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9/28/92

Cousin Louie was a Mets fan, through and through. I couldn't hold that against him: he grew up in Queens (though his family's from fuckin' Yonkers, so I don't even know.) I can't hold a man's sports team choices against him, even if they're the fuckin' useless asshole Mets, who, the chattering radio in the console of my Buick informed us, had just dropped a doubleheader against the Phillies. I'd have laughed at him, had the DJ not followed up that report with:

"And in Cleveland, a pair of eighth-inning RBIs took care of the Yankees' hopes of a late-game comeback, final score, 6-4. The Yanks slide to a tie for fifth in the AL East."

I cursed under my breath, looking out my driver's-side window. I'd pulled the car into a pay lot and given the attendant a fifty to quit hassling me. I was early for a job. As to why Louie was along for the ride, well, that's why I was early. I still owed him over the Garibaldi mess, so he got to borrow my car---and he wanted me out of it as soon as possible. I think he was driving out to Danbury or somewhere equally pointless.

The sky was black and autumn bit down early---it was the suffering season in New York.

---

NOTHING BETTER TO DO PRODUCTIONS PRESENTS:

JACK CRANE (100% FOX. 110% MAN.)

IN

KING OF CLUBS

I wanted a cigarette. Getting that out of the way first thing. Vera had taken me downtown last week to get me a nice suit---nice enough to be seen with her in public, basically---and every time I'm in a suit and tie, my body seems to think it's 1978 again and starts screaming for a Nat Sherman. Tonight would be one of those nights. I checked my watch. Almost ten. I turned the car off, taking the keyring and pulling off my apartment keys. Louie lit up like a fuckin' Christmas tree. Popping the door, I tossed him the car keys and he circled around to the front while I got my briefcase out of the back seat. I was halfway through handcuffing it to my wrist when Louie popped his nose out the window, his annoyance puffing in steam in the cold air, "Hey, Jack, you only left a quarter-tank in this thing. C'mon, man, you know I'm light this week, at least gimme a twenty to fill it the once."

I sighed. "Fuckin' christ, Louie, half the problems you have wouldn't happen if you could hold onto a fuckin' dollar for more than thirty seconds." I gave him my other fifty. "Don't say I never do nothin' for ya, alright?"

He nodded and put the car in gear. "And for the love of god," I added, "Bring it back in one piece? I'm not made of money."

Louie's ratty nose wriggled as he leaned on the brake, turning back out the window to argue some more. "Bullshit, you're the one who's fucking the mafiosa."

I gave him a bit of a sour look. "Louie, if you were ever in a relationship that didn't fall under the loosely-defined umbrella term "prostitution," would you ask your girlfriend to buy you a car?"

He was nonplussed. "...yes?"

"That's why you're single. You don't do that shit. I'm not going to ask Vera for a car."

I could, of course. She wouldn't even bat an eye. She'd rather ride the subway than take my car. Then again, most nights, I would too.

Louie pulled out with a wave and I readjusted my jacket, the September wind picking up again. I should have worn an overcoat. Stepped onto Crosby Street, looked up at the new SoHo growth. It's really getting built up down here, kinda crazy...this never was my neighborhood, I'm a Flatbush kid, but I'd been around enough times for one thing or another.

Half a block later, and I'm skipping down some steps to the door of a basement nightclub. You know the sort. Excessively cutesy name, overpriced drinks, rainbow sticker in a discreet corner of the front door? This one's called Chatley's, apparently. Before I have any time to consider how much I hate the cutesy names gay bars invariably get, I'm recognized and ushered through the door by a huge, neckless otter security-type. Expected, for once. That's nice. I turned my head left, right, checking the patrons, keeping an eye open for trouble. Also, out of an inability to not check a TV that's on when walking by, what was on the screen behind the bar. Movie of some sort. Moving on. The place was pretty dead, a few quiet, desparate hook-ups forming over drinks in the corners. I shrugged internally. Safer than the showers at the Y, at any rate.

Stepping sideways through a narrow gap between empty tables, lifting my briefcase with a jingle of chain over tablecloth all Italian-restaurant checkered, I had to admit that it was an okay joint. Not my usual watering hole, but there were far worse places---in this very neighborhood, even. The bouncer used his key to open a heavy wooden door at the back of the lounge. The door, darkly stained like the bar's own woodwork, had a small sign in dingy brass bolted to it reading "private." The hallway beyond was antiseptic white plaster and grey linoleum, the elevator standing open at the end, waiting for us, the hum of machinery reaching through the walls. Bright, too bright after the darkness of the bar.

The elevator was hot and stank of oil and sawdust. I got off alone, the bouncer returning to work without further comment. I found myself in a small, dimly lit office. Cheap fake wood paneling, sand-colored carpet worn down and unchanged since the Nixon administration. The domain of the secretary, gone home for the night. The door at the back with the frosted glass stood half-open, ready for business, light spilling into the secretarial pool in a brazen slash. The name on the door: RYMAN.

The name, for those not in the know, which is basically everyone not involved in the New York City commercial real estate market over the last decade, belongs to a tough operator originally from something like Barbados. Barbados? Bulgaria? Bangladesh? Definitely a B-place. Leonard Ryman. I knew him, sort of. He wanted in on the big money real estate game and didn't care who he made deals with to get there. Basically wanted to be the gay Donald Trump, and more power to him. With any luck, he wouldn't declare bankruptcy like Trump did last year. Ryman started buying and renovating clubs in the wake of the post-disco crash and has somehow made shitloads of money from it. He's got millions in the bank, but you couldn't tell from his office. Even though he still plays aggressive in the markets, he's kept the same shitty office furniture since he set up shop in `75, claiming it keeps him humble.

Even with the door open, I knock as I poke my head through. The inner office looks much the same as the outer; same carpet, same sort of desk, same shades drawn against the black of the night. Ryman's desk, the man's chair, and one chair facing it. Where the secretaries had houseplants and photos of their kids as decoration, though, Ryman's office was curiously bare. No bulletin boards with memos, no coffeemaker, no plants and nothing on his desk. Nothing business-related, anyway.

Perched on the edge of Ryman's desk were two waif-thin fennec boys in full heroin-chic glory. Twin twinks sitting crosslegged, watching the door idly, only distinguishable by their color-coordinated outfits. Each was wearing a slinky, satiny, high-collared Chinese dress with matching slippers, one in a stunning imperial violet, the other in a pearly snow white. The one wearing purple was trimming a nailclaw with a gravity knife. They both looked quietly bored.

Behind them, behind the desk, watching out the picture windows was a mountain of a man, the picture of bovine fitness, standing nearly wide as he was tall. That's the guy. He turned as I knocked, fingers slipping out from between the slats of the blind. The midnight-black minotaur was dressed in a cream-colored suit, dress shirt open to the dark cleavage between his massive pecs. The numerous gold rings on his equally-massive fingers glittered in the shine from the overhead lights. He grinned as I stepped inside, voice booming out, "Mr. Crane! A pleasure to make your acquaintance! Please, come in. This shouldn't take long at all, and then we will be making real money."

I'd be a fool and a liar if I could say that I understood every twist and turn of the financial deal set to be concluded in this room, just that Vera Garibaldi had asked me to be the metaphorical triggerman. The bagman, technically. I was armed, but only in case of some completely bizarre scenario, like, I dunno. Aliens show up and try to probe me. Or a rival organization tries to take what I've got. Ryman would gain nothing by my death. So it was zero stress---other than still needing a fucking smoke, holy shit.

I crossed the threshold and entered the office, the two crossdressers standing as I approached the desk, the one in white pulling the chair out for me. Ryman grinned widely, holding a massive meathook of a hand out across the desk to shake. I looked back up the flexing line of his arm and condemned myself to a horribly squeezed hand. This was not to be, however: his grip was sure but warm and reassuring. We sat, Ryman's associates shuffling off to business elsewhere.

I unshackled my wrist and opened the briefcase.

Inside were two items: a sheaf of papers in dense legalese and a portable telephone, which took up most of it. I handed over the papers, and Ryman took a moment to fish his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket. I sit back in the chair and before I can even blink, White is at my elbow, offering an antique lapis-lacquered cigarette box full up with thin brown tubes of smokeable joy. With a grin, I took one, biting down gently on the cork filter. They even got the right blend. Violet bent down with a wooden match behind a cupped palm to light me. "Thanks, babe," I replied, smiling. Mmf. Things were certainly looking up. The fennecs took their leave, Violet gently squeezing my shoulder as he passed.

Ryman, either uncaring or oblivious to this byplay, gave the rest of the contract a perfunctory reading, frowning at a number here and there, then slipping a simple black inkpen out of a drawer and applying his slashing, prominent signature to the last page. As Leonard lowered his pen, I was already raising the satellite phone to my ear, the line at the other end ringing.

"Yeah?" says the voice, belonging to a perpetually-cranky Jerseyite by the name of Edison.

"We're signed," I say, "Has the cash started moving?"

I hear Edison tapping at a computer keyboard. "Mmmmmm...hm. Yeah. Yeah, it's settled."

"Alright, thanks, buddy. G'night, Edison." I stubbed my spent cigarette out and wondered if I should have another.

"I'm not your buddy, Crane. Don't break your jaw suckin' off that fag bull."

The line disconnected abruptly and I wondered for a moment if Edison's jibe had been audible in the quiet room.

"I apologize for what you probably heard from my colleague, Mr. Ryman..." I started, but Ryman waved it aside with one massive hand, looking quite amused.

"I am, for the record, well-acquainted with Mr. Morgan Edison's particular brand of homophobia," he rolled this last word around his mouth as if sampling a fine wine, continuing, "as he was previously in my employ in my own accounting department. I cannot abide his views, but I certainly trust his skill with money."

The bovine entrepreneur leaned back in his seat, lacing his thick fingers and placing his hands behind his head. "I will say, however, that I do plan on celebrating this transaction, and I would be remiss in my duties as host were I not to invite you to join us." He grinned, revealing wide, sparklingly white teeth. "It appears that Percy has taken something of a shine to you already."

I glanced to my right, where Violet, presumably Percy, stood patiently, the fennec tossing me a quick but saucy wink in reply. I grinned. "I'd love to, Mr. Ryman. I certainly don't have anywhere to be right now."

"Please," he said, "Call me Len. We're off-duty now."

I grinned back, leaning back in my chair with a little slouch. I inhaled deeply, catching the musky edge of need in the air. Draping my arm over the back of the chair, I unexpectedly found my fingertips meeting another's. Percy took my paw in his, brushing his lips across my fingers and knuckles as I stood, pivoting to meet him as if he were asking me to dance. Which, obviously, we were---just not to music.

Our bodies came together, chest to chest, Percy several inches shorter than me, our arms wrapped around each other and our mouths colliding, drinking in each other's heat in a glowingly passionate kiss. We were both already stiffening, our respective needs making a mockery of the proper line and drape of a tailored outfit. Him more than me---there's nowhere to hide a boner in one of those little Chinese dresses, and his bulge was quickly pushing itself out to rub up against my own.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Len's other assistant bring him a mirror the size of a dinner plate, several lines of cocaine already cut from the pile in the corner. Moving product was never really my main game, but I'd been to enough parties in Miami to estimate it at about half a grand's worth, maybe double that if it's good shit. Considering Ryman's bank accounts, it had better be good shit. Either way, I was busy with Percy, who'd gone from sucking on my tongue to loosening my tie and collar and sucking on my collarbone. I kissed his forehead and shrugged out of my jacket, which I let fall back to my chair. He looped one leg around my thigh, undoing my shirt buttons and burying his face in my chestfur. I slipped my paws down Percy's back and palmed his ass through his silky purple gown. Gorgeous.

A bit of a sniff and a groan caught my ear from the other side of the desk, and I looked up to catch Len getting right into it---the bull had one finger and a few extra sniffles going to get the coke all the way up his nose. His free hand worked his shirt loose while his personal assistant got really personal, the fox in white down on his knees already, uncasing Len's erection, slipping the bull's jockstrap down his tree-trunk thighs. The massive, musky nuts and half-hard shaft bobbed free for a moment before being wrapped up in a steady stream of wet licks and sloppy kisses. I can guarantee that I definitely looked impressed. I can't call myself a size queen, but I can absolutely say that I respect a big organ. Len caught me looking, and we exchanged a grin and a wink.

Percy was up to some similar business with my trousers, and I didn't stand on ceremony, stepping out of my shoes and letting him strip me down. As I finished by tossing off my undershirt, Percy was already slowly tossing me off, my johnson quickly swelling to full stiffness in the younger man's paw. I pushed a hand through his hair and rubbed behind his ears. I hadn't planned on guiding his lips to my cockhead, but that's what happens, my palm atop his head, Percy eagerly lapping at my manhood. He was good, damn good.

I took another glance over at what Len and his other assistant were up to. The desk blocked off part of my view, but it was pretty clear that Len, having sat back down and put his feet up on the desk, had a fennec between his thighs, getting himself a rimjob. Len had one massive hand pressed to his chest, tugging and pulling on one charcoal nipple, doing just the same to his prick with the other hand, hilting into his wide fist. "Yes, Miles," Ryman groaned, "taste my starhole." Huh. So that's the other guy's name.

I pulled my prick out of Percy's mouth, kneeling down to kiss him again, tasting myself on his tongue. He laid back on the floor (which, really, was the more comfortable option, since the carpet was like sandpaper on your knees) and I fell atop him, the two of us trading kisses like we'd been waiting for each other forever. I was somewhat smitten, I admitted to myself as I undid the clasps at the neck and shoulder of Percy's dress and trailed kisses down to his nipples. Sitting back on my heels, I grinned down at Percy, who gave me a coy look and lifted up one dainty slipper, waiting for me to relieve him of it. I obliged, setting the royal purple shoe to the side. Percy let his newly-bared foot drag down my chest as he provided his other shoe for me to remove, nudging my shaft and slipping it betwixt two of his toes. I chuckled and pushed back, letting his paw continue to stroke me as he fiddled with his lacy underwear, undoing the side ties and playfully dangling the silken fabric before me for a moment before giving it a quick fling, the violet bikini landing to hang like a nun's wimple from atop my throbbing church spire.

I laughed and leaned back over him, tossing aside the scrap of silk and leaning my weight into the delighted fennec. Percy lifted his legs and wrapped them around me, drawing me down, my hard-on naturally coming to rest in the cleft of his ass, the fur there already damp. Percy answered my unasked question, whispering "I lubed while you were on the phone. I want you inside me, Jack..." before closing his eyes and stealing another kiss. From behind me, Leonard had clearly gone to work on his subordinate, the bovine grunting and snuffling with some aspect of the white-gowned fennec between his lips, the noises wet and sloppy.

Pushing up for a moment on my elbow, I got a hand between my legs to guide my rod. His passage received me hungrily, his need palpable, moaning into my shoulder as I mated him. He was tight but yielding, hot and slick, the fennec already shuddering in quaking lust as I slipped him my length, inch by inch. Percy buried his fingers in the thick fur at the nape of my neck, holding on to me bodily. He was just the cutest guy. I grunted with each thrust, and he let out a tiny moan, right at the edge of my ear, like it was just for me. So cute.

We kissed again and again, passing whispers and moaned endearments, Percy letting out the tiniest involuntary yips as I hilted inside him, pausing long enough for him to get his bearings with my entire rod lodged inside him. He murmured my name again, this time with a question attached. "Jack...Mr. Jack, would you please stroke me off?" He looked up at me blissfully, wriggling his hips to draw attention to his own throbbing meat, grinding from knot to tip in the fur of my belly.

"I'll do you one better, babe," I said, leaning back, letting my cock slip back out of his hole. His face lit up even further as I laid down alongside him, wrapping my muzzle around his stiff one, throbbing and hot on my tongue. Within moments, Percy was grinding up at me, his silken-furred sac pressed to my nose. I wasn't interested in teasing, I wanted to taste his seed, so I dragged my tongue up and down his length, wrapping it around his cockhead. I sucked air greedily through my nose and his cock even more greedily in my mouth. I could taste the bitter almond tang of his pre, and I wanted all of his salty, creamy load, a flavor the fine fellow beneath me soon provided, shooting his wad with an almost girlish whine of ecstasy. I wrapped my arms around the fennec's waist as he quivered and shook, lashings of issue coating my palate. A dribble escaped my lips as I pulled off of his still-twitching member and Percy was instantly at my cheek with a lick and a kiss and within a moment our tongues were once again touching in a soul-kiss.

Smiling up at me, Percy rolled over with a tiny grunt, getting on his knees and once more presenting his needy haunches to me, and I immediately got back to work, getting my bit of stiff back by dragging it between his narrow cheeks and slotting it home. Percy was born to be bred, pushing back against me, almost daring me to pump him full of my own cream, a dare I was glad to take. In fact, with such a scent of sex in my nose, both canine and bovine, I didn't have much longer to go either, my thick knot pushing through the fennec's tight ring, and soon it would be locked in there for the forseeable future, claiming my place within my lover's well-plowed depths. Groaning, I bent over Percy's back, gripping his shoulder intently, and we fucked. My scrote slapped wetly against his taint again, again, again, and then I couldn't hold back any longer. In the relative quiet of the office, my cry of orgasm was practically a growl, a shout.

As I shook my head, coming down from my euphoria, An even stronger, deeper musk crossed my nostrils, and I looked up to find Len kneeling behind me, laying his massive pipe across my ass. "Mr. Crane, would you do me the honor taking my nut tonight?" he asked. I cracked a grin, even a bit worn down and still tied with Percy. "Gladly, Len."

The next time I decide to take Len to bed, remind me to take a page from Percy's playbook and nip out to prepare my passage beforehand.

The cabride uptown didn't take long at all, either because it was past midnight and the traffic had died down, or I was just bone-tired and I didn't notice the time go by. It had drizzled a little while I was occupied, and I nearly gave myself a soaker in a curbside puddle as I paid the cabbie. I nodded briefly to the uniformed doorman as I jogged up the hotel's front steps and made my way inside. I was melancholy for reasons I couldn't quite assemble, even though I could still smell Percy's musk all over me. The thought of him made my prick flex thickly in my trousers. I definitely liked the fellow, would have to see him again. I sighed. Shit, I was becoming a hopeless romantic in my old age.

Riding the elevator up to the penthouse suite, I was already re-loosening my tie, even though Percy'd just done back it up for me maybe a half-hour earlier. I basically wanted to walk in, kiss Vera good night, fall-face down and pass out unconscious. I was beat, and for all sorts of reasons. I fished the keys out of my pocket. Just as I reached out to undo the lock, a voice from within:

"Ah, fuck! Fuck, breed my asshole, mommy! Nnnnnyeeeeesssssss..."

Clearly not Vera. The girl's kinky, but damn.

Stepping into the entryway, I found the whole story was told in the discarded clothing that marked a trail to the living room. I recognized Vera's evening gown, but along with it, the light blue, utilitarian dress and black pantyhose of the hotel's housekeeping staff. Rounding the corner towards the source of the moaning and the flat, wet slap of colliding flesh, I paused to take in the sight.

Bent over the top of the living room couch, a twenty-something peroxide-headed red panda girl proved to be the source of all the racket, moaning and continuing her exhortations as she got railed by the older feline standing on the cushions behind her. I grinned and leaned against the wall, just wondering how long it'd take for Vera to notice me, what with her balls-deep in the maid. In fact, it only took a thrust or two for Vee to look up, calling out sunnily, "Oh, hi, Jack. How was Lenny?" She didn't bother to stop fucking for the exchange of pleasantries. I came into the living room to get a better look at things, replying simply, "He's fine, deal's settled."

The firefox quivered bodily, briefly lost in orgasm as I circled the couch. This younger woman looked up at me as I approached, offering a cheery hello. I waved back and stood up on the arm of the couch to give Vera a kiss. I could taste the blonde on her lips, she could probably still taste the jism on mine.

We have a weird relationship, I mused to myself, giving Vera's thick ass a friendly squeeze. "I'm gonna hit the hay. You two have fun."

Vera just smiled back, ruffling my cheekfur. I stepped off the couch and headed for the master bedroom, the maid calling after me, "G'night Mister Crane!" as the rutting began again. I waved vaguely, undressed vaguely, and collapsed onto the bed vaguely. I must have been unconscious before even a moment or two had passed.

I can't remember what I was dreaming of when I began to stir awake. I was face-down in the pillows like usual, and slowly I became aware of another body in bed with mine. Not only that, but that instead of being alongside me, perhaps sleeping off the evening's activities, they're between my thighs, under the blanket. In fact, as my brain groggily begins to put one and two together to get three, that someone is lifting my tail and licking intently just beneath.

Yeah, obviously it felt good, especially after the treatment it got from Ryman's fuckstick. The tonguebath was entirely unexpected, but real nice. I was already hard with morning wood, might as well just get right into it, I figured, with the shitty sort of logic one can only have when you first wake up in the...whatever time it is. I spread my knees a bit and lifted my ass, chuckling to my unseen partner. "Mmm, damn, Vee, you're insatiable..."

"Nope!" replied the presence under my blanket between broad licks in a cheery voice. I rolled over and tossed the covers aside, revealing, to my great surprise, the panda Vera was giving the high hard one to last night. Cheerful as ever, the maid knelt at the foot of the mattress, nearly naked but for her bright pink underwear. She crossed her arms under her bare breasts, grin sparkling and eyes shining. "I was talking with Mz G. last night after you went to bed and when I said I thought you were cute, she suggested I give you your wake-up call. She's already headed back to Long Island, she told me to tell you, but you apparently don't have anything at all scheduled today!" She leaned in, putting her palms down on the mattress. "Feel like wasting the day with me?" she asked.

This is, one might imagine, a lot of information to take in first thing in the what-for-the-sake-of-simplicity-we'll-call-the-morning, but I gave it my best shot. "I could probably do something like that. What's your name, since you clearly already know mine?"

She slipped in next to me, taking half my pillow and quickly sticking her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, sliding out of them in one quick motion and draping the neon pink fabric atop my erection, a flag for my flagpole---and a counterpart to Percy during last night's festivities. Running her fingers through the fur of my chest, she kissed my cheek. "I'm Connie," she said breathily, stroking my pride of the morning with her velvety drawers. Before I could reply in any meaningful way, she'd already climbed atop me, tail up so I could get a good look at her bottom and the dewy lips beyond. I touched a finger between her folds to steal a quick taste. Glorious.

Of course, just as I was about to get down to business, there's a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, the door was pushed open, and a whitetail doe's face popped into view around the edge of it. Vera's personal assistant, Edith. Connie hopped back under the covers with an eep, I didn't bother covering up. Edith's seen me with a hard-on like eight times now, neither of us particularly care.

She sighed, clearly wishing that I would have been reading the financial papers and fussing over eggs benedict instead of fooling around with the help. She got on with it anyway as Connie tried to make herself presentable, or at least fully covered by blankets. "So, your car's fucked," she said, "Cousin Louie wrapped it around a telephone pole by the train station in Mt. Vernon. Fuckin' loser. He only sprained an ankle. I had the tow truck guy clean it out before junking it, whatever you had left in there will get sent back to your office."

I couldn't help but slap my forehead with a groan. "Thanks for taking care of it, Edie," I replied, fairly morosely. Edith nodded and closed up behind her as she left.

I flopped back against the pillows, my cock already radiating how little I was in the mood at the moment, going limp at a world-record pace.

God fucking dammit, Louie.

---

TO BE CONCLUDED IN

JACK CRANE (100% FOX. 110% MAN.): ACE OF SPADES

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