{"sf1_id":4125,"sf2_id":"YnLRLlYe","title":"Maranatha - Chapter VI, as told by Q. I. Malloy","author":"khakidoggy","words":7925,"posted_at":"2004-11-25T03:39:00.000Z","tags":["Doberman","Domination/Submission","Drama","Fox","German Shepherd","M/M","Mild Violence","Office","Plot Development"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4125-maranatha-chapter-vi-as-told-by-q-i-malloy","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/YnLRLlYe","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/9d/3b/9d3b643e-d826-4941-bc5c-5097d72c4108","description":"#6 of Maranatha","content":"  \n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\nM A R A N A T H A  \n  \n  \n  \n© Osfer, November 2004  \n  \n  \n_All rights reserved.  \n  \n  \nMay only be distributed for free.  \n  \n  \nMay not be altered in any way.  \n  \n  \nContains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be illegal to  \nread in your country, state, province or region.  \n  \n  \nThe author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part of the reader  \n  \n  \nComments welcome at  \n[[email\u0026nbsp;protected]](%5C)._\n\n  \n\n**Available on paperback in 2005**\n\n  \n\n[  \nMail the author](%5C) for information  \nor [  \njoin the mailing list](%5C)!\n\n  \n\nCheck out [Maranatha on WikiFur.](%5C)\n\n  \n\n~ Enjoy. ~\n\n  \n\n  \n\n* * *\n\n  \n  \n\nChapter VI - As Told By Q. I. Malloy  \n  \n  \n  \nI walk.  \n  \nFrom the second I step out of Nezzy's shop and lock the door behind me with her  \nspare key, I walk. My emotions drained into the shower's cold water, leaving me  \ndulled and I would be uncaring, but for the unyielding determination I feel  \nburning in the furnace of my stomach. I have my suit, which clings so tightly to  \nmy body I might be mistaken for a bouncer, were it not for the expensively  \ntasteful cut of the cloth, I have my spare key and Nezzy's, I have my cell-phone,  \nslightly recharged, I have my passport, slightly altered, and I have a  \nhand-written letter in an envelope. With these, and nothing more, I'm going to  \ntake on the world.\n\n\u0026nbsp; Okay, I'll cop, I wish I'd brought Lola as well. She could've tucked down the  \nsmall of my back in a splendidly-concealed holster that made this suit twice as  \nexpensive as it needed to be - but, then, if you want the best, you've got to go  \nto Clemens. He's the one who once provided Owen with a wrinkle-free light grey  \nsuit that had built-in knee padding and a concealed split down the seat so he  \ncould make his arse available for entry simply by gripping his buns and pulling  \nat the fabric-  \n  \nOwen, that's right. That's who I'm doing this for. Or maybe I'm not doing it for  \nhim, and I'm just doing it because I'm angry, I don't know. My emotions feel...  \nfiltered, somehow. Like when you've stayed awake for two nights in a row, the  \nway things sound - they're muted, they don't seem quite real, even though  \nthey're really loud. But it's because you sense them in such detail that they  \nbecome unreal and don't affect you. That's why I feel such anxiety at having  \nleft my precious gun Lola back in my apartment, but that anxiety doesn't affect  \nme that much.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The walk back to the bank is long, but it can't be helped. Everything hinges on  \nthe strut, and getting out of the wrong kind of car or arriving too early or too  \nlate could arouse suspicion, and once one red flag goes up I'm screwed. So I  \nwalk, and think, and try not to think.  \n  \nThe city's waking up, now. Traffic's starting to form, gushing into the streets  \nlike freshly poured Guinness and then congeals like the thick head of foam.  \nMaybe Guinness is a rubbish metaphor; I suppose the black stuff could count as  \nasphalt and the foam would be the gridlocked traffic. No, that's a stretch. I  \ncould murder a pint right now, though. It's tempting to make a quick stop at the  \nFirkin pub as I pass it - bloody poser's place, ain't a single Brit ever been  \ninvolved in setting it up or running the place, yet they've still got the balls  \nto call it an Authentic Irish Pub - but I have to restrain myself.  \n  \nI wonder what people must think when they see me walking. I'm still a few  \nminutes away from hitting the business district and I look seriously out of  \nplace. Maybe they think I'm a mobster, perusing new real estate to claim, or  \nmaybe that I'm some kind of hustler like Owen, heading to a new client. Both of  \nthose seem like a ridiculous idea, so I guess nobody really has any thoughts on  \nwho I am or what I'm doing.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; God's honest? I don't even have much of a clue what I'm doing.  \n  \nI've got my plan, for certain, the whole 'new solution' thing again. I've got it  \nplanned out. But only up to a point, or rather, several points. In half an hour  \nI'll know if I'll end up in jail. In two hours I'll know if I'll live. By the  \nend of the day I'll know if I can get Owen back, or if I'll never see him again.  \nBut even if everything goes as it's supposed to go - which you and I both know  \nis seriously unlikely - I don't know what'll happen tomorrow. Or the day after.  \nI don't know if anything I do today makes a damn fucking bit of difference, or  \nif it's all just a waste of time and worry and money and lives.  \n  \nOh, fuck. My feet carried me quicker than I expected, and now I'm standing where  \nI was not two hours ago: in front of the glass walls of the Northern  \nTransnational building. The bank's just opened, but inside it's already buzzing  \nwith business, people in expensive suits, some of them better than mine and all  \nof them obviously newer, walk in and out of the building with purpose. I don't  \nslow, I just keep going even though I'm getting a little worried. I thought I'd  \nhave time to prepare myself during the walk but I was so caught up in my  \nthoughts that I completely missed that opportunity. Ah well, can't be helped.  \nAnd I can't help smirking, either, when I notice the stain on the glass next to  \nthe rotating doors, where I licked it earlier.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Inside the building I notice the smell first. That stale, businesslike smell  \nthat tells you nothing real ever happens there. Just plans and ideas, pieces of  \npaper, words and promises. It's important, I'm not trying to diss the whole  \nbanking world, as the kids are sayin', but you just get this vibe about places  \nlike this, you know? I walk straight toward the reception desk, where a white  \nsquirrel, who after a moment I realize is female (I have a hard time telling  \nwith rodents, sometimes) smiles at me.  \n  \n\"How may I help you?\" she asks in that helpful, sing-song tone receptionists  \noften have. She's wearing a black blazer and a crisp white shirt with one of  \nthose ladies' ties, two diagonal black strips at the collar.   \n  \nI smile at her, effortlessly, and pull the envelope from my inside pocket,  \nlaying it down on the desk as if it's supposed to mean something. \"I'm here to  \nclose my employer's account. Account name Malloy, initials Q. I.\"  \n  \nShe types at her keyboard and shows me that blank, friendly face cashiers  \nnormally show. \"Malloy... Ah, here it is. Of course, sir. Please take the elevator  \nto the fifteenth floor, a clerk will be waiting to help you with your business.\"  \nShe smiles and waves in the direction of the elevators.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Do you know why she didn't ask me my name, or check out the contents of the  \nenvelope? It's the strut. What you need to do, is give people an impression of  \nwho you are, let it be their first impression of you. In my case, a slick  \nbusinessperson. Most people, when they do disguises, leave it at that, and  \nconfirm the first impression through their act, but you can't do that. People  \nare used to judging other people wrong. So you've got to modify their  \nexpectations, which they're used to doing. In my case, because I'm not a slick  \nbusinessperson, I'm just a flunky, holding a letter that gives him permission to  \nclose his employer's account.   \n  \nThere seems to be extra security around, plain-clothes, and not just around the  \nmetal-detectors... Or maybe I'm just paranoid. The guard I molested earlier seems  \nto have gone home, but, on a whim, I walk up to the door of the closet next to  \nthe elevators and open it a crack as if looking for the bathroom. I smile as I  \npeer into the little closet with its cleaning materials and, oddly, a  \nshaving-mirror and see the wet grey splash on the bare concrete floor where the  \nShep gurgled out my load. God, I'm hot.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It's a few minutes after the hour. The people who are always on time for work  \nare already at their desks and the people who're running late ain't arrived yet,  \nso there aren't that many people at the elevators. The walls are plated with  \nthat poncy faux-marble that should look classy but with the light greet tint it  \nhas to it ends up looking like that lobby from that sci-fi movie with the slow  \nmotion and the digital world. Right now, I sure wish I had superpowers like that  \nguy.   \n  \nThe last thing I hear from the lobby is the receptionist saying \"Sir! You forgot  \nyour letter!\" and then the doors close. Ding, goes the elevator. Ding goes.  \nDingoes. Really, my mind's all over the place. Like the fine, fine bum on the  \nyoung fox clerk that just stepped in. Polite wee smile when he got in the  \nelevator with me, as if he was asking me permission, even though there was four  \nother people in there already. On a better day I'd give him the ol' smile, pinch  \nthat fine bum and score me some quick fox-arse in the mens' room without even  \nleaving him my number, but today I've got business on my mind. So I start  \ncoughing.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Scuse me,\" I say and start coughing some more, really heavy-like. I pull my  \nhandkerchief from my breast pocket, really hocking into it, snarking up some  \nsnot and spitting in it. I look at it with worry and just as the doe next to me  \nloses her cool and tries to see out of the corner of her eye I start coughing  \nagain, my whole body shaking.  \n  \nDing-dong bingo gringo, we have a winner. The doe leans past some miscellaneous  \nbusinessperson and presses the button for the next floor. The doors open and  \nshe's first out, followed by mister Misc. That leaves my boy the fox and two  \nstags, who look at each other for a second and when the doors start to close,  \nfirst one and then the other pushes through and exits the elevator. Guess they  \nmust think I'm contagious or something.   \n  \nSo now I'm alone with my fox. He looks at me, and then at the large colour  \nscreen showing the floor numbers in 3-D animated glory, real fancy. We're  \napproaching the tenth floor, which is the button he'd pressed when he got on. He  \nlooks at me again. He's pretty cute, for a square office-clerk kinda guy. Hair  \nstyled short and neat, crisp white short-sleeved shirt, pressed slacks. Probably  \nsome exec's son or nephew, given a cushy job to prepare him for his initiation  \nin the Old Boys' Network.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Looks like this boy's been 'initiated' already. He notices the bulge in my  \nfucking expensive trousers which in all honesty was brought on by the thought of  \nfucking some exec's son than the features of this fox, who's certainly  \ngood-looking but by no means out of the ordinary. And, remember, I just fucked  \nthe single most beautiful lion on the planet for half a dozen hours and then,  \nsicker than I've felt in months, muzzle-raped the least dignified member of the  \nsecurity branch you're ever likely to meet, so going for somebody who's simply  \nnice-looking is a serious step down from my standards. But then he hits the  \nElevator Stop button, I suppose because he thinks the maintenance guy isn't on  \ntime and won't be at his desk to ask if we're all right, and unbuckles his  \npants. Ah, why the fuck not.  \n  \nHe doesn't even look at me, which I think is pretty good. He's facing the wall  \nto one side of the doors and as I unzip my fucking expensive trousers, let me  \nremind you, they're really expensive, he pulls his trousers down just far enough  \nthat the waistband hangs below that soft-furred bum. It really is quite fine,  \nand he's thoughtfully flagged his fluffy tail to the side. Now he looks at me,  \nover his shoulder and just for a second, then he places both hands on the wall  \nin front. I guess he was wondering if he should reach out and grab me to guide  \nme in, but he decided the better of it.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I step up, enjoying the silence, which breaks when he lets out a soft little  \nsigh as I grab his hip, press my tip under his glossy orange tail, and start to  \npress into him. He's not even that warm, inside, just... average. And once I'm  \nballs-deep in his arse, holding his hip in one hand and his shoulder, I start to  \nwank myself off under his tail and take ten minutes out of my busy  \nworld-conquering day to have myself a perfectly average fox-fuck.  \n  \nThere's honestly nothing to describe. If you've fucked a fox, then you know what  \nI'm talking about and if you haven't, words simply won't express the kind of  \nexperience it is. It's completely satisfactory. I've never met a fox I couldn't  \nget off in, never in all my life. But with very few exceptions the sex is  \nstandard, ordinary, you know? It's like McDonalds' food. No matter where in the  \nworld you go, you can stand in line with furry-hat-wearers or squint-eyes or  \nyanks or Masai but you still know, even before you reach the end of the line,  \nwhat the burger's going to taste like. That's what it's like to fuck a fox. It  \nalways takes me nine minutes, I never feel the urge to have a chat the way I  \nusually do when I'm fucking somebody - the German Shepherd from a few hours ago  \nexcluded, naturally - and afterwards I feel the same as before.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Which is how I feel now. I'm just looking at the numbers - eleven, twelve,  \nthirteen - and I've completely forgotten about the fox I just shot a load in,  \nprobably something that'll cheer him up throughout the day, the knowledge that  \nhe's got a stranger's load in him. A strange businessman, he probably thinks.  \nMe, I think nothing. I don't remember pulling out and zipping up, I don't  \nremember the satisfaction I saw when he simply pulled his pants up, lowered his  \ntail, pushed the Elevator Stop button again and got out on his floor without  \nlooking back.  \n  \nI do remember to press Elevator Stop myself, just when we pass the fourteenth  \nfloor. The lift is wider than it's long so I spring forward and plant my foot  \nagainst the sealed, gleaming metal doors and as I push myself backward I  \nstraighten my leg to plant it against the other wall with a resounding thump,  \nkeeping myself up in a splits. It aches a little in my hip-joints, obviously I  \nain't as young as I once was, but the stance feels solid enough, I can hold this  \nfor a while.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; You see people do this all the time in the movies, slide up the ceiling panel of  \nthe lift and climb out, as if it's that easy. And sometimes, just sometimes it  \nis. Which is the second of three reasons I picked the Northern Transnational  \nbank for my little transaction - the first, of course, being my acquaintance  \nwith its weekday night-guard. And the third, you may ask? Let's go find out,  \nshall we?  \n  \nThe ceiling's side-panel slides sideways. In any other building I might have had  \nto yank out some bolts or unscrew some nails with my very claws. After all, I  \ncouldn't bring my old lock-picks any more than I could bring Lola for fear of  \nsetting off the metal detectors. But no, not in the Northern Transnational  \nbuilding. Just push up and the panel slides sideways along a little rail.  \nPerfect. Now it's simply a question of grabbing hold of the edges of the gap and  \nlifting myself through without letting my clothes touch the oily rim of the  \nopening. I'm grateful that I'm an upper body kinda guy. I've got beefier legs  \nthan Owen does, that's for sure, but while his legs are his greatest strength,  \nmine are good for fast running and long jumping but not much else. Not much use  \nin a fight.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Now, my arm... My guns, as Owen likes to call them. I push myself up with no  \ndifficulty, my upper torso suspended in the sci-fi bleakness of the lift tube, I  \nswing my legs up, bent at the knees and part them again, bracing them on the  \nrims of the opening. The I stand up and step sideways and as I slide the panel  \nback into place I can hear the little intercom give a discrete little beep,  \nwhich is a hell of a lot better than the burst of static you usually hear, and  \nsome bloke with a voice like he just had a laryngectomy asks if I'm all right.  \nSure I am. I'm standing in the void, the sci-fi bleakness of the elevator shaft,  \nin the lion's den in more ways than one, gambling more than I've ever earned  \nbased on instinct, feeble observation and sentimental loyalty. I guess I didn't  \nturn out as quite the kind of bad boy I'd hoped to be, when I came to Maranatha.  \n  \n  \nI wait for another elevator to come up. It takes a while, since it's early in  \nthe morning still, but then from the dim abyss below I see no less than three  \ncarriages rising. I wonder which of them have occupants enjoying some quick  \nelevator sex. After all, if that clerk was so easy to get into there's bound to  \nbe more employees as 'sociable' as he was and plenty of managers enjoying a  \nquick foxfuck on the way to work.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The first one up is too far away and it passes me, opening at the fifteenth  \nfloor. I can hear some stifled gasps when the doors open, some serious voices  \nasking people to step out of the elevator, another saying \"Where the hell is  \nhe?\" before being told to shut up. Seems some people were waiting for me on the  \nfifteenth floor. Gosh criminy, what a surprise.   \n  \nThe next lift passes and I get ready, pulling up my sleeves a bit. I stand at  \nthe side of the elevator, feeling it shake a little as its doors are forced open  \nand somebody steps inside. \"Hello?\" that croaky voice asks, probably a lizard of  \nsome sort. Fuck it, just wait a second, I think as I hear him slide in a crate  \nor something to stand on, just give me two more seconds...  \n  \nThe second lift whooshes past me with the speed these modern contraptions have  \nand when it's passed, I make my jump and only then does it occur to me that I  \njust threw myself at a fourteen-storey drop, not counting the basement floor,  \nand if I miss this grab I'm going to die.  \n  \nI'm going to die.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; That realisation hits me as soon as I feel the cool plastic of the thick  \nelectrical cables under the elevator against my face and it's all I can do to  \nswing my arms forward and grab the nearest part of the lift and hope, fucking  \nhope that it's not the electric cable I can feel on my cheek because if it is  \nit'll snap and even if I don't get electrocuted or fall I'll still be fucking  \ndead.  \n  \nIf I were a religious man I'd be saying a prayer now, as what I've gripped is  \nmetal, the underside of an I-beam that forms the cage of the lift carriage. It's  \na precarious hold, one I can feel starting to slip, but it's the best I can do  \nwith that hand. My other comes up and grabs the other side of the frame and now  \nI'm suspended between the front and back end of the lift with my arms  \noutstretched, almost exactly the same position as when I was doing the splits in  \nthe first lift.  \n  \nThe first lift, whose hatch just opened to reveal some reptile in blue overalls  \nwith a red baseball cap sticking his head through and shining a torch. \"Hello?\"  \nhe asks again, looking around and shining that damn flash-light all around and,  \nfuck it, if that beam comes near me I'm screweder than hat fox I just had.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I freeze like a deer in head-lights when I feel that beam on me and hold my  \nbreath... Nothing happens... I crack open one eye and look down, seeing the  \nmaintenance lizard in the hatch of the elevator, shining his light up at me but  \nlooking down at somebody talking to him. I don't think I need to tell you what  \nI'm feeling right now, the numbness in my dangling legs, the sweat on my aching,  \nwhite-knuckled fingers, the tightness in my stomach and the burning in my lungs...  \n  \n  \nThen I can't take it any more and I bark out a breath before slurping in a new  \none and as I look around, spitting away some drool so it doesn't drizzle down my  \nsuit, I realise I'm ten floors up and that the light's gone and the hatch is  \n  \nclosed and the lift is finally on its way back down. It's a good thing, too, my  \nfingers are starting to ache like nobody's business and while they're petty  \nstrong - piano practice as a child, don't you know it - even they have limits. I  \ncan stand the ache in my biceps and I can stand the stabbing pain in my  \nshoulders, but the fingers, man, and the muscles in my hand, the pain's almost  \nmore than I can take. And there's still two dozen floors to go...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I try to distract myself, to think of something else. My mind goes back to that  \nnight in my apartment with Owen, naked in bed, just talking, and he said  \nsomething that stuck with me. He said, \"If I leave town, I'd leave without  \ntelling you. Otherwise it wouldn't be like leaving, at all.\" And that didn't  \nhurt me when he said it because I knew what it meant and I agreed, if I wanted  \nto leave I wouldn't tell him either. But now that memory mingles with the last  \nnight I spent with Owen. Well, evening, really. With Alice between us. It's only  \nbeen a few hours but, cliché of clichés it feels like weeks. And that makes it  \nhurt. I know it doesn't make sense but right now, I feel like Owen knew he was  \ngoing to leave even that night when he was straddling my abdomen and we were  \ntalking about leaving and where we would go, and he knew he'd leave without  \ntelling me and he'd go someplace where I'd never see him again.   \n  \nI hit rock bottom. That is, the elevator reaches the bottom floor and I know  \nthis because it stops and starts going up again, so I let go with one hand -  \nsweet relief! - and swing toward the side of the elevator shaft, the door-side.  \nThe only handhold there is the rim of the ground floor doors, which is a  \nprecarious hold, but I grab it and brace my expensively-shod toes against the  \nwalls, and it's enough to hold my weight if I don't move, and the elevator  \ndoesn't change its mind and comes back down again. I start shimmying to the  \nleft, carefully, since each slight movement of my much-relieved, but still  \naching fingers carries the risk of a drop down a shaft that runs down two  \nsublevels of parking space and a maintenance basement.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Reaching the very side of the door-rim, right up against the I-beam that serves  \nas a vertical rail for this lift, I perform my most dangerous stunt yet: I lean  \nback and sideways and swing around the I-beam to grab hold of, thank god, a  \nfully functioning ladder. I can't fucking remember the last time I was so happy  \nthat every lift shaft is designed with a ladder, though I'll wager it was a  \nsitch much like this one.  \n  \nAfter that, it's child's play. Climb down the ladder, dodge a lift carriage  \ncoming up from the second parking sublevel and finally, the basement. While all  \nthe other floors have doors in front of the elevator shaft, the basement only  \nhas a harmonica-style cage-door. But not even that craftily-designed safety net  \nis in evidence right now. The door's open and bleak light spills into the  \ncave-like darkness of the lift shaft, which would be damn creepy if I had  \nanything in the way of nyctophobia. Fear of the dark, that is, and it's a word I  \nalways fear spelling.  \n  \nI slow my climbing and listen as I descend, silently, rung by rung. I can hear  \nsomething. Breathing. Heavy, quick, hot. There's something else, too. A wet  \nnoise. Smacking. Slapping. It stutters the breathing, interspersed with soft  \nwhines and a low groan. I smile. I know what I'm hearing, and as I reach the  \nlowest rung of the ladder I swing around and step into the open doorway of the  \nbasement elevator entrance, and stand there.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; My feet are wide apart, my hands resting on the doorframes. I'm looking down a  \nlong concrete hallway wide enough for three men my size abreast, lit by a string  \nof light-bulbs, with someone, naked, on all fours. Well, all threes, one hand is  \nbetween his legs, pumping furiously. He's facing away from me, his  \nlight-brown-and black tail lashing, and there's a black mark under it, coming  \ninto view now and again. It's writing. On his left butt-cheek. Can you guess  \nwhat it says?   \n  \nIt says my phone number.  \n  \nAnd under that, it says \"Go to the basement, open the elevator doors, take off  \nall your clothes and wait for me.\"  \n  \nNow how, do you ask, could I be so certain that this studly, dutiful German  \nShepherd, would obey or even read this hastily-scrawled command? Let me tell  \nyou. I know people. That is, I can tell when somebody wants something. It's my  \nspider sense, I've talked about it before. I felt what this guard bloke needed  \nand what's more, I felt that it was something I could provide.  \n  \nI watch him, his handsome body mock-humping some phantom bitch as he fucks his  \npumping fist, buns tightening. I let my mind wander a bit, trying to remember if  \nhe'd gotten hard when I fucked him that night... It's hard to remember, I was  \nbeing so selfish then, but I'm pretty sure he was soft. He was soft, and he  \ndidn't complain, and now he's hard. You know, I think I might be the very first  \nmale he's ever been with? It's such a ludicrous thing to realise, such a stupid  \nidea, but this studdog's probably had one girlfriend after another and only a  \nfew weeks ago decided to go for it and try what it was like to be a bitch for a  \nchange. And then this morning he got another taste, and now he's decided it's  \nfor him.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Christ. I fucked a virgin. How long's that been?  \n  \nHe's close, now. His back's arched, his thighs tensed, his tail tucked low and  \nhis buttocks dimpled. With some training, he'll soon have the reflex to flag his  \ntail higher at the moment of issue, which is mere seconds away. Three, two...  \n  \nI make a fist and hit the doorframe hard, hard enough to make the retracted  \ncage-door rattle loudly and yell \"Stop that!\" so that the poor Shep startles in  \nmid-stroke and tumbles forward and sideways. He can't help it, he's there and  \nwhite semen spurts from his bright red doggydick, hitting him across the chest  \nand muzzle. He falls onto his back, writhing and spasming, glaring at me  \nwide-eyed, caught between his body's reverie at climax and his mind's panic at  \nbeing caught and all the consequences of that. I smile, it's a soft, cruel  \nlittle smile that's just totally appropriate. I can't imagine how fractured his  \nmind must be now, how the thought of getting caught by his boss and the  \nhumiliation and ridicule he'll suffer is interspersed with the hollow,  \nunsatisfying high of a spoiled ejaculation.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I step forward and he falls still, lying on his back, propped up on his elbows.  \nHis cock, forgotten, continues to spurt watery canine cum across his face,  \nunheeded, and strings of semen comically dribble from his muzzle. My footsteps  \nsound hard and empty on the bare concrete, echoing down the hall, but the sound  \nseems to soothe the dog's breathing. Or maybe it's just his orgasm running out.  \n  \n\"What's your name?\" I ask him, casually looking past him, down the length of the  \ncorridor.  \n  \n\"M-my...\" He looks up at me, head doggishly tilted. \"Calhoun. Alan Cal-\"   \n  \n\"Rover it is,\" I say simply and lift up my foot, and plant it on his  \nlight-furred belly, just above his still-hard erection. Semen squishes  \nunderfoot, soaking into his bristly belly-fur. \"And what do you do, Rover?\" I  \nask, still not looking at him. That's important, you know. I'll explain why  \nlater.  \n  \nHe looks up at me uncertainly, but with trust in his eyes. No, not trust, it's  \nsomething else. Something lower than submission. Surrender? I don't know if  \nthat's the right word, but it's there in those intelligent eyes of his - he's  \nwilling to surrender himself to someone else, to give up the burden of being  \nstrong and independent and let somebody else make decisions for him and to not  \nthink about anything ever again. \"Security,\" he blurts. \"I'm in security... sir,\"  \nhe adds hopefully at the end, looking up at me with a smile. He's probably only  \never said that word to actual superiors, but it has a sexy ring to it, now. I  \ncan see his erection throbbing against the heel of my expensive shoe, staining  \nit a little with semen.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Security is a job. Dogs don't have jobs. Dogs have masters,\" I inform him. I  \nknow it's crude bullshit, and believe me, usually I'm subtle - but usually the  \nguy I'm doing it with is worth doing it with. The Cliff notes will have to  \nsuffice with this bloke, although I must say, he's impressing me. He nods at me  \nand lies back on his back and I can see muscles twitching in his face and body,  \nand a fine body it is.  \n  \nIt must be such an experience for him. To be naked and at the mercy of another,  \nto let go of all the things he needs to feel, safety, security, control. To be  \nsexually aroused by someone he doesn't consider his lesser, to be aroused by  \nsomeone who looks down on him, to be aroused by being looked down upon... I almost  \nwish I had more time to let him feel it, but I need to get the job done. \"Are  \nyou my master?\" he asks, closing his mouth and letting his tongue hang out a  \nlittle, unconsciously.  \n  \nGod, what a pushover. I'm half tempted to walk away, fuck my plan and fuck Owen,  \nsimply out of disgust with this happy GSD. And then it hits me. I massage his  \nhard belly with the sole of my shoe, mashing his own load into his fur, and he  \ndoesn't care. His uniform is in a crumpled pile next to him, nightstick, sidearm  \nand all, and he doesn't care. I'm disgusted with this sexy creature. I look down  \non him more than I look down on some dumb slut like Cannit, and he's fucking  \nautistic, and it occurs to me that that is absolutely perfect.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Who wants to have a slave he respects? Not I.   \n  \n\"No-one else would have someone as pathetic as you, so I suppose I am,\" I inform  \nhim and all the twitches and shakes in his body stop. Just straight out. The  \nhappy smile solidifies, the eagerness in the eyes dims - neither disappear, but  \nthey lose their initial edge the way a campfire burns hot for a few minutes and  \nthen starts to burn long. This dog? He's started burning long.   \n  \n\"What would you like me to do for you, sir?\" he asks. His voice is deeper now;  \nit's lost that put-on imitation of submissiveness. He's himself now, a fairly  \nbuff, well-trained, confident Shep who's decided that he doesn't want to be what  \nhe is. He wants to be a pet. A dog. I made a good call when I called him Rover.  \n  \nI want five minutes' peace without hearing you,\" I snap at him, my voice hard  \nand raw while I keep smiling at him. \"Clean your face with your clothes and when  \nyou're certain you won't stain my trousers, you can take my dick in your mouth.\"  \nHis face brightens and I quickly stamp on his belly, causing him to groan and  \ndouble forward and he's about to grip my leg with his cum-sodden fingers, but I  \nraise an admonishing finger and he stops, and straightens out. \"Bad dog,\" I  \ninform him and stamp again. He groans again, grits his teeth. But the grin only  \ngrows wider. I'm actually starting to enjoy this fucktoy, strange as it seems.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"To ensure your silence you may take my dick in your mouth. But no sucking, you  \nhear? No tongue. Just a snug dickwarmer's all I need, if only to shut you up.  \nAnd give me your walkie,\" I add almost as an afterthought as I lean my weight on  \nhis belly, step onto his chest and then off him, walking a few steps away from  \nhim. I stand wide, my back to him, and hear him scramble, sitting upright and  \nrubbing his uniform over his face and staining it with semen and not caring. He  \nstarts to stand up, then remembers to snag his walkie-talkie and stands up to  \nwalk over to me.  \n  \nI raise a finger, just a finger, and he stops. Thinks. Gets the message. I hear  \nhis breathing quicken again and then I hear the soft pitter-patter of hands and  \nknees and a cold nose snuffles under my hand, stuffing the walkie he's holding  \nin his mouth into my hand. \"Good boy,\" I say offhandly and give him a rough pet  \non the head, turning my body so I'm now crotch-to-nose with him.   \n  \nHe wastes no time. He seats himself on his knees and carefully licks his fingers  \nclean before he pulls don my zipper and, hell, I'm hard as a rock. Two rounds in  \nAlice, one in Rover, one in a fox and already I'm ready for more. He looks up,  \npleading, whining, but I shake my head at him and, reluctantly, he opens his  \njaws wide, closes his eyes and rests my jutting erection on the bottom of his  \nlong muzzle, closing his lips around the base of the knot. He's a good dog and I  \nreward him duly, rubbing him over the ears and he looks up happily, but doesn't  \nsuck.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; That's impressive, part of me thinks.  \n  \nBut what am I thinking of? Hooking myself a slave, of all things? What's the  \npoint! I can get sex anytime I want, I can bat someone up anytime I want, I can  \nget told how awesome I am anytime I want. I don't need to have someone waiting  \nfor me at home, fuck that.   \n  \nStill, an unskilled muzzle like this would be fun to train.  \n  \nI flick on the walkie and the first thing I hear is, \"And you can tell Mister  \nFerrum's fucking security people that the guy never arrived and I don't  \nappreciate him breathing down my neck like this. For fuck's sake, this is a  \npolice matter, and he's trying to get office security to solve it for him?\" I  \nflick it off.  \n  \nIt makes me laugh. I hadn't thought a single element of the plan would go well,  \nup to now. Not getting Mark to co-operate, not the heist, not the balls-out  \nwalking into the building and not discerning, from mere security chatter,  \nwhether Ferrum was already aware the money got stolen from him, and by whom and  \nit was so fucking easy. That's four things that went right. Four elements of a  \nplan. That means I've got one more, and that's it. Never in my life have I had  \nmore than five phases of a plan go right, so I always try to keep them short and  \nsimple. Weird thing, this. I'm almost hoping this next part'll go wrong, so I'll  \nhave some good fortune to look forward to later down the line. Nothing to do now  \nbut wait...   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; But not for long. Halfway through a sigh my phone starts ringing and it  \nsurprises Luke - sorry, Rover - enough that he gulps around his mouthful,  \naccidentally swallowing my tip down his throat, which of course sets him off  \ngagging. \"It's okay,\" I assure him and grab him by the hair, then pull him  \ntoward me, sheathing my cock down his throat nice and deep. It feels so nice to  \nhave someone gagging around your dick, and it sounds kind of interesting too,  \nwhich is what I'm counting on when I click \"receive\" on my phone and put it to  \nmy ear quickly to get the first word in.  \n  \n\"You'll soon have your money back, mister Ferrum,\" I inform him. Rover, to my  \ngreat satisfaction, doesn't look up, simply sits there, hands on his knees,  \nthroat full of cock, trying not to throw up all over my clothes. He does a good  \njob of calming his heaves, turning his head sideways, starting to bob a little.  \nThat actually feels damn nice. \"I see the receptionist at the entrance finally  \ndecided to open the envelope I forgot on her desk?\"   \n  \n\"Why didn't you cover your tracks?\" the deep, confident-sounding voice says on  \nthe other end of the line. The stallion is probably sitting back in his chair,  \nstill sweaty from his morning work-out, a towel draped around his neck,  \ncoordinating his security force's search for the perpetrator of this theft,  \nsomething he noticed really, really quickly. Mere minutes after the banks  \nopened. Or maybe I'm just imagining he's that cool because I feel that cool, in  \nmy expensive suit with my worthless fucktoy sucking my dick so fucking nice.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Plausible deniability. If I'd gone into hiding you would have assumed the  \nobvious trail to my account was a false one left to hide the true identity of  \nyour robber.\" Jesus, it's been a while since I've enjoyed a blowjob this much.  \nOr maybe it's to do with the power I feel now, dealing on such even terms with  \nsomeone with as much plain, raw power as Tiber Ferrum.   \n  \n\"Who would be someone close to me, and probably who might have a grudge against  \nyou. Such as your friend Sharpish, mister Malloy.\"  \n  \nI smile, even though I know Ferrum can't see me smile, and lay one hand on  \nRover's head, pushing him a little to make him suck me harder and louder. I love  \nthe way he gags around my dick and still keeps going, as if he's learning that  \nthe urge to throw up and the sickening effort of repressing that is simply part  \nof giving good head, something to be grown accustomed to rather than overcome.  \n\"You've really done your research. I didn't realise you even knew my name.\"  \n  \n\"Your name came up briefly in my first conversation with Sharpish,\" the stallion  \nsays calmly, \"He muttered it under his breath so naturally I memorised it and  \nhad it investigated when I had the chance. If my hunch is correct, you were the  \ndoberman-of-action with Owen when you barged into my office yesterday, yes? And  \nsince he has since been taken into... well, custody might not be the appropriate  \nword. But you intend to get him free. Do you intend to use my money for that  \npurpose? I'd be interested to know what you had in mind...\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I'm humping into Rover's mouth now. I barely heard half of what Ferrum said to  \nme, I'm so enjoying this rough muzzlefuck, but I get the gist of it. \"You don't  \nneed to keep me talking, mister Ferrum. I know you're probably having the funds  \nstolen back as we speak, and I'd have expected nothing less. The money is yours,  \nnot mine, and I didn't steal it to spend it. I stole it-\"  \n  \n\"You stole it to impress me. Mister Malloy, that's... impressive.\"  \n  \nI'm on dangerous ground here. Ferrum's tone is so flat and even and calculated  \nthat I just can't get it figured out. I don't know what he's after, if he wants  \nrevenge or to have me working for him or what. \"Thank you,\" I say, trying to  \nbalance respect with mockery, pulling Rover's head roughly backwards and  \nforward, trusting him to slurp up his excess saliva and my preseed as I  \nmuzzlefuck him for the second time in as many hours. \"I simply wanted to show to  \nyou what I can do, to prove that I'm someone worth having in your debt.\"  \n  \nThe horse snorts lightly, a polite gesture amplified over the phone. \"You want  \nto demand something in return for me getting my money back?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Of course not,\" I tell him simply and I want to say more, I want to explain it  \nbetter, but my eyes are focused on that chiseled canine face pumping itself so  \nmasochistically over my erection, throwing his own comfort to hell. He's not  \neven hard, and I know for a fact that Rover's getting off on this more than on  \nany sex act he ever enjoyed.  \n  \n\"You truly are impressive, mister Malloy. Tell me, now that you're made your  \nmark, what sort of a favour would you ask of me?\"  \n  \nAnd then I came, and groaned into the phone. And I told Tiber Ferrum what kind  \nof a favour I wanted from him while I flooded my new fucktoy's throat with  \ncocksnot and I knew right then and there, in that moment of climactic victory,  \nwhen a heist had culminated in a deal with one of the most influential  \nexecutives in Maranatha - and one that only visited once or twice a month, too -  \nthat at this point my luck had officially run out.  \n  \n  \nI don't like telling bad stories nearly as much as I like telling good ones, so  \nhere's the deal. I walked out of the Northern Transnational building, escorted  \nby Alan Calhoun, the security guard, who guided me past the checkpoint at the  \ncar entrance ramp and toward the plaza in front of the building's official  \nentrance. There, two men were waiting. Two men I recognised. A tiger with a  \nblack eye and a jackal that wasn't looking too good, each dressed in plain,  \nordinary clothes that looked so out of place amid the stylish suits everybody  \nelse was wearing that they might as well have worn the security uniforms they  \nwore when I beat the crap out of them in Ferrum's office.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; They introduced themselves, I forgot their names immediately. Rover stiffened as  \nmy phone went off, which I'd had him set to vibrate, carefully lick from end to  \nend and then carefully shove up his own arse. Good thing for him mine was a  \nstylish, ergonomic clamshell rather than a pointy, boxy brick. He tried to look  \ninconspicuous about it and I wondered who would call me at this hour, but I  \ncouldn't think of anybody who could call me for whom it would make a difference  \nif I called them back after what we were about to do.  \n  \nFerrum had provided us transportation. A black van, not unlike the one I'd  \nparked in the alley behind Anezka's shop, but better-organised inside. The tiger  \ngot behind the wheel, showing no signs of holding a grudge, and the jackal got  \nin the back with me and Rover and went through the weapons available in the van.  \nI'd never fired an SMG so I politely declined on the MP5 the jackal - I remember  \nhis name now, Reiner - offered me, opting instead for two hand pistols. Black  \nand well-balanced, they were far from Lola's elegance but felt familiar enough.  \nI stuffed them both down the back of my pants while I gave the tiger  \ninstructions on where to drive.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Long story short, I said. I'm going to hold to that. Here goes.  \n  \nAlice said he'd been kept in a warehouse that was empty except for a cage and  \nOwen took Alice's place and I know of three warehouses McIlwain owns that  \nSharpish would have access to, and two of them are used for stolen cars, so I  \nhad the tiger... Whose name I totally can't remember, drive to the third.  \n  \nWe drove right through the loading doors and all of us jumped out of the van  \nsimultaneously, weapons at the ready, ready to take on...  \n  \nNobody. There was nobody in the warehouse. It was empty, as Alice had said and  \nthere was a cage large enough for a man to crawl in, but it, too was empty. And  \na door at the far end opened and Sharpish stepped through and before I could  \nstop him, Rover leveled his weapon at the ferret. There was a noise like a  \nthunderclap and then Rover flew backward, trailing blood through the air and  \nwhen he accidentally fired his weapon at the floor, in the haze of smoke and  \ndust I could briefly see three red lines, laser sights, that redirected  \nthemselves. No doubt at myself and the two men Ferrum had provided, who  \nrecognised a lost cause when they saw one. They dropped their weapons and knelt  \non the ground on either side of me, as Sharpish approached and it was as if it  \nall happened in slow motion, you know?  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I stood there, my guns, drawn but unfired, dropped to the floor. I stood there  \nin a daze, unable to believe it. The last part, so simple, the easiest fucking  \npart of the plan now that I'd jumped through all these hoops and gone through  \nall this trouble and planned everything from the start and now, this last part...  \nOwen wasn't there to be rescued.  \n  \nSharpish took long strides toward me and the door behind him opened, several  \nmore thugs in black bomber jackets coming through after him. I tried to think,  \ntried to think how he'd known I'd come here, how he'd known so quickly. There  \nwas no way. No way. He couldn't have predicted I'd get this kind of manpower  \nthis quickly.  \n  \nI saw the glint on Sharpish' fingers. Brass knuckles. He was five steps away,  \nalready preparing the punch and I couldn't think to defend myself or even get  \nready, I was so lost in thought. If he wasn't waiting for me, then he was  \nwaiting for somebody else. But who? I tried to think of the possibilities, but  \nSharpish was already there and I tried to raise my hands, to ask him for just a  \nfew more seconds' thought, but I didn't get it.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; And with that, and a whole shitload of regrets, ol' Malloy's out for the count.  \n  \n\n_To be continued._\n\n  \n\n**Available on paperback in 2005**\n\n  \n\n[  \nMail the author](%5C) for information  \nor [  \njoin the mailing list](%5C)!\n\n  \n  \n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Maranatha","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4105-maranatha-chapter-v-as-told-by-q-i-malloy.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4152-maranatha-chapter-vii-as-told-by-reiner-kierkegaard.json"}}