Maranatha - Chapter V, as told by Q. I. Malloy
#5 of Maranatha
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
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Available on paperback in 2005
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Chapter V - As Told By Q. I. Malloy
Just a few minutes' shut-eye would be enough. Get my head to stop spinning, get
my stomach un-knotted... But I can't afford five minutes. I leave the van and put
all my faith in Mark. If he's not as good as I think he is, we're screwed and
more importantly, Owen's screwed but, fuck it, if I think about that I'll feel
worse than I am and I can't do what needs to be donw.
I unbutton my shirt, letting it hang open over my belly as I approach the glass
walls of the bank's lobby and idly wonder what day it is. The fact that I don't
know worries me so I quickly turn my thoughts elsewhere, and think back to the
hours I spent between Alice's welcoming thighs, feeling the gentle firmness of
his sheath and balls against my groin as I satisfied myself in him. He's like
Owen in that regard, he likes a selfish fuck the best, a fuck from someone who
understands that all Alice cares about is making him feel good, and accepts
that... hospitality.
The thought gets me hard. Good. I can feel myself slipping out of my sheath,
rubbing up the inside of my trousers... Then a wave of nausea hits me and it
softens.
I see Alice's face under me, looking so relaxed. Sex isn't about arousal, for
him, it's about joy. He likes to be face-to-face, to see the pleasure on his
partner's face. Part of me thinks the boy's straight, deep down, but he's come
to enjoy the sight of someone's face at the moment they reach their peak so much
that the thought of his own pleasure seems trivial. Guess he learned that from
Owen.
God, that boy gets me ha-a-a-ard. I can feel my body warming and not from the
ill feeling that keeps growing. I'm hot. I'm horny, despite the fact that I'm
feeling suckier by the second. I can barely see straight, I'm short of breath,
my stomach's turning in all the wrong direction and my headache's started
buzzing again. I arrive at the window-wall in this state and lean against it
with one arm, then slump forward, draping my whole body against the glass.
I draw my tongue along the glass, tasting nothing. These guys keep their
building clean. I slam my fist against it and the bang reverberates loudly. I
see motion, from the main desk. Somebody's there. Somebody's coming. Now, with
my body getting rocked by waves of disorientation, we get to see if I'm half as
good as I think I am.
It was about a month ago when I rediscovered the usefulness of pillow talk. I
was walking out of the Dive, coughing the entrance's artificial smoke from my
lungs, with a handsome German Shepherd on my arm. Normally, as you may know, I
go for the younger sort, but the younger sort don't often frequent the Dive so
on a night like this, I'll pull a studly twenty-something for a roll in the hay.
His going-out attire was conservative by Dive standars, a black tank top and
jeans, and normally I wouldn't have given him a second glance... But he looked so
happy to be in a place like this, it was so bloody obviously his very first time
in the Dive.
I sat down and talked to him and, let's be honest, he was pretty stupid. I think
we were a match for body size, with him being the fluffier, so maybe he'd come
across a little more buff, I don't know. He was so damn happy that his first
night in the Dive was going so well, that somebody as cool as me - and I'm not
bragging, I've worked hard to earn my cool - was actually taking an interest in
him... It was obvious to both of us what sort of interest that was, but that only
seemed to make him more enthusiastic.
So out we walked, did the usual 'my place, your place' routine and of course we
picked my place. The guy wanted adventure, he wanted something new and exciting
and, being the considerate citizen I am, I took the burden upon me of taking
this studly Shep to be my bitch for the night.
I didn't need to talk at all, just smile, squeeze, nod and be my growly,
fucktastic self. We got to my place, and didn't need to worry about being quiet
in case Anezka was asleep because we could hear the springs in her mattress
creaking right hard and someone howling while she snarled at him, so she was
already having some fun. Up the stairs we went - I had him g first and he
traipsed like a puppy when I nipped him on the bum and when we got into my
apartment I shut him up with a kiss and pulled his clothes off him.
He was no pansy pushover, but I got the impression that he was looking to be the
bitch tonight. Sometimes a guy wakes up and realises that he may be studly and
he may get cunt or ass offered to him on a platter every night, but that he just
wants something else, something kind of secret. I rode him hard until dawn, and
normally I'd have rolled over and gone to sleep halfway through the night, but I
wanted to impress him, so we only interrupted the fuckathon with a quick shower
with him on his knees - he was a lousy cocksucker, so it was probably his first
time, but bloody hell did he put a lot of effort into it. Then To the kitchen
for a bit to eat and I'd have been content to share some heated-up Chinese with
him in silence except he started talking again so I politely asked him to turn
around, grabbed his tail and shoved right on in, leaning him over the kitchen
sink, fucking him up the tailpipe while I fed him his food.
The sun came up, not much earlier than it did today and he suggested we catch an
hour of sleep, obviously looking to get snuggled... But I wasn't having any of
that. I pushed him back, onto the floor, onto his back and grabbed him by the
throat as I came down on top of him, thrusting inside him again, kissing him
hard as I squeezed his neck. He clamped his legs around my hips and kissed back
eagerly, whimpering, groaning, his body begging for my seed even harder than it
had during the rest of the night. I impressed him, and made myself proud,
dumping the fourth load of cocksnot up this dog's tailend since we got in,
without ever having softened.
I took another quick shower and dragged him with me and even though we were both
completely spent, sexually, I insisted he shower on his knees. He seemed to like
that. And then he noticed the time and his eyes almost popped out and he begged
me to give him a lift to work.
So I asked him, "Where do you work?" which was something I'd promised myself I
wouldn't ask this blabbermouth.
As I'd expected, planned, and to a much larger degree simply fucking hoped, it
was a handsome, uniformed GSD that came up to the window. He was looking badass
with a confident strut I hadn't seen in him before. I'd guess he was law
enforcement, maybe military before he went private and joined the bank's
security force.
He'd told me, during the drive to the Northern Transnational building, his place
of employment, that he usually worked night shift but that he'd filled in for a
colleague, and so he got a night off, which he spent at the Dive. He told me how
boring it was, that he simply sat at a desk and if something suspicious
happened, he'd alert the local security force, and if a little alarm went off,
he'd call the central office in Dubai and that's all he did all night.
See how much you can learn when you hang out with the right people?
His strut falters when he sees me, though. And what a sight it must be: a view
of the entirety of Stonemason Avenue, Maranatha's equivalent of Wall Street,
with its deserted, shiny-windowed buildings glimmering in early morning light...
And a lone dobermann, his shirt unbuttoned, ripped a t the shoulder, claw-wounds
on his arm, licking the window as he leans his hard body against it, one arm
against the glass and one gripping the fat bulge down one leg of his khakis. The
shep stops in his tracks and then hurries over to me, his confident gait
forgotten and replaced by an almost puppish excitement. He looks worried as much
as he does thrilled and walks up to the glass.
I lick it again and press my body against it, humping the glass. I must look
horny as all fuck, sweating, eyes unfocused, but honsetly those symptoms are just
the illness of the electric jolt I received in Athlete Electronics. He's less
than a foot away from me on the other side of the glass, his mouth open. Fuck,
he's handsome. I ought to bring him home to have a go with Alice, he'd love the
dog... But this dog doesn't want to be a stud. I can see it in his eyes. Not
tonight. He wants to be a bitch again, and when he sees me, he sees a chance to
feel like that once more.
He turns to one side, taking a step in that direction, keeping his eyes glued on
me and, slowly, I follow. He grins, obviously taking the ease at which I follow
as a sign of dominance - do I even need to explain how hard it is for me to put
one foot in front of the other? He's walking to the building's entrance, the
large revolving doors and the extra doors next to it. He takes the key-ring from
his belt and swipes one of the cards through the slot on his side of the door.
And then he opens it, and I step in.
"Fuck, man, Malloy, it's so awesome to see you, I didn't think I'd-" I silence
the stupid fucker with a hard kiss and push him inward, letting the door close.
His keys fall to the ground and he tries to go back to them but I won't let him,
I keep pushing him backwrad, groaning needfully into his mouth. He could push me
away, he's strong enough and I'm weak enough, but he doesn't, het lets me push
him, lets me take him. I'm in.
"Not... not out here," the dog manages to whisper as I start pulling at his
uniform, throwing caution to the wind. It's strange, but sickness and horniness
go hand in hand for me, like some long-forgotten hetero side of me recognising
the possibility of death through illness and instructing me to
breedbreedbreedfuckbreed. It's that desperation I feel now, to get my endorphins
pumping. I'm so fucking glad he doesn't want to do it out here.
I push myself against him, groin to groin, feeling his hardness and, more
importantly, letting him feel mine. "Closet," I growl into his ear and,
honestly, you should see him grinning. Something so simple, so plainly naughty's
got this manly shep quivering like he's In heat and between my gropings and
kissings and his backward steps he manages to point in the direction of a door
next to the elevators. Good, the rational part of my brain thinks, this is all
going very well. Oh, fuck, the rest of me thinks, I need to fuck so bad...
I push him inside the small broom closet, taking a moment to watch him as he
jumps at the sound of his walkie-talkie spurting some words. He was pulling his
pants down at the time and scrambles, embarrassed, to pull them back up as he
replies into the walkie, informing the security station that all's well in his
gruff, manly tone... which slips into a slutty little falsetto when he tells me
they won't bother him for another half hour.
He reaches for the light-switch as I step into the closet, with him just pulling
off his shirt, and I bat his hand away. I unzip myself, grab the back of his
head for another deep kiss before I push his muzzle down and as he sinks to his
knees, the door falls shut behind us, just in time to cover the sound of a
discrete alarm going off at his desk.
The guy's naked, obviously ready for a fuck but once I feel those lips around my
shaft, I can't think of pulling out. He bobs his head a few times, giving my
dick a cursory wetting, no doubt tasting the semen from my romp with Alice, but
when he tries to pull off and get up I growl at him. Just growl. I don't push
him or hold him... And that seems to get him going. To be told what to do, when
he's strong enough to resist, that's what he's after and then he's whining like
a puppy, making himself comfortable on his knees and really starting to practice
the art of cocksucking. He's no good at it, obviously, but he's trying things.
Taking it slow, turning his head, bobbing it gently, learning how his mouth can
make love to a warm, hard, dobercock.
I close my eyes, then, in the darkness and reach out to either side to brace
myself between the two walls of the small closet, feeling a bucket tilt
precariously against one arm. Oh, fuck, that feels good. The dizziness starts to
fade, the heaves in my stomach lessen and the blissful darkness of the closet
les me come to my senses. All I can hear is the shep's soft breathing, his wet
suckling and the discrete swish-swish of his tail wagging against the floor.
Really, that feels damn good. The aftere-ffects of the shock, which had built up
ridiculously the more I ignored them, are getting flushed out of my system
purely by restful circulation, but to me it feels like my shep-bitch is sucking
the poison out of me, each fresh spurt of preseed makes me feel better.
"You happy down there, bitch?" I ask and now I don't even have to try for my
voice to sound even, smooth and confident. I open my eyes, and can see his
handsome face in the glimmer of diffuse light from under the door, and stroke
his hair and cradle him to my groin. "You're a good damn cocksucker... if it as up
to me, I'd let you suck me all day. You'd like that, wouldn't you, puppy? Nod
your head."
He's looking up at me, worshipfully, and so ridiculously happy. I'm glad I
haven't given this guy my number, because, really, he'd never leave me alone. He
nods the affirmative and on the in-stroke I catch his head. My cock's as deep in
his muzzle as it'll fit, with his lips kissing the beginning of my unswollen
knot, the black bulb of flesh resting in front of his nose. "I don't got time
for that, though," I inform him and start to push him toward my groin while I
shove my his forward, forcefully but slowly, letting him feel my domination. "I
need to cum, puppydog, so you need to be a good little bitch and swallow what
you're given. And if you don't," I add with a snarl, looking down at him to see
his eyes watering as my penis starts to push past his gag reflex, making him
mock-heave, "I'll pull out, zip up, and find somebody else to take my load."
That does it. His eyes go wide, he grabs my knees and thrusts his face forward
with a yowl. I hiss in a breath as I feel his teeth scrape over my knot - but
bloody hell, this guy's tapping into some instincts that would put most
full-time cumsluts to shame. He knows what gets a dog off - comes with being a
dog himself, I suppose. He swallows me deep and his throat muscles spasm,
something I don't feel often since I usually court more expert cocksuckers. But
this guy, he takes me into his mouth, knot and all and I can hear him whining
and gurgling and I know he's not having a good time, but he's going for it,
sucking my dick as hard as he can, whipping his tongue over my knot.
I stroke his face, and the relief of my physical aches is so great I don't feel
it when my stomach tenses and my balls heave and this studly dog gets what must
be his first taste of doggysperm other than his own. I heave a loud, audible
sigh that turns into a groan that covers his unhappy sounds of discomfort, but I
keep his head where it is, feeling him choke and gag on my juice, which just
keeps me going. The image in my mind of this guard dog 'biting off more than he
can chew', yet persevering even when the experience turns sour for him...
Finally, I release his head and he immediately pulls off, gasping for breath and
gurgles up a load of semen, spitting it onto the floor by my feet. He's on all
fours, shivering and heaving and though I can't see his face, I hear the steady
drip-drip-drip of his drool and my cockslime oozing from his mouth, and I can't
help but grin.
"That," he croaks, swallowing loudly and uttering a burp before he looks up at
me with a grin, "That was awesome... Thank you."
Jesus fucking Christ on a stick. I've met a couple of dumb sluts in my life,
some really good masochists, but this guy... I'm so disgusted with his lack of
self-respect, with the fact that he dares to, by day, go out and pretend to have
self-worth and then allow himself to be used in a manner he finds so
un-enjoyable, just for the pleasure of someone who hasn't said more than a dozen
words to him, whose name he doesn't even know - I'm so disgusted with that, that
I reach down to his pile of clothes, grab a marker, flip him around with my boot
and write my phone number, real small, on his left buttcheek. I wanna try this
guy some more, once my business is over.
I zip up, open the door and leave, and I swear, I can hear the alarm dying down
the split-second the door opens. Either it's my imagination or my luck's
holding, but either way, I'm feeling both confident that Mark did his job and
really, really worried as the thought creeps into my mind that maybe he didn't.
The guard-feller's keys are still lying on the floor of the main lobby and I
kick them up into the air, catching them without looking. I revel in the feel of
my reflexes, finally restored after being off-whack, ass the cool kids say. I
flip through the cards on the chain till I find the one with the red stripe and
slide it through the slot by the exit door and for a second I think about
stealing the keys - god knows how much I could make with copies of those, if I
had the time to dally like that - but instead, I toss them back on the floor,
exit, and close the door.
"Not a hitch," says Mark with a proud grin as I open the car door, interrupting
me before I can ask if it went okay and I slam the door shut as we both whoop
and holler and high-five and do all that celebratory lark. He's glowing with
pride and I'm glowing with afterglow and both of us are feeling really great.
"Mark, my lad," I say as I strap my seat-belt on, looking over my shoulder to
see the victorious raccoon among his electronic trappings, all powered down now
the job's done, clutching a printout from the small standalone printer he
snagged. There it is: cool. The kind a guy gets when he knows he's awesome, when
he knows he's so awesome that it doesn't matter if nobody else knows. That kind
of cool. Mark's got it and that's almost worth more to me than the prize, the
transaction printout he hands me as I start the van and drive off, confirming
the immediate transfer of one hundred thousand bucks to the account of Q. I.
Malloy.
One hundred thousand dollars from the account of Mr T. Ferrum, of Sargasso
Holdings.
"Where do we go now, boss?" Mark asks, drunk on victory and clambers back into
the front seat, mewling in distress as one of his precious laptops clatters to
the ground when I turn a corner.
"Looks like a good piece of kit, it can take a bump or two," I assure him and
punch him lightly on the shoulder. "I need to go to the Sargasso building, but I
think we'd better take a little detour. I owe you some money, Mark my lad!" I
don't even have to try to sound enthusiastic, I'm so proud of my geeky friend
right now.
The rest of the drive is quiet, both of us reeling in the high of victory. I'm
sure I don't need to tell a smart bloke like Mark that we took a big gamble, and
he'd be a fool to try it again. You take what Lady Luck gives you, and you don't
complain, and you don't ask for more. The streets are getting a little busier by
the time we pull up to my little corner, and I turn, drive down, turn again and
slowly drive down the alley behind Anezka's pawn shop, over which, in case you
forgot, I have my place of residence.
I get out of the van, leaving Mark in it for the time being and walk to the
metal door in the otherwise blank wall that marks one side of this alley. I look
down either side of the alley to check nobody's looking and then I reach out and
push one of the bricks in the wall. It turns in place and, carefully, I pull a
single key from the hollow space behind the brick. Thank god Anezka told me
about this, or I'd be stuck.
Remember, I don't have anything with me except my clothes, my phone and the
contents of my balls. My keys are in my car, my beautiful Corvette (pardon the
pun, if you get it) and my wallet, well, I didn't bring my wallet in the first
place. I blow the dust off the key and push the brick back carefully In place,
then slip the key in the lock, praying... With a satisfying metallic clang the
door unbolts and opens and I swing it wide open, letting it stay like that.
It opens into a storeroom that now serves as Anezka's bedroom. The room isn't
what you'd call cozy, but it's certainly lived-in . The bed's unmade, with
various types of manacles and handcuffs attached to the headrail, there's
condoms strewn all around, some still wrapped, some used... I've told Anezka a
thousand times that the Immunizer at the free clinic is a little clunky and it
hurts a little and it takes an hour, but it's every bit as good as the one
they've got in the expensive hospitals, and you only have to go there once a
month. She still refuses, saying that by the time a male ends up in her bed, the
'lack of sensiivity' caused by encasing his dick in latex and the loss of
masculine ego that goes along with it are the least of the stud's concerns.
Out of the bedroom, down the hallway and into the next room, the actual
storeroom. The door's locked with a number lock - I dial in 2-0-6-9 and it
opens. With all the necessary doors open I go back outside, where Mark's been
patiently waiting by the van. No worry that I might have dumped him, no anxiety.
Just waiting, cool as a cucumber. "Help me load this stuff inside, will you?" I
ask and open the side door of the van.
It takes a few round trips, but we get the laptops, sniffers, wireless modems,
encryption modules, cell phones, dongles, dingles and dangles all stacked in on
what few shelves remain empty in the storeroom stacked with instruments, gift
sets, crockery and firearms. As we work, I ask Mark about the street value of
these magnificent products and, offhandly, he remarks it's about eighteen
thousand bucks. He asks me again if he can't keep it, and again I assure him
that that's not a good idea.
"So, I guess this is it," he says as I lock the storeroom door and lead him into
the shop's offices. He looks a little forlorn, a little disappointed that his
jaunt into crime was so short, yet proud that it was also so successful.
I smile at him. "Mark, you are officially a grade-A bank-robber. Now, you know
you ought to keep your mouth shut about this or we'll both be in trouble. And
you know that, whatever happens, I've got your back. So here," I say and open
the simple metal lunchbox on the office desk that serves as Anezka's cash stash,
stacked with hundred-dollar bills, bound in decks of twenty. I pull out three
and hand them to Mark, who actually protests and peels five notes off one of the
decks, trying to hand it back to me. "Don't be ridiculous, mate," I assure him,
patting him on the chest. "Now, call yourself a cab and get home safe. If I know
Lucy she'll have Alice at a well-stacked breakfast table by now."
It's weird, but I can feel the high of victory starting to fade. Maybe it has
something to do with the fact that I know what has to be done next, or the
continuous gnawing of the thought that Owen's still in trouble while I'm arsing
about. The call is made and I stay with Mark until I see him sitting in the back
of the cab, make some idle, confidence-building chit-chat with the cab driver and
slip him an extra twenty to 'make sure he gets home safe'. It wouldn't do for
Mark to get mugged between now and his victorious homecoming, would it?
When he's gone, though, all my joy at his awakening to awesomeness, at the
smoothness of my operation, my studly ability to get even a buff security guard
begging to gag on my cock - all of that falls off my shoulders and I feel very
alone. I know it's bloody sentimental, and I'll fuck you kindly for minding your
own business, but... I want Owen to be here. Or if not here, at least somewhere. I
want to know I can call him and arrange for a lunch-hour drive down Highway 68
or invite him to a grand banquet on a tight budget at the Dong Ma Chinese
eatery, or shoot a few rounds of pool.
No, I'll tell you, I fucking tell you what I want, I want to think about doing
those things and put them off until later, because I know that Owen's going to
be around later and we can hang out and I can fuck him and I can see my friend
again.
I'm a quivering wreck on my way back and I can just about manage to write a note
to Anezka, that I took six grand from the money box and left a crapload of
expensive gear in the storeroom for her to sell, warning that it was hot, and
that she should sell it as soon as she could or hang on to it for a few weeks.
The letters are irregular, written with trembling fingers, and the ink is
splotched here and there from a tear that found its way onto my pen and down to
the paper. Put note in money box. Put money box away. Go out to hallway. Close
door. Go up stairs.
I keep my spare key in the door itself, behind the brass nameplate and I don't
even bother putting it back after I use it, I just toss it on the table next to
the door and walk into my apartment, pulling off my clothes and plugging my cell
phone in the charger. As I toss my torn shirt over a chair I swear I can hear
the shower running and Owen's voice, singing some stupid boy band song,
splashing water wastefully as he dances in my shower cubicle. I run to the
bathroom, but of course he isn't there.
My sobs, or at least I think they're sobs, continue. Thing is, I don't feel sad,
per se. I'm just trying to unlace my boots and pull off my pants and get under
the shower, and I don't want to be sad. But my body, it has other ideas. I
barely make it to the shower and turn the water on, etting blasted with water as
cold as ice, but I don't even feel it. I sink to the ground, letting the water
fall down on me and my mind is a pure blank as I give in to my body's needs, and
hug my knees to my chest, and cover my face, and spend a good while crying and
groaning and bawling.
The water turns warm, and then cold again, and then later the sobs subside, the
shivers pass and my tears dry up. It's gone. Out of my system, out of mind and
out of sight. I still worry about Owen, but it's just worry, now. I've given my
body what it needed - a good old cry, and now that I've let the water wash away
my tears and my snot and my drool I turn off the water, stand up and touch
myself.
I'm all there. Hard belly, firm biceps - nicked by pretty lionboy claws -
handsome face, crisp jawline, generous package, all there. I think of Owen,
wherever he may be and I feel worry, but no spasms. I think of Alice, in bed,
waiting for me, rolling over like a kitten, mewling how much he loves me and I
get hard, but there's no pang of sentimental guilt. Stepping out of the shower,
I put on a fluffy black bathrobe, letting it dry me as I walk out into my living
room and on into the bedroom, opening my closet and, dropping my bathrobe to the
ground, I start putting on something I haven't worn in a long while.
A suit, charcoal grey, with a cream shirt and a red tie. I paid nine thousand
bucks for this, way back when, and while it's a little tighter around the
shoulder now than it was then, it only makes me look better. Six hundred dollar
shoes and an honest to goodness Rolex start my accessorisations, and then I swap
the simple silver rings in my right ear for one gold ring and one teardrop
pearl, both from a small box in the clutter at the bottom of my closet. One
ring, thick, silver, that slips perfectly around my index finger.
The mirror shows a sharp, don't-fucking-mess-with-me dobermann who looks ready
to take on the world. I test myself one more time, daring my body to shiver as I
think about what I'm going to do next. I feel nervous, but not a one of my
fingers twitches, not so much as a flick of an ear or a tightening of the
stomach.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Q. I. Malloy.
Fucking badass, so you'd better run.
To be continued.
Available on paperback in 2005
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