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Arnold wasn't into being worshiped, like his uncle Dietrich, I was the reason he'd never bothered getting his gift; Arnold didn't need the muscle mass, nor the desire to be adored that came with it. But as the owner of a men's club where sex with the staff and among the customers was the norm, he had to do more than put in an appearance, he had to put on the occasional show for them. So he'd pulled a sleek bull out of the booth. Ordered him out of his clothes and proceeded to have sex with him standing up.

He never jumped directly to fucking when he did these; even before Aiden had forced his two-month stint into show business, with performing the one song that had somehow hit the charts for local audiences, Arnold had known this was more than fucking.

It wasn't exactly worship for Arnold, but it seemed to be close to that for the client he picked; the way they pressed against him as he ran his hands over the bull's chest, his stomach, his heavy balls, think cock. Arnold stroked it, bit the side of the bull's neck, letting out a short growl.

The bull shuddered and moaned, pressed his ass against Arnold's precum slick cock. The bull wanted to be fucked, and Arnold wanted it too, but he didn't change his position, kept thrusting between the cheeks. He continued stroking the bull's cock.

What he had learned from Aiden, was that shows has a rhythm independent of the music or the dancing; expectations were set, met, or delayed, the climax wasn't just in the end of the song, but in bringing the crowd along with him.

He'd brought those teaching back to his club, to these little performance. The expectation was that he was in charge, he took what he wanted and controlled what happened. He'd had to learn to endure being touched during these shows as the crowd moved closer, tried to absorb his potency.

The hand on his back felt both alien and comforting, then another joined it, and another. Someone licked the scar on his arm. No one touched Arnold's ass, he'd had to give surprisingly few warnings about that.

Someone pressed against the bull. Arnold felt another set of hands caress the inside of the bull's legs, and removed his from the cock. Someone else would see to the bull's pleasure. Now he could reposition himself, the bull and the crowd had been teased long enough.

He grabbed the hips and pushed in, in a long, slow, thrust. The bull bellowed and his full-body shudder traveled through the crowd along with moans. Arnold fucked the bull slowly; he felt a cock rub against his leg, one on the other side, thrusting against the hand holding the hip.

He let them.

This show was for them, for his customers. He was giving them a glimpse of what it meant to be Arnold Orr. To drive men to a frenzy of sexual need, to have those men want to be fucked, need it. Already he heard the cries of ecstasy over someone calling him. Arnold pounded the bull's ass hard, each deep thrust making him bellow ever louder.

Arnold had a feral grin as he fucked the bull in the middle of a writhing mass of men driven to a frenzy by what he was doing.

This might not be worship, but it had a power of its own that Arnold drank in. When he came, the release would make Him proud.

"Sir!" the voice was in his ear and Arnold spun, pulling out of the bull, throwing men off him and grabbing the elk by the neck, lifting him off the floor.

"What fuck are you interrupting me for," he snarled.

The elk grabbed at the arm, and after contemplating tossed him away, Arnold deposited him down and loosened his grip enough his barman could talk.

"Ernest needs to speak with you, it's urgent."

Arnold cursed, and let the elk go, it would be for the giraffe to bother him now. Ernest should still be in the hospital, but had discharged himself and set up the temporary offices. No amount of screaming had gotten him to go back. "He's on the backroom's screen?"

"Yes sir." The elk rubbed his neck. "I can transfer it to your office."

"No time." Arnold shoved the elk forward. Hands grabbed at him, trying to pull him back, but Arnold ignored them, like he ignored the pressure in his balls. He'd take care of them once he'd dealt with the emergency.

In the backroom, three of his servers were on break, one showering, one vaping and the other asleep on a couch. Was he overworking them? He added going over the schedule to the interminable list of things he needed to deal with.

"Ernest, what's so fucking urgent?"

"Archbishop Vincent Petrus is dead," the giraffe said in his matter of fact tone, the bandages on his head obscuring his already unreadable expressions more.

Arnold couldn't initially process the worlds, then snarled, "how the fuck did it happen? I told them we needed him to stay alive until we had everything! By His Cum, if one of them just lost control and killed him, I'm going to castrate them!"

"No one did this, sir," the giraffe said his expression still calm.

"Are telling me you don't know who killed him? Ernest, if you're losing control of the office, I have reason to keep you."

"No, sir." Ernest didn't react to the threat, "I have my suspicions as to who is responsible, and I believe that if you watch happened, you will reach the same one."

Arnold tried to read something in the giraffe's face, but even if vid calls were the only time Ernest looked him in the eyes, Arnold couldn't pick up anything. "Show me."

The scene was a stark interrogation room. The boar was tied to a chair bolted to the floor. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises. It had taken a lot of damage before the stopped healing. He was naked, his legs, chest and arms just as damaged, but his cock and balls untouched.

The boar might be the enemy, but even on them, some things should be respected. For all the threatening about castrating when angry, he'd never carried through with them.

The boar's breathing was heavy, raspy; his mouth moved. Praying, Arnold expected.

The boar's head jerked up. "Sir, I didn't think I'd ever have the honor."

Arnold paused the playback and searched the image for any indications there was someone else in the room. The camera was set in the corner of the ceiling, by the door. The blind-spot was minimal; someone could stand in it, but the boar was looking ahead at the wall.

The thought that the boar's mind had snapped flickered and was cast away. Arnold suspected this was much worse than a broken man. He looked at the time stamp, only a little over ten minutes ago. He unpause it.

The boar was silent, the shook his head. "No, sir. I take full responsibility, I was careless. I have told them nothing."

The boar smiled and straightened. Arnold paused and replayed the next few seconds slowly, the smile fell away, worry replaced it, an instant of fear, the resignation. He brought it back to normal speed.

The boar was crying, but his voice steady. "I understand." He took a breath, blinked the tears away and looked ahead. "If I may ask, what will you tell my wife?" his smile was wistful. "Yes, thank you. And it is not a lie." He closed his eyes. "I am ready. May God ever be at your side." The boar slumped forward and the marks started bleeding.

"Fuck, What about the others?"

"They also died," Ernest replied, "at exactly the same moment, although they did not have a conversation with some invisible person."

"No invisible, projecting." He cursed again. They'd suspected Damian could communicate mentally with his men. Now they had the proof. Not only that, but he could make sure Arnold didn't learn anything. He probably let the boar live this long just to show how resistant to interrogation the were.

"I'm heading over," Arnold said.

"Sir, there is no--"

"I'm fucking heading over! I want to look at the bodies myself."

"Yes, Sir."

Arnold terminated the call and turned to head out and noticed the elk was still there, as was the sleeping goat. He'd slept through his shouting?

"When he wakes up, send him home with pay. Put out a call for more staff, do the interviews and I'll decide we're hiring. No one here should be worked to the point they can't service the clients."

"Yes, sir, I'll see to it."

Arnold stormed through the club, ignoring the continuing orgy, past the raccoon seated in the closest booth to the exit and through the hall leading to the parking lot.

"Sir, what is the emergency?" the raccoon caught up to him. His English was better now, but the Portuguese accent still heavy.

"I need to head back to the office."

"The destroyed office?"

"The temporary one."

"Should you not dress first."

"No time." Arnold pushed there men in his way aside and ignored the snarls of disgust he got. Let them be pissed at his lack of manners, when he saw them again, he's explain how they were the ones expected to behave.

Outside the last afternoon wind was cool through his fur the raccoon outraced him to the car amidst gasps of surprise from passerby. He was already behind the wheel when Arnold reached it.

"You have made admirers today," the raccoon said as he drove away.

Arnold looked in the side mirror; some of the men and women were looking at there phones. "Now they have something to jerk off to, and if the men want to experience it, they know where to go."

"More men is always good."

"Yeah. I noticed you didn't join in."

The raccoon bobbed his head left and right. "It was not the place for me to do so. They are your people."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I do not know how the better explain. He wants me to find more men for Him, but they must be right."

"Are you fucking telling me my customers aren't worthy of His--" there was a flash of light behind them. Arnold turned in his seat in time to see the dust cloud billow out from a building two blocks back.

"Turn around."

"I do not believe that is a wise course of action." The raccoon was looking in the rearview mirror.

"I fucking told you to turn around." Arnold reached for the raccoon's neck, intent in pulling him out on the seat, but his hand slid over the fur without finding purchase. "I hate your ability. Turn around, Cordeiro!"

"I am to protect you, that does not look safe."

"Fine." Arnold grabbed the door's handle; before he could open it the car did a u-turn that had the tires screeching and Arnold slam into the glass.

His driver was cursing in Portuguese, giving him angry glares. "I--"

"I don't fucking care how you feel you have to pay us back for saving you from me old men. I didn't ask for you to follow me everywhere. You should be finding Him more men, whatever the fuck that means."

The debris in the street forced them to stop half a block away, but it was close enough for Arnold's cum to dry out. His club was gone. The explosion had obliterated the building. His disbelief turned to anger at what Damian had done. He was going to wring that man's neck when he found--

People came stumbling out of the rubble. Arnold shouldered the car's door off and ran to help them.