Owen knew he was 
going to leave even that night when he was straddling my abdomen and we were 
talking about leaving and where we would go, and he knew he'd leave without 
telling me and he'd go someplace where I'd never see him again. 
    
I hit rock bottom. That is, the elevator reaches the bottom floor and I know 
this because it stops and starts going up again, so I let go with one hand – 
sweet relief! – and swing toward the side of the elevator shaft, the door-side. 
The only handhold there is the rim of the ground floor doors, which is a 
precarious hold, but I grab it and brace my expensively-shod toes against the 
walls, and it's enough to hold my weight if I don't move, and the elevator 
doesn't change its mind and comes back down again. I start shimmying to the 
left, carefully, since each slight movement of my much-relieved, but still 
aching fingers carries the risk of a drop down a shaft that runs down two 
sublevels of parking space and a maintenance basement.
    
Reaching the very side of the door-rim, right up against the I-beam that serves 
as a vertical rail for this lift, I perform my most dangerous stunt yet: I lean 
back and sideways and swing around the I-beam to grab hold of, thank god, a 
fully functioning ladder. I can't fucking remember the last time I was so happy 
that every lift shaft is designed with a ladder, though I'll wager it was a 
sitch much like this one.
    
After that, it's child's play. Climb down the ladder, dodge a lift carriage 
coming up from the second parking sublevel and finally, the basement. While all 
the other floors have doors in front of the elevator shaft, the basement only 
has a harmonica-style cage-door. But not even that craftily-designed safety net 
is in evidence right now. The door's open and bleak light spills into the 
cave-like darkness of the lift shaft, which would be damn creepy if I had 
anything in the way of nyctophobia. Fear of the dark, that is, and it's a word I 
always fear spelling.
    
I slow my climbing and listen as I descend, silently, rung by rung. I can hear 
something. Breathing. Heavy, quick, hot. There's something else, too. A wet 
noise. Smacking. Slapping. It stutters the breathing, interspersed with soft 
whines and a low groan. I smile. I know what I'm hearing, and as I reach the 
lowest rung of the ladder I swing around and step into the open doorway of the 
basement elevator entrance, and stand there. 
    
My feet are wide apart, my hands resting on the doorframes. I'm looking down a 
long concrete hallway wide enough for three men my size abreast, lit by a string 
of light-bulbs, with someone, naked, on all fours. Well, all threes, one hand is 
between his legs, pumping furiously. He's facing away from me, his 
light-brown-and black tail lashing, and there's a black mark under it, coming 
into view now and again. It's writing. On his left butt-cheek. Can you guess 
what it says? 
    
It says my phone number.
    
And under that, it says "Go to the basement, open the elevator doors, take off 
all your clothes and wait for me."
    
Now how, do you ask, could I be so certain that this studly, dutiful German 
Shepherd, would obey or even read this hastily-scrawled command? Let me tell 
you. I know people. That is, I can tell when somebody wants something. It's my 
spider sense, I've talked about it before. I felt what this guard bloke needed 
and what's more, I felt that it was something I could provide.
    
I watch him, his handsome body mock-humping some phantom bitch as he fucks his 
pumping fist, buns tightening. I let my mind wander a bit, trying to remember if 
he'd gotten hard when I fucked him that night... It's hard to remember, I was 
being so selfish then, but I'm pretty sure he was soft. He was soft, and he 
didn't complain, and now he's hard. You know, I think I might be the very first 
male he's ever been with? It's such a ludicrous thing to realise, such a stupid 
idea, but this studdog's probably had one girlfriend after another and only a 
few weeks ago decided to go for it and try what it was like to be a bitch for a 
change. And then this morning he got another taste, and now he's decided it's 
for him.
    
Christ. I fucked a virgin. How long's that been?
    
He's close, now. His back's arched, his thighs tensed, his tail tucked low and 
his buttocks dimpled. With some training, he'll soon have the reflex to flag his 
tail higher at the moment of issue, which is mere seconds away. Three, two...
    
I make a fist and hit the doorframe hard, hard enough to make the retracted 
cage-door rattle loudly and yell "Stop that!" so that the poor Shep startles in 
mid-stroke and tumbles forward and sideways. He can't help it, he's there and 
white semen spurts from his bright red doggydick, hitting him across the chest 
and muzzle. He falls onto his back, writhing and spasming, glaring at me 
wide-eyed, caught between his body's reverie at climax and his mind's panic at 
being caught and all the consequences of that. I smile, it's a soft, cruel 
little smile that's just totally appropriate. I can't imagine how fractured his 
mind must be now, how the thought of getting caught by his boss and the 
humiliation and ridicule he'll suffer is interspersed with the hollow, 
unsatisfying high of a spoiled ejaculation.
    
I step forward and he falls still, lying on his back, propped up on his elbows. 
His cock, forgotten, continues to spurt watery canine cum across his face, 
unheeded, and strings of semen comically dribble from his muzzle. My footsteps 
sound hard and empty on the bare concrete, echoing down the hall, but the sound 
seems to soothe the dog's breathing. Or maybe it's just his orgasm running out.
    
"What's your name?" I ask him, casually looking past him, down the length of the 
corridor.
    
"M-my..." He looks up at me, head doggishly tilted. "Calhoun. Alan Cal–" 
    
"Rover it is," I say simply and lift up my foot, and plant it on his 
light-furred belly, just above his still-hard erection. Semen squishes 
underfoot, soaking into his bristly belly-fur. "And what do you do, Rover?" I 
ask, still not looking at him. That's important, you know. I'll explain why 
later.
    
He looks up at me uncertainly, but with trust in his eyes. No, not trust, it's 
something else. Something lower than submission. Surrender? I don't know if 
that's the right word, but it's there in those intelligent eyes of his – he's 
willing to surrender himself to someone else, to give up the burden of being 
strong and independent and let somebody else make decisions for him and to not 
think about anything ever again. "Security," he blurts. "I'm in security... sir," 
he adds hopefully at the end, looking up at me with a smile. He's probably only 
ever said that word to actual superiors, but it has a sexy ring to it, now. I 
can see his erection throbbing against the heel of my expensive shoe, staining 
it a little with semen.
    
"Security is a job. Dogs don't have jobs. Dogs have masters," I inform him. I 
know it's crude bullshit, and believe me, usually I'm subtle – but usually the 
guy I'm doing it with is worth doing it with. The Cliff notes will have to 
suffice with this bloke, although I must say, he's impressing me. He nods at me 
and lies back on his back and I can see muscles twitching in his face and body, 
and a fine body it is.
    
It must be such an experience for him. To be naked and at the mercy of another, 
to let go of all the things he needs to feel, safety, security, control. To be 
sexually aroused by someone he doesn't consider his lesser, to be aroused by 
someone who looks down on him, to be aroused by being looked down upon... I almost 
wish I had more time to let him feel it, but I need to get the job done. "Are 
you my master?" he asks, closing his mouth and letting his tongue hang out a 
little, unconsciously.
    
God, what a pushover. I'm half tempted to walk away, fuck my plan and fuck Owen, 
simply out of disgust with this happy GSD. And then it hits me. I massage his 
hard belly with the sole of my shoe, mashing his own load into his fur, and he 
doesn't care. His uniform is in a crumpled pile next to him, nightstick, sidearm 
and all, and he doesn't care. I'm disgusted with this sexy creature. I look down 
on him more than I look down on some dumb slut like Cannit, and he's fucking 
autistic, and it occurs to me that that is absolutely perfect.
    
Who wants to have a slave he respects? Not I. 
    
"No-one else would have someone as pathetic as you, so I suppose I am," I inform 
him and all the twitches and shakes in his body stop. Just straight out. The 
happy smile solidifies, the eagerness in the eyes dims – neither disappear, but 
they lose their initial edge the way a campfire burns hot for a few minutes and 
then starts to burn long. This dog? He's started burning long. 
    
"What would you like me to do for you, sir?" he asks. His voice is deeper now; 
it's lost that put-on imitation of submissiveness. He's himself now, a fairly 
buff, well-trained, confident Shep who's decided that he doesn't want to be what 
he is. He wants to be a pet. A dog. I made a good call when I called him Rover.
    
I want five minutes' peace without hearing you," I snap at him, my voice hard 
and raw while I keep smiling at him. "Clean your face with your clothes and when 
you're certain you won't stain my trousers, you can take my dick in your mouth." 
His face brightens and I quickly stamp on his belly, causing him to groan and 
double forward and he's about to grip my leg with his cum-sodden fingers, but I 
raise an admonishing finger and he stops, and straightens out. "Bad dog," I 
inform him and stamp again. He groans again, grits his teeth. But the grin only 
grows wider. I'm actually starting to enjoy this fucktoy, strange as it seems.
    
"To ensure your silence you may take my dick in your mouth. But no sucking, you 
hear? No tongue. Just a snug dickwarmer's all I need, if only to shut you up. 
And give me your walkie," I add almost as an afterthought as I lean my weight on 
his belly, step onto his chest and then off him, walking a few steps away from 
him. I stand wide, my back to him, and hear him scramble, sitting upright and 
rubbing his uniform over his face and staining it with semen and not caring. He 
starts to stand up, then remembers to snag his walkie-talkie and stands up to 
walk over to me.
    
I raise a finger, just a finger, and he stops. Thinks. Gets the message. I hear 
his breathing quicken again and then I hear the soft pitter-patter of hands and 
knees and a cold nose snuffles under my hand, stuffing the walkie he's holding 
in his mouth into my hand. "Good boy," I say offhandly and give him a rough pet 
on the head, turning my body so I'm now crotch-to-nose with him. 
    
He wastes no time. He seats himself on his knees and carefully licks his fingers 
clean before he pulls don my zipper and, hell, I'm hard as a rock. Two rounds in 
Alice, one in Rover, one in a fox and already I'm ready for more. He looks up, 
pleading, whining, but I shake my head at him and, reluctantly, he opens his 
jaws wide, closes his eyes and rests my jutting erection on the bottom of his 
long muzzle, closing his lips around the base of the knot. He's a good dog and I 
reward him duly, rubbing him over the ears and he looks up happily, but doesn't 
suck.
    
That's impressive, part of me thinks.
    
But what am I thinking of? Hooking myself a slave, of all things? What's the 
point! I can get sex anytime I want, I can bat someone up anytime I want, I can 
get told how awesome I am anytime I want. I don't need to have someone waiting 
for me at home, fuck that. 
    
Still, an unskilled muzzle like this would be fun to train.
    
I flick on the walkie and the first thing I hear is, "And you can tell Mister 
Ferrum's fucking security people that the guy never arrived and I don't 
appreciate him breathing down my neck like this. For fuck's sake, this is a 
police matter, and he's trying to get office security to solve it for him?" I 
flick it off.
    
It makes me laugh. I hadn't thought a single element of the plan would go well, 
up to now. Not getting Mark to co-operate, not the heist, not the balls-out 
walking into the building and not discerning, from mere security chatter, 
whether Ferrum was already aware the money got stolen from him, and by whom and 
it was so fucking easy. That's four things that went right. Four elements of a 
plan. That means I've got one more, and that's it. Never in my life have I had 
more than five phases of a plan go right, so I always try to keep them short and 
simple. Weird thing, this. I'm almost hoping this next part'll go wrong, so I'll 
have some good fortune to look forward to later down the line. Nothing to do now 
but wait... 
    
But not for long. Halfway through a sigh my phone starts ringing and it 
surprises Luke – sorry, Rover – enough that he gulps around his mouthful, 
accidentally swallowing my tip down his throat, which of course sets him off 
gagging. "It's okay," I assure him and grab him by the hair, then pull him 
toward me, sheathing my cock down his throat nice and deep. It feels so nice to 
have someone gagging around your dick, and it sounds kind of interesting too, 
which is what I'm counting on when I click "receive" on my phone and put it to 
my ear quickly to get the first word in.
    
"You'll soon have your money back, mister Ferrum," I inform him. Rover, to my 
great satisfaction, doesn't look up, simply sits there, hands on his knees, 
throat full of cock, trying not to throw up all over my clothes. He does a good 
job of calming his heaves, turning his head sideways, starting to bob a little. 
That actually feels damn nice. "I see the receptionist at the entrance finally 
decided to open the envelope I forgot on her desk?" 
    
"Why didn't you cover your tracks?" the deep, confident-sounding voice says on 
the other end of the line. The stallion is probably sitting back in his chair, 
still sweaty from his morning work-out, a towel draped around his neck, 
coordinating his security force's search for the perpetrator of this theft, 
something he noticed really, really quickly. Mere minutes after the banks 
opened. Or maybe I'm just imagining he's that cool because I feel that cool, in 
my expensive suit with my worthless fucktoy sucking my dick so fucking nice.
    
"Plausible deniability. If I'd gone into hiding you would have assumed the 
obvious trail to my account was a false one left to hide the true identity of 
your robber." Jesus, it's been a while since I've enjoyed a blowjob this much. 
Or maybe it's to do with the power I feel now, dealing on such even terms with 
someone with as much plain, raw power as Tiber Ferrum. 
    
"Who would be someone close to me, and probably who might have a grudge against 
you. Such as your friend Sharpish, mister Malloy."
    
I smile, even though I know Ferrum can't see me smile, and lay one hand on 
Rover's head, pushing him a little to make him suck me harder and louder. I love 
the way he gags around my dick and still keeps going, as if he's learning that 
the urge to throw up and the sickening effort of repressing that is simply part 
of giving good head, something to be grown accustomed to rather than overcome. 
"You've really done your research. I didn't realise you even knew my name."
    
"Your name came up briefly in my first conversation with Sharpish," the stallion 
says calmly, "He muttered it under his breath so naturally I memorised it and 
had it investigated when I had the chance. If my hunch is correct, you were the 
doberman-of-action with Owen when you barged into my office yesterday, yes? And 
since he has since been taken into... well, custody might not be the appropriate 
word. But you intend to get him free. Do you intend to use my money for that 
purpose? I'd be interested to know what you had in mind..."
    
I'm humping into Rover's mouth now. I barely heard half of what Ferrum said to 
me, I'm so enjoying this rough muzzlefuck, but I get the gist of it. "You don't 
need to keep me talking, mister Ferrum. I know you're probably having the funds 
stolen back as we speak, and I'd have expected nothing less. The money is yours, 
not mine, and I didn't steal it to spend it. I stole it–"
    
"You stole it to impress me. Mister Malloy, that's... impressive."
    
I'm on dangerous ground here. Ferrum's tone is so flat and even and calculated 
that I just can't get it figured out. I don't know what he's after, if he wants 
revenge or to have me working for him or what. "Thank you," I say, trying to 
balance respect with mockery, pulling Rover's head roughly backwards and 
forward, trusting him to slurp up his excess saliva and my preseed as I 
muzzlefuck him for the second time in as many hours. "I simply wanted to show to 
you what I can do, to prove that I'm someone worth having in your debt."
    
The horse snorts lightly, a polite gesture amplified over the phone. "You want 
to demand something in return for me getting my money back?"
    
"Of course not," I tell him simply and I want to say more, I want to explain it 
better, but my eyes are focused on that chiseled canine face pumping itself so 
masochistically over my erection, throwing his own comfort to hell. He's not 
even hard, and I know for a fact that Rover's getting off on this more than on 
any sex act he ever enjoyed.
    
"You truly are impressive, mister Malloy. Tell me, now that you're made your 
mark, what sort of a favour would you ask of me?"
    
And then I came, and groaned into the phone. And I told Tiber Ferrum what kind 
of a favour I wanted from him while I flooded my new fucktoy's throat with 
cocksnot and I knew right then and there, in that moment of climactic victory, 
when a heist had culminated in a deal with one of the most influential 
executives in Maranatha – and one that only visited once or twice a month, too – 
that at this point my luck had officially run out.
    

    
I don't like telling bad stories nearly as much as I like telling good ones, so 
here's the deal. I walked out of the Northern Transnational building, escorted 
by Alan Calhoun, the security guard, who guided me past the checkpoint at the 
car entrance ramp and toward the plaza in front of the building's official 
entrance. There, two men were waiting. Two men I recognised. A tiger with a 
black eye and a jackal that wasn't looking too good, each dressed in plain, 
ordinary clothes that looked so out of place amid the stylish suits everybody 
else was wearing that they might as well have worn the security uniforms they 
wore when I beat the crap out of them in Ferrum's office.
    
They introduced themselves, I forgot their names immediately. Rover stiffened as 
my phone went off, which I'd had him set to vibrate, carefully lick from end to 
end and then carefully shove up his own arse. Good thing for him mine was a 
stylish, ergonomic clamshell rather than a pointy, boxy brick. He tried to look 
inconspicuous about it and I wondered who would call me at this hour, but I 
couldn't think of anybody who could call me for whom it would make a difference 
if I called them back after what we were about to do.
    
Ferrum had provided us transportation. A black van, not unlike the one I'd 
parked in the alley behind Anezka's shop, but better-organised inside. The tiger 
got behind the wheel, showing no signs of holding a grudge, and the jackal got 
in the back with me and Rover and went through the weapons available in the van. 
I'd never fired an SMG so I politely declined on the MP5 the jackal – I remember 
his name now, Reiner – offered me, opting instead for two hand pistols. Black 
and well-balanced, they were far from Lola's elegance but felt familiar enough. 
I stuffed them both down the back of my pants while I gave the tiger 
instructions on where to drive. 
    
Long story short, I said. I'm going to hold to that. Here goes.
    
Alice said he'd been kept in a warehouse that was empty except for a cage and 
Owen took Alice's place and I know of three warehouses McIlwain owns that 
Sharpish would have access to, and two of them are used for stolen cars, so I 
had the tiger... Whose name I totally can't remember, drive to the third.
    
We drove right through the loading doors and all of us jumped out of the van 
simultaneously, weapons at the ready, ready to take on...
    
Nobody. There was nobody in the warehouse. It was empty, as Alice had said and 
there was a cage large enough for a man to crawl in, but it, too was empty. And 
a door at the far end opened and Sharpish stepped through and before I could 
stop him, Rover leveled his weapon at the ferret. There was a noise like a 
thunderclap and then Rover flew backward, trailing blood through the air and 
when he accidentally fired his weapon at the floor, in the haze of smoke and 
dust I could briefly see three red lines, laser sights, that redirected 
themselves. No doubt at myself and the two men Ferrum had provided, who 
recognised a lost cause when they saw one. They dropped their weapons and knelt 
on the ground on either side of me, as Sharpish approached and it was as if it 
all happened in slow motion, you know?
    
I stood there, my guns, drawn but unfired, dropped to the floor. I stood there 
in a daze, unable to believe it. The last part, so simple, the easiest fucking 
part of the plan now that I'd jumped through all these hoops and gone through 
all this trouble and planned everything from the start and now, this last part... 
Owen wasn't there to be rescued.
    
Sharpish took long strides toward me and the door behind him opened, several 
more thugs in black bomber jackets coming through after him. I tried to think, 
tried to think how he'd known I'd come here, how he'd known so quickly. There 
was no way. No way. He couldn't have predicted I'd get this kind of manpower 
this quickly.
    
I saw the glint on Sharpish' fingers. Brass knuckles. He was five steps away, 
already preparing the punch and I couldn't think to defend myself or even get 
ready, I was so lost in thought. If he wasn't waiting for me, then he was 
waiting for somebody else. But who? I tried to think of the possibilities, but 
Sharpish was already there and I tried to raise my hands, to ask him for just a 
few more seconds' thought, but I didn't get it.
    
And with that, and a whole shitload of regrets, ol' Malloy's out for the count.




    To be continued.



Available on 
paperback in 2005 - mail the author for information.