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M A R A N A T H A

© Osfer, January 2005

_All rights reserved.

May only be distributed for free.

May not be altered in any way.

Contains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be illegal to

read in your country, state, province or region.

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

Comments welcome at

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Available on paperback in 2005

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~ Enjoy. ~

---

Chapter X - As Told By Owen Zelazny

You know what sucks?

I don't mean generally, I mean specifically. You know by now what kind of things

I've been through, the kind of shit I've had to put up with. You've heard those

stories. So guess what's at the top of my list of Things That Suck?

That's right.

The C-65 microbe cluster, the Henderson microbes, that's what.

Those little cuntsuckers are coursing through my goddamned veins, taking little

trips from their colony in my brain. Although it feels like they're in my balls,

with all the ache and heat down there. They drive me so insane at times, when

Malloy can't score a hit of Rut to calm me down, that I'm thrashing about and

screaming and the only thing that can even quiet me for a while is a good, hard

screw, and while that may sound mighty sexy, let me tell you, it's a chore like

nothing you can conceive of.

Now, I've been in gangbangs before, it's part of the job. Once, I was rented for

a weekend by two rivaling frat houses and got passed around so that each house

could prove its members' stamina, and while the brothers were allowed to take

power naps now and then, I was kept busy enough that by the time I walked out of

there, bow-legged and with five clean grand in my pocket, I hadn't slept in

eighty hours. I actually took pride in that, as I usually do with my work.

But this is humiliating. When Malloy finds me scratching the walls, drops his

bags and rushes over, unzipping, holding me down to mount me good and hard, even

through my haze of mental chaos I can still see how it hurts him to see me like

this. I don't like it either, as you might guess. The high point of my day is

Malloy holding me while he doses me with some Rut, holding me down so I don't

bite my tongue or swallow it when the muscle spasms hit. After that I pass out

and he goes to work with that fucked-up electrical thing.

Okay, so, since maybe you missed a bit (which is okay, since I did, too), let me

break it down for you. It's a few months since we last talked, and Chanukah is

almost here. It's snowing for the first time in sixty years, but the ground's

still so warm that it doesn't pile up. Everybody's hoping that the snow will

hold long enough for the streets to actually turn white completely. It'd make a

nice change.

Through trial and error and a little creative thinking Malloy and I figured out

that Rut had a calming effect on the microbes in my body. To remind you, Rut is

a sex drugs, specifically for herbivores while Heat is its carnivore

counterpart. Since I'm in the latter category, you'd expect Rut to give me the

usual symptoms - upset belly, headaches, projectile vomiting, my head turning

backwards and Satan invading my body. Not me, though, it just quietens down the

urges those goddamned bugs are stirring in me.

That's a good thing, too, because this life I'm living comes at a price.

Malloy's convinced Sharpish that I'm alive someplace, out of my mind, and that

he and only he knows where I am and how to get to me. He's made a deal,

regularly providing Sharpish with samples of my semen, and God only knows what

he uses it for. Malloy has some theories, but I honestly don't care.

While it'd normally be a snap for me to beat off and pump out a load on command,

having that fucked-up metal chastity device with the thumb scanner on it stuck

over my goodies is a serious impediment, but after more trial and error - and by

God, did I get pissed off at Malloy for laughing at the 'errors' he made - we

figured out the device itself was fitted with electrodes designed to cause

ejaculation, with goo coming out of one of the tubes at the top of the device.

It hurts a little lot, which is why I like to be out for the count when Malloy

does it, which is why it's so nice that the Rut puts me out for an hour or two

after use.

I feel like Blade, in that I have to keep dosing myself up with this stuff so I

don't flip out and succumb to the beast in me, except I don't have superpowers,

and the beast in me isn't so much an awesome, ass-kicking vampire as a

sniveling, tail-raising fox. Which is doubly humiliating for a wolf like myself.

In fact, I'm probably a lot more like Batman, who - no, wait, Superman. Because

Superman, if he gets found out, his whole life would be destroyed and the

millions of citizens he saved would turn against him and no, no, I'm not

Superman either.

But I do have a secret identity, which in itself is pretty cool. This is a

necessity, obviously, since the microbes that I hate so much are, I'm told,

pretty valuable and a lot of people want them. Sharpish in particular. So, now

doubt you're wondering how it is that I'm still footloose and fancy-free? As

Alice would say, "a small help from my friends," by which he means "a little

help from my friends".

When I read about the police being unable to capture some criminal right under

their noses because of a dye job, or some wicked cool new technology that can

recognize a person despite that kind of disguise, I always think it's rather

dumb, like the police simply aren't doing their job. But now I've gotten some

dye myself, man, I can walk right up to people I knew, and talk to them and if I

do a funny accent they won't even recognize me. Not at all! It sort of makes me

wonder if any of my old acquaintances ever pulled that job.

I haven't gotten used to the new dark brown tint of my fur. It makes me look

more like a dog than a wolf, which harms my pride a little, and it's a bitch to

keep up. You have to set yourself to soak twice a week if you don't want the

roots to show and you have to brush yourself down really hard every day,

preferably more than that, so you don't shed too much when outdoors. After all,

dyed fur can look quite normal but a single hair looks much thicker, it's pretty

noticeable if you know what to look for.

A brand new hairdo went along with it - gone are the shoulder-length locks that

suited me so well, the whole Valley Boy look, and in is the new messed-up spiky

short style so popular with the skaters and such these days. Really, I look

eighteen again, and while being underground is hardly what you call fun, it's

kind of liberating to be able to act like a teenager again, to not be totally

professional, to suck somebody off for free once in a while for o other reason

than to impress them and their friends...

Luke McCall, at your service. I don't know where Malloy rustled up that ID;

maybe it was some poor sod who crashed and burned in his car when he just

arrived in town, or some guy in prison that sold his documents for a few packs

of menthols, I don't know. All I know is, once we added the lightened swirls in

the fur around my left eye I looked enough like Luke McCall that I could pass

for him without having to replace any of the pictures in his drivers' license or

passport or whatever.

Malloy might take credit for getting me the new identity, but it's Alice and

Nezzy that really helped us pull our heads out of our asses and figure something

out. Me and Malloy and Alice were hiding in some dingy warehouse near the docks,

moving only occasionally, to score some Rut to calm me or, in desperation, a

couple of rowdy sailors to fuck me to sleep.

Alice and Nezzy came to us, folded their arms and told us flat-out that if we

didn't do something about this, they'd leave us and after that we got our asses

in gear. Malloy went out and got me a new ID, I stopped feeling sorry for myself

and now I'm Luke McCall. And you know the genius of it?

I'm hiding right under everybody's nose. I'm living in my old apartment, making

a show of making the acquaintance of my neighbors (you know, Mrs. A and the two

punker cats William and Will whom we collectively call Double Bill, who I'm not

even sure are in on the joke. They believe, like Sharpish does, that Luke McCall

is a young ambitious hustler-boy who wants to make it big in Maranatha City,

stars in his eyes and pads on his knees. It's easy to play this part, since he's

what I'd have liked to be when I was his age. That kind of innocence and joy in

life, but with the resilience to disappointment that comes with a little

maturity.

He's gotten - that is, I've gotten myself a job at the Dive, of all places, as a

tank boy and occasional waiter. I spend an hour or so in the large cyllindrical

tank in the middle of the club, swimming and dancing with the other dancers like

otters at play (except seriously fucking sexy), moving gracefully from one

floating scuba mask to another, taking hits of air from the bubbling

muzzlepieces. After my shift's over I swim up and climb out, usually to greeat

applause and, still dressed in only a thong, I climb out and walk into the

crowd, letting the lustful ogling males dry my fur as they press against me.

It's a Dive ritual, and one of the reasons most guys visit there in the first

place.

Then I wrap a beach towel around my waist and start taking orders from the

table, which is where the big dogs sit. I've even served... can you guess? I've

even served Sharpish. Served him drinks, sat on his lap, and he didn't recognise

me. Alice and Malloy called me a fool for taking a risk like that afterward but

I could see even they were impressed by the excitement of it.

So life as Luke McCall really is a lot better than life as the hidden-from-sight

recluse that I was forced to be, and which Sharpish thinks that I - that Owen -

still am. Is. Be. Whatever Malloy still scores Rut and runs roofs and sewers to

a 'secret location', making sure he isn't followed or tracked, going to a

different location each night... And then heading back in plain sight, paying a

visit to the new young dog that moved into Owen's old apartment, one that seems

to be his flavor of the month, for a tumble in the hay.

And we do have that, occasionally, not just the fucks to keep me from scratching

at the wallpaper. He doesn't enjoy those any more than I do. No, we actually

have sex now and again, just to enjoy a bit of closeness, which is weird,

because we never really used to do that. Sex was just for fun, and because I'm a

professional and he's a bad boy money would always be exchanged as part of the

game.

Not any more, though.

It happened accidentally, the first time. That was... maybe three days after he

and the others had rescued me from St Claudia's hospital and he finally figured

out I could be calmed down and returned to sanity by administering some Rut. Up

to then he'd been keeping me sated with a steady stream of males, pimping my

half-conscious self out to sailors on leave and such - nothing I haven't done

before, and nothing I seriously mind.

When I awoke from that fucked-up haze of horny and saw Malloy's handsome

Doberman face looking at me with such depthless relief... I felt like I was seeing

a long-lost brother. Although the way I kissed him and the passion of our

subsequent mating could hardly be considered brotherly, to be honest. We went at

it on the bare concrete floor of the dimly-lit basement where he'd stashed me

that night and went at it for hours.

Naturally, I didn't think to insist on so much as an IOU, the way I normally

would, nor did he think to make the gesture of reaching for his wallet by the

time we were done with each other. It felt so complete, such a satisfying end to

the torment I'd just endured, to be rejoined with my deepest friend, to show my

love for him.

And yet we still aren't lovers.

We're closer than most married couples and have a lot fewer arguments and a hell

of a lot more sex. We each lost our virginity to each other and ran away from

home together, we stood up for each other, lied, bribed and damn nearly died for

each other. I can't remember anything he did ever hurting my feelings, nor vice

versa.

And yet...

We can't be lovers. There is no affection I can show him that I don't show

anybody else who pays for it, and Malloy can't help but maintain even for me the

show of strength he shows the world. Neither of us can be different to one

another than to the rest of the world simply because we've each embraced the

roles we chose in life so fully that they've become a part of us - me, the

hustler, him, the thug - as if the masks we donned when we came to Maranatha all

those years ago actually became our faces, which we can no more remove

voluntarily than anybody else can remove his skin.

And so we have nothing to offer each other. Maybe to others, yes, maybe we can

do that. Malloy could fall in love, I think. Perhaps he's already in love,

considering the ice I saw in his eyes when I told him Alice was in trouble. I

don't think it's mutual, but it at least shows that he can be in love, so he

might fall In love with somebody else. That'd be good, I think. It'd have to be

somebody extraordinary, but I think it'd be good for him to have somebody and I

don't think I'd be jealous, really.

Me, though? I don't think I can do it. Be with somebody, I mean. Maybe if Malloy

and I had never met before, and met maybe six months ago, for the first time...

Maybe we could have grown to trust and love each other. But probably that's just

wishful thinking.

And playing the part of Luke McCall isn't doing me any good, either. Playing

somebody so young only reminds me that, while I'm certainly no old fogy, my

youth is behind me. That is, the years where I'm entitled to make mistakes, in

the knowledge that I can still easily fix them, is over. And oh, how lovely it

is to make those mistakes! To be unprofessional, to share my body simply because

it makes me feel sexy... It's pretty nice, I gotta tell ya.

But it only reminds me that I can't afford those mistakes. Luke McCall, two

years down the line, is going to be a public-property bitch, so taken for

granted that he'll have lost all value along with his novelty. I've seen it

happen before, to dozens of boys and it could have happened to me - to Owen, if

not for the shrewdness of Malloy and the damn good advice of McIlwain...

McIlwain. There's a name I haven't considered in a while. And what's more,

Malloy hasn't mentioned him, while I'm certain he's been on the dog's mind.

McIlwain, the small-time crime boss who took in a promising young wolf named

Owen and a quick-witted Doberman named Malloy and gave them guidance and

employment. Hardly what you'd call a father figure, and if he'd wanted to

exploit us in our stupid young years he'd have gone about it just right... But he

did right by us. Told us how to behave, what you could get away with and what

you should under no circumstances risk.

He grew into one of the greater crime bosses of Maranatha I honestly can't tell

you how many there are or what they do, Malloy usually keeps track of such

things, but what's important right now is that he's a pretty big dog, and

Sharpish is a much smaller dog by comparison.

But it was Sharpish who took Alice, and who took me and put those damn microbes

in me and it's Sharpish whom we now fear. I haven't seen McIlwain at the Dive or

anywhere else in a while, now, and that's kind of weird when you consider what a

hands-on guy he was. He liked micromanaging, but not the kind that some of the

showier top dogs like to do, calling meetings while they're having dinner,

having poor performers reprimanded or executed in front of everyone... The kind of

micro-management that serves only to make the top dog feel good. He liked to get

his hands dirty and get involved, simply to remind people of who they worked for

and what he stood for. Don't leave too many bodies, don't squeal if you get

caught, and don't hurt any kids.

Maybe Sharpish took over? Wouldn't that be a damn disaster. I'll have to ask

Malloy next time I see him.

For now, though, I think I've had enough of worrying. I've been sitting in my

apartment, naked on a chair just like I'd been that first stupid fucking day

when all this shit started, except my balls can't dangle free and my sheath

can't sag against my thigh because of this fucking metal thing on my sheath, now

scorched black and scratched here and there from our many attempts to remove it,

also my fur's a different color, I'm a little leaner and I'm called Luke, now.

Other than that, though, I've been feeling just as sorry for myself, and that

shit just doesn't fly.

I get dressed. Always an adventure. Let's see what my wardrobe - read: crate -

has in store for me today. Ragged-edged tank top, tartan, no less. Smells clean,

so It must be the new batch of fashionable rage Malloy pilfered for me from the

Haberdash. I asked him to go for rave gear, but he doesn't quite seem to

understand what that means. Still, it's a nice, tight fit and ends well above

the navel, so it shows my tummy off nicely. And while I've never been a slouch

when it came to crunches, I must say, this new dye job really brings out the ol'

abs. It's not as shiny as Malloy's fur, but then, jeez, there's colts out there

with hides less silky than his. Mrowr.

Baggy pants and old army boots complete the outfit, lacking a belt but sporting

a very handsome drawstring at the waist. Beige. Hardly a matching costume, but

it's just till I get to work. Hell, nobody's even going to see it. It's getting

cold outside, so I pull on my trusty charcoal-grey woolen trench coat, turn up

the collar and, without bothering to button it up - abs like these need to

breath, don't ya know - I walk out the door, down the hall, past Mrs. A's place,

down the stairs, past Butterfly's familiar chanting, and head out into the cool

air of my Maranatha.

Luke's Maranatha. Don't quite have the same ring, I don't think. It'll do for

now.

The fluffy white flakes that lightly twirl down from the neon-lit clouds

overhead are barely worthy of the name snow and rest like dandruff on my

shoulders for only a few seconds at a time. My breath steams in the air but

doesn't feel chilly on my bare stomach since there's no wind, which is a shame

because longcoats really need a good breeze to look good. Can't have everything,

I suppose.

I pass a bum muttering to a paper-wrapped bottle and instinctually reach into my

pocket - I'm not usually soft-hearted and generous, but winter's coming and the

guys on the streets can use every break they can get. Sadly, my pocket's empty,

so it's a good thing the old dude never even noticed me. Two truly bitchy drag

hookers across the street hiss at me and swear with screechy voices. Owen was

sort of friends with them, the way that you can be 'friends' with even your most

dreadfully obnoxious aunt, but Luke isn't on such good terms with them. He's

tough competition, he's the hypermodern Japan to the transvestites' Reagan-era

US of A. I open my overcoat at them like a flasher and blow them a kiss before

hopping along on my merry way.

"You on the clock, Lukey?" a voice yells out to me from across the street. The

wind picks up a little and a hazy cloud of snowdrift blinds one side of the road

from the other, but then I see who called me. Patrick. Only nineteen years old

and the snobbiest, snottiest punk you ever sneered at. Dad's in real estate and

the boy's his trophy, you know the kind. Punk's actually blessed with half a

mind, which he cleverly puts to use since bringing home straight A report cards

buys him free tickets to the fucking universe.

Daddy gave him a sleek silver Saab, leftovers from the old man's upgrade to an

even fancier vehicle, but to Pat's credit, he doesn't drive it. Instead of that

annoying deep hum that the upper middle class exec cars favor, the sound he

makes when riding around town is the throaty purr of his finely tuned Kawasaki

and as much as I loathe the kid, I gotta admit, I do feel kinda twinky when I'm

riding bitch on his bike. Sure, I got some dignity, I'm a hustler and not a

slut... But man, does it feel special to be a preppy-boy's bitch once in a while.

Without thinking I shake my head to throw my hair out, not realizing I don't

have my shoulder-length tresses any more, so I guess it looks kind of stupid,

and that's okay, since Luke's kind of stupid. "You know I'm on at Crosshairs,

Patsy," I reply, and I'll probably explain later on what Crosshairs is

precisely. He grins at the jibe and starts walking along with me, on the other

side of the street, past unlit windows and windowless cars. He's a cougar, Pat

is, dressed in what must be the coolest frat fashion. Stainless khakis with a

lot of pockets and a white short-sleeve shirt - if he'd put all his clothes

through a dark gray dye wash he might look just like Malloy.

"Sure you haven't time for a quickie, Lukey? I've got a C-note that'd look real

good in your pocket," he says, flicking his thick tail this way and that as if

weighing the options for me. He's grinning those perfect teeth at me and smiles

that perfect smile. Here's a boy who knows how his life's going to go. He's

going to work for his dad in the summer, like every summer, but with a more

important job. He's going to go to dad's parties and hobnob with the other real

estate people, get to know their sons and, more importantly, daughters. He's

going to hook up with his dad's boss' daughter and everybody will be happy about

it. His dad will get a promotion and, as a friend of the family, Patrick Junior

will be first in line to replace him at his old function. He'll marry the girl,

who's just as ambitious as he is and they'll have a kid, just one, that's all

they need. They'll get a good nurse and private tutors for the kid, just like

they got themselves and then they can get on with their lives. The wife will see

other men, perhaps ones she works with, and the husband won't object. The

husband will go out partying, grab himself a boy like Luke now and again and as

long as he doesn't bring the boys home, the wife won't mind. And then they're

retire, and if he dies first she'll hook up with the pool-boy and if she dies

first, maybe he will.

All that's reflected in his eyes. They say mean people can't be happy, not

really, but he is, deep down. He knows he's got it good and he's just cocky

because that's all he knows how to be. He's perfect for the life stretching out

ahead of him and he knows it. Part of him's grateful, I'm sure. I wrap the coat

around myself, stuffing my hands into the pockets, and actually consider it.

Overwheel street's another ten minutes' walk. I could easily give him a quick

blowjob and have him give me a ride on his bike.

His bike... The beautiful, blade-angled red Kawasaki's parked just at the next

crossing, chained to a streetlight... With a rather tall leather-clad stag

appreciatively inspecting its features, much to Patrick's dismay. He's clearly a

biker, or a biker-wannabe, since he doesn't seem to have wheels of his own

parked anywhere near. He's got blue bandanas tied around his neck, clearly a

gang emblem, but since I've never seen that around before it probably means that

there aren't too many of that particular gang. Maybe he's with the Muz Ozuls, a

small-time group I've been hearing about lately, but then, maybe not.

"Nice wheels," says the stag, standing up straight with a lazy smile that he

seems to have copied from any number of gang movies. He runs his hand over the

smooth, polished contours of the bike, lightly running his fingerclaws over the

paintjob, just shy of actually scratching the paint. Patrick bristles at that,

the suburban Yup-child in him urging to spring up and tell the stag how much

it'll cost to get it repaired, but the part of him that's been aound these

streets a fw times keeps him quiet. "How much?" asks the stag, leaning back on

the motorcycle with a creak of leather. My leathers were much better, I think,

it's a shame I can't wear them again for fear of being recognised.

He's smiling, the stag is and instantly I look away. It's an instinct, and I'm

not sure if I'm ashamed of it. The confidence in his voice is jarring, it's like

when Malloy barks at someone or Sharpish whispers, it just cuts right through

you and you know you'd better be on your toes. This stag's got balls and you

don't want to cross his path, but sadly for Pat, his path leads right to him.

"Ain't for sale," Pat mutters in the way people mutter when they've been

instantly cowed. He sounds like the nerds in high school he ignored when the

jocks were picking on them, I'm sure he realizes it. The stag's leaning against

the Kawasaki, Patrick looks at me as I continue walking and I have to really

steel myself to keep from looking back. I don't know if he's pleading, probably

he isn't, but I doubt he's very happy. He's obviously out of his depth and sees

absolutely no options.

The stag's continuing his as I walk away tough-talk and I know what's going to

happen. If there's anybody living in any of these houses they're going to shut

their curtains and turn up the volume of their TV set while this prep school boy

gets bent over his bike. If the gang this guy's from is like the Muz Uriols from

uptown he might even cap the poor kid just for having fangs, they're that

anti-carnivore.

I walk, and I want to give the kid some advice, I want to tell him not to put up

a fight and not to scream and maybe he'll make it home, minus his bike and some

dignity. Pappa'll get the police, spread some money around maybe if he's rich

enough, and the bad guys might end up in jail. It's not pretty, but he'll still

be alive and that ain't bad.

The wind's picking up. I'm less than half a block away from the crossing; hell,

I could look back and see them going to town on Patrick, if that's what they're

doing, but I can't bring myself to doing it. The stag'll have him against the

wall by now, the stag marching back and forth making a show of deciding what to

do with the boy. Considering the neighbourhood he won't even bother dragging him

into an alley. He'll douse his bandana in gasoline and stuff it in his mouth to

shut him up, maybe threaten to light it on fire. The stag won't do it, but he'll

still be scared.

Ah, hell, he'll probably let Pat go. The stag's a young upstarta and won't want

to get too high on the radar by leaving a good-looking corpse like Patrick

behind. It'll teach him a lesson, too. He'll learn some humility, learn that he

has to be careful. Maybe he'll even get scared straight. Get out of the rough

neighborhoods and study to learn rather than just get grades. Get himself a nice

girl, and all.

Besides, what's a little rape anyway? Been raped plenty often myself, and I

don't just mean those times when I did the deed and the guy didn't pony up the

cash. I mean held down and taken in turns. Course, I always had McIlwain to run

to, and when he didn't do anything, Malloy'd track the motherfuckers down and

kick their ass, but rape's still rape and it never done me a whole lotta harm.

Ain't sayin' it was fun, mind, just sayin' it ain't the end of the world.

Besides, I got work to do. If I'm not on stage in twenty minutes I'm in a lot of

trouble, and then I could be back to sitting in a room and brooding all day,

which ain't my idea of fun. No, I gotta stick with what I gotta do and, hell,

Patrick oughtta know better than to come to a seedy place like this with money

like his and expect to get away hassle-free.

These are all really solid reasons not to go back. And yet I'm going back. I

notice I'm walking taller than I have lately, my stride's longer, too. I'm Owen,

again, now, not Luke and at some level the Muz Ozuls, if that's what they are,

recognize that. Enough to make them pause.

I pass by empty apartments, their windows broken or boarded, some of them with

light behind them. Potheads, crackheads and whatnot, hiding fom the sounds

outside. People get shot here every day and I'm sure Pat is beginning to feel

like he might become one of them. He's got tears in his eyes, which he's doing a

good job of blinking back and he's muttering about how his father's going to get

this stag if the sonofabitch hurts him. The stag ain't paying him much mind,

though, talking about bullshit like showing proper respect and not trespassing

where you've got no business to be. Anybody who's ever been bullied by someobody

with a gun knows what I'm talking about.

"You gonna waste your time on a virgin, when you could try your hand at a pro?"

I declare, walking over to the corner where all this is taking place. Black

streets stretch in all directions and I'm reminded, again, of how huge Maranatha

is and how desolate this district. The leather-stag could kill Pat and me and

nobody would notice, and if they did they'd pretend not to.

"Come on," I say and to my surprise I actually feel as confident as I sound.

"What're you waitin' for? Never seen a real live hustler? I'm good," I say with

a grin, letting my coat slide off my shoulders as I say the word. "Ask your

friend here. He knows. He was about to cart me off, too... Put some salt on my

tongue, know what I mean?" I ask with a grin, leaning on the bike's handlebars.

Honestly, Owen, what the fuck are you getting yourself into...

"You offering yourself in a trade or something?" asks the stag as it finally

sinks in. He's clearly not as clever as he looks, which is too bad since he

looks pretty sharp for a gang type. There's a hint of doubt in his voice, so

this guy ain't used to being talked back to. He really is a newbie. He walks up

to me and I lean a little back a ways so I don't stand taller'n him. I arch my

back, exposing my stomach and only now does the cold really hit me, causing me

to shiver. Mmm, perfect.

"Come on, stud... Luke's getting cold!" I croon to him, smelling the leather of

his jacket, the light scent of motor-oil from his Harley Davidson knock-off

t-shirt. Not even those cross-dressing hookers near my apartment could put on

such a show, and I'd be ashamed of that if I still had anything resembling

shame. From the corner of my eye I see Patrick looking at me, silent,

half-hugging himself as he leans against the wall, his ears folded. That's good,

that is. He's actually got enough confidence not to talk or run or ask for help

• he's tough.

I feel a hand on my stomach. Score! "Like what you feel, stud? There's plenty

more... Why don't you slip your hand a little higher, hmm?" I say and lick my

lips. It's like riding a bike, really, seducing a guy that's ready for some

action. All it takes is hitting a few buttons and not pissing him off too much.

He's running his fingers over the contours of my abs, which makes me all but

blush with pride. There's another hand, now, rubbing a little lower this time,

brushing the waistband of my pants. He's got his back to Patrick, this stag,

just touching me and seeing that I offer no resistance whatsoever.

What's more, I take action. I slide off the bike andas I lift my arms my tight

tartan tank top is slid off me by his fingerless-gloved-hands and then, much to

Patrick's apparent surprise, I'm kneeling as shirtless now as I was in the

Dive's bathroom so many nights ago. "I think you got some urges that need

professional care, big boy," I tell the stag and usually I hate ridiculously

exaggerated dirty talk like that, but right now, I need the edge it gives me.

"You know, you're pretty good-lookin'... Little familiar, too. I haven't see you

around, have I?" the stag asks, dropping the tank top over the bike's

handlebars. His breath steams, mixing with the vapour-cloud coming from my own

lips and Imake a show of inhaling it, licking my lips again and tasting the

light brown long-lasting lipstick Nezzy fixed me up with to lighten their

colour, which now matches that of the stag's eyes. He's got his full winter

rack, now, but it's already getting brittle, a few prongs missing, but still

very impressive. I knew a stag once, though he was the subbiest thing you ever

saw and he'd always have his antlers clipped down to the bare minimum, just

enough for his Johns to hold on to as they pushed his head back and forth

during, well, I don't think I need to explain that to educated people like you.

"I get around," I reply and let my own hands wanter, rubbing over the front of

his grubby t-shirt, which covers a surprisingly hard stomach. Most guys like

this have a bit of a paunch, but this stag's got himself a four-pack. "Or I get

passed around, sometimes," I say as my hand scome to rest on his belt buckle,

pulling the buck a little closer to me. What you say doesn't matter, at this

point. It's like when you talk to an animal, like a dog or a horse, it doesn't

matter what words you say, what matters is how you say them, how they sound.

The cougar behind him, Patrick, finally moves, standing up from the wall. The

shaking in his shoulders is gone and a stab of fear lances through my gut at the

thought that he might try something stupid like knocking the stag on the back of

the head, but instead he walks around us both and ends up standing next to the

stag, to my surprise and his. "I'll pick up the tab," the young cougar announces

and my eyes go wide with surprise.

Not at the liberty he takes, mind. I don't mind that at all. There ain't many

things I expect from the guys I do business with and respect certainly ain't one

of 'em. No, what really surprises me is the savvy this cougar's showing. He's

turning the situation around, actually giving himself a new status. He's making

fucking friends with the stag, and it's working. "You had him before, boy?" the

stag asks in that deep herbivore voice, looking at Patrick as he reaches for my

fly and starts unbuttoning, exposing the leather jockstrap covering my crotch.

Patrick nods and gently pushes my shoulder, squeezing it as if to show

appreciation for my help despite how he'' using me, pushing me to turn me around

to face the bike and I lay my stomach on the seat, feeling the chill of soft,

padded leather on my stomach and cool air on my back and butt as my pants slide

down to expose it. "Lotsa times. He's not as cheap as some of the alley-boys,

but he's worth every penny. Always swallows, doesn't mind a few bruises."

Lazily I turn my head to Patrick. "Such a flatterer," I say to him and grab him

by the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt, pulling him toward me to give him a

nice, deep kiss, wrapping my tongue around his and as he melts into me my eyes

flick over to the stag, whose hands now roam my back.

Around my left shoulder-blade I have some elegan swirling patterns just like

those around my left, where my natural fur colour shines through as if it was

dyed lighter, and the stag traces a bony fingernail around the curls of the

pattern.

All the animosity between the stag and the cougar is gone. They're like drinking

buddies now, though the draught they now, together, indulge in is a young wolf's

body, naked in the chill air. Steam rises from the string of saliva that

connects his lips to mine when I break the kiss, a few more seconds and it might

freeze solid.

"I'm cold, boys," I inform them as I stretch my torso over the bike's seat,

spreading my arms to grab the end with one hand and the handlebar with the

other, flexing my arms as if I'm tied to that rack Sharpish had me bound to when

he had me down at the Dive. I'd been on that rack before, and with the exception

of that one night I've always enjoyed it.

Hands on my hips - no doubt the stag. A jeans-clad groin presses up against my

butt, against the twin straps running from the underside of the pouch over my

groin, which tactfully hides the metal sheath-trap, to the waistband of this

jockstrap, my cleft left splendidly exposed by the V-straps, a hard zipper

grinding against the soft fur there.

"Time for a buck fuck. No more dilly-dallying," I say, demanding, and reach

behind me to tug at the zipper, only to have my wrist grabbed and twisted

roughly behind my back. I release a small yelp from the shock of it, finding my

chest pressed to the leather of the seat. "Okay, okay, I'll shut up."

He's actually hurting me, and Patrick doesn't seem to care. His tears and his

worries are gone and he's back to his feeling of invincibility and I almost feel

disgusted with myself for actually trying to help an ungrateful, snotty little

cunt like Patrick. I curl my lip at him and if he did something really snobby

like blowing me a kiss maybe I'd get angry enough to kick the stag off me and

run away, and then we'd see who the antlered biker would turn to to take care of

his boner, huh?

But his grip's too tight and Patrick only shrugs at me and then I eel something

that I've felt about once a night since I was fourteen or fifteen. You know what

I'm talking about, right? Come on, you know. That sneaky warm hardness nudging

under the tail, that instinctual inhalation when it enters, the quickening of

the heartbeat when it slides deeper.

I never cease to be amazed at the feeling of a truly rock-hard cock sliding into

me and I just can't stay angry at the sensation. "He's bigger'n you, Pat," I

inform the cougar to piss him off a little and despite the pain in my shoulder

from the grip on my arm I thrust my hips back and groan at the feeling of it

sliding all the way inside me, a groan escaping my lips. "Fuck," I whisper, warm

steam bilowing out of my mouth and nostrils.

"Name's Patrick," says the cougar, making fucking friends with the guy who's

balls-deep in me right now. The leather-stag largely ignores him, holding me

down over Patrick''s bike, irregularly thrusting in me, hocking some spit onto

the wall next to us.

I don't feel like a hero, now. The thought that I may have saved Patrick's

dignity or even his life isn't in the forefront of my mind. You know how I feel?

I'm fucking bored.

Getting fucked by yet another biker dude, being held down, my arm twisted behind

my back, with no clue whether I'll actually be paid afterward. Time was when

this is what my usual Wednesday night looked like, and I can't tell you what a

fan I was of those times.

"Yeah, harder," I say and I can barely keep the contempt out of my voice. In,

out, in, out, with Patrick trying to make small-talk and slowly succeeding to

get on the guy's good side. And as the stag gets into the fuck - which isn't

weird, because I'm often told I've got an ass like butter - he starts loosening

up. Introduces himself as White-Keys, which is the lamest gang name I ever

heard.

I ask him to go harder still and they both laugh at their slut's enthusiasm, but

all I care about is getting this over with as quickly as possible because I've

got fucking work to do. Jesus, can't a guy drop a load when he's told to? Nooo,

he's got to enjoooy it, swapping tough talk with Patrick, who's talking about

going for round two.

A hand grabs my fussled hair and pulls my head back, Patick does his part by

holding my one free arm, forcing a kiss onto my lips and thrusting his tongue

into my mouth again. On a good day I might enjoy myself, because White-Keys is

really quite handsome and Patrick, for all his arrogance, is a really

good-looking kid. On a good day I might really get into it, instead of just

pretending, Getting ridden on a motorcycle... It could be quite fun.

But insted I'm just growling to myself, feeling White-Keys' breath in my neck as

he plows his fat stag-cock under my tail, slapping his groin against my butt,

that insanely elaborate belt buckle bumping against my tailbase.

I'm waiting for his knot to start swelling, I've been boned by canids so often

lately, but naturally a deer like this one doesn't have a knot and thus I'm

caught almost entirely by surprise when he grabs my hips firmly and, with a

groan, ejaculates inside me. I genuinely don't feel like describing the

sensation of feeling an unwelcome cock squirting warm cum up my ass, it's

something that feels kind of kinky the first two or three dozen times, makes you

feel kind of sexy... But it gets boring really, really fast.

"You done?" I ask before I'm able to stop myself, and in the silence that

follows I quickly turn my head to grin at the stag behind m, as if this was a

joke. He laughs and punches Patrick on the shoulder and they say things like

'he's a feisty one' and that sort of shit.

Okay, long story short, he pulled out and had me suck him clean. To make sure he

wouldn't turn on Patrick after all (I'm such a fucking softie) I gave him a

nice, special treatment, tucking his dick back in his jeans, zipping him up and

kissing him on the groin. I swallow a few times to get the taste out of my

mouth, pull my pants back up, my tank top on, my coat, check the time, collect

my pay from my cougar buddy and make some polite farewells, and when I leave

White-Keys offers to buy Pat a drink at a local biker hangout and Patrick givs

him a ride on his Kawasaki.

So maybe things would have turned ot fine if I hadn't done the hero thing and I

could have saved myself a pain in the butt and some annoying delays. God, why am

I so soft? Okay, Owen, I mean, Luke, focus. The run over to the Crosshairs warms

my blood up nicely and I'm actually sweating by the time I get to the back

entrance. Quarter past nine - not too late, but late enough.

"Finally!" hisses a voice from the shadowy doorway. The bouncer, Tony, unbolts

the door and waves me inside, patting me on the butt as I rush past him. I'm

feeling agitated, just having had my time wasted in the most pathetic way, but

the spark of fun in the bear's eyes has me smiling. Maybe I'll give him a

freebie later on.

The hallway beyond the door is dimly lit and the lights flicker in time with the

deep, booming bass thumping through the building. I push my way through a throng

of stripper chicks in Chiquita Banana outfits. "Excuse me, excuse me," I mutter,

enduring friendly gropings and giggles from the girls, whom I treat to my

slickest smile.

Beyond them is Hank, the stage manager. The tiger's dressed in his usual

wrinkled white shirt and leather vest, hid bireless headset hanging around his

neck, occasionally holding it to his ear and barking commands into it.

I try to sneak past him, but the corridors backstage are so damn cramped and

when I push past his back he turns around and grabs me by the balls, pushing me

against the wall. "Where the fuck have you been, you ungrateful little cunt?"

"Sorry, boss," I say in my most chipper tone of voice as if it's all fine, but

he squeezes hard and I'm kind of pissed off that the sheath-trap that's kept me

from getting hard for almost two months now doesn't cove my balls, because jesus

it fucking hurts.

"You better be fucking sorry, you cunt," he hisses at me. His breath smells like

whiskey, which is weird because he doesn't usually start drinking until after

midnight. Both of us are jarred by a crashing, electric sound that thrums

through the bare concrete walls, he looks at me and emits a short scream. I

honestly don't know why. "Run," he says softly to me. "Or I'll break your

goddamned legs."

"I'll get changed as quick as I c--"

He roars again, actually lifting me off the ground by his grip on my balls. Over

his shoulder I see some of the Chiquita chicks wincing in sympathetic pain. "NO,

YOU WILL NOT!" he roars, "You get on that GODDAMNED stage!"

Stage?

Heh.

Yeah.

As soon as he lets go I bolt down the hall, mumbling apologies to the serving

girls and boys I bump into on my way, skidding over pudldes of beer on the bare

floor. I reach the corner of the wings, pushing past the lighting guy at his

panel right by the stage door. He gives me a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

A wall of sound hits me. It was there already, the sound, but it'd been filtered

by brick and concrete and voices of the Crosshairs' employees, the waiters and

waitresses, the stripper chicks and go-go boys, bouncers and watchers, but now I

get it full-blast.

Hundreds of voices raised in cheer, their voices absorbed by a current of

electrified music, passion conducted through strings and skins and keys,

coursing down wires, skipping switches and swimming at light-speed through the

smoke-laden air over invisible carrier waves to burst, finally, from dozens of

speakers, forcing hundreds of heartbeats to sync to its rhythm.

Music.

I haven't even changed, I'm still in my tartan fucking tank-top, but it doesn't

matter. Applause and drum-beats pound my body from all directions and everything

melts but my deepest core. My irritation at my recent bike-fuck, my frustration

at having been unable to get a stiffy for weeks, the stress of having to hide

like this - it's all gone and all that remains is pure lust for life and the

urge to scream.

And then I trip, but it's fine. My knees hit the ground and my momentum carries

me forward, past William and Will with their instruments, through their

wide-eyed, amazed glances, and I land right at the microphone. I raise myself up

on my knees, my coat falling from my arms as I do so, just in time for me to

wrap my fingers around the cool, gleaming metal of the microphone, to pull

myself up and to face a horde of people.

Bodies, just like in the Dive, but they're different. In the Dive, your body is

a drop in an ocean, that swirls and dissipates and reforms, but here, they're a

million needles on a million corks, all pointing in one direction - me.

There's a short silence behind me, the pause between beats that stretches for

ever as I gather all the expectant looks, from the audience, the sea of eyes and

men and women, the tenders behind the bar at the back, the people drinking at

it, all turned toward the stage, with me and Double Bill and the other guys of

the band, guys I'll tell you about later because right now it's time for me to

open my mouth.

I part my lips, still tasting the salt semen from White-Keys' dick as I lick my

teeth, wrap my fingers around the microphone like it was my lover's member,

tenderly but firmly and then the song comes out of me before I even know what

I'm doing.

I sing, and the band plays, and the audience cheers, and for three minutes,

everything's right with the world.

To be continued.

Available on paperback in 2005

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