{"sf1_id":4437,"sf2_id":"3eg0qGWm","title":"Maranatha - Chapter X, as told by Owen Zelazny","author":"khakidoggy","words":8728,"posted_at":"2005-01-07T23:31:00.000Z","tags":["Anal","Cougar","M/M","Modern","Music","Plot Development","Prostitution","Tiger","Wolf"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4437-maranatha-chapter-x-as-told-by-owen-zelazny","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/3eg0qGWm","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/ef/21/ef2127b9-f344-48d1-a3fc-cbd0c073d10d","description":"#10 of Maranatha","content":"  \n  \n\n  \n\n  \n\nM A R A N A T H A  \n  \n  \n  \n© Osfer, January 2005  \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\n  \n\nChapter X - As Told By Owen Zelazny\n\n  \n  \n\nYou know what sucks?  \n  \nI don't mean generally, I mean specifically. You know by now what kind of things  \nI've been through, the kind of shit I've had to put up with. You've heard those  \nstories. So guess what's at the top of my list of Things That Suck?  \n  \nThat's right.  \n  \nThe C-65 microbe cluster, the Henderson microbes, that's what.   \n  \nThose little cuntsuckers are coursing through my goddamned veins, taking little  \ntrips from their colony in my brain. Although it feels like they're in my balls,  \nwith all the ache and heat down there. They drive me so insane at times, when  \nMalloy can't score a hit of Rut to calm me down, that I'm thrashing about and  \nscreaming and the only thing that can even quiet me for a while is a good, hard  \nscrew, and while that may sound mighty sexy, let me tell you, it's a chore like  \nnothing you can conceive of.\n\n\u0026nbsp; Now, I've been in gangbangs before, it's part of the job. Once, I was rented for  \na weekend by two rivaling frat houses and got passed around so that each house  \ncould prove its members' stamina, and while the brothers were allowed to take  \npower naps now and then, I was kept busy enough that by the time I walked out of  \nthere, bow-legged and with five clean grand in my pocket, I hadn't slept in  \neighty hours. I actually took pride in that, as I usually do with my work.  \n  \nBut this is humiliating. When Malloy finds me scratching the walls, drops his  \nbags and rushes over, unzipping, holding me down to mount me good and hard, even  \nthrough my haze of mental chaos I can still see how it hurts him to see me like  \nthis. I don't like it either, as you might guess. The high point of my day is  \nMalloy holding me while he doses me with some Rut, holding me down so I don't  \nbite my tongue or swallow it when the muscle spasms hit. After that I pass out  \nand he goes to work with that fucked-up electrical thing.  \n  \n  \nOkay, so, since maybe you missed a bit (which is okay, since I did, too), let me  \nbreak it down for you. It's a few months since we last talked, and Chanukah is  \nalmost here. It's snowing for the first time in sixty years, but the ground's  \nstill so warm that it doesn't pile up. Everybody's hoping that the snow will  \nhold long enough for the streets to actually turn white completely. It'd make a  \nnice change.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Through trial and error and a little creative thinking Malloy and I figured out  \nthat Rut had a calming effect on the microbes in my body. To remind you, Rut is  \na sex drugs, specifically for herbivores while Heat is its carnivore  \ncounterpart. Since I'm in the latter category, you'd expect Rut to give me the  \nusual symptoms - upset belly, headaches, projectile vomiting, my head turning  \nbackwards and Satan invading my body. Not me, though, it just quietens down the  \nurges those goddamned bugs are stirring in me.  \n  \nThat's a good thing, too, because this life I'm living comes at a price.  \nMalloy's convinced Sharpish that I'm alive someplace, out of my mind, and that  \nhe and only he knows where I am and how to get to me. He's made a deal,  \nregularly providing Sharpish with samples of my semen, and God only knows what  \nhe uses it for. Malloy has some theories, but I honestly don't care.   \n  \nWhile it'd normally be a snap for me to beat off and pump out a load on command,  \nhaving that fucked-up metal chastity device with the thumb scanner on it stuck  \nover my goodies is a serious impediment, but after more trial and error - and by  \nGod, did I get pissed off at Malloy for laughing at the 'errors' he made - we  \nfigured out the device itself was fitted with electrodes designed to cause  \nejaculation, with goo coming out of one of the tubes at the top of the device.  \nIt hurts a little lot, which is why I like to be out for the count when Malloy  \ndoes it, which is why it's so nice that the Rut puts me out for an hour or two  \nafter use.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I feel like Blade, in that I have to keep dosing myself up with this stuff so I  \ndon't flip out and succumb to the beast in me, except I don't have superpowers,  \nand the beast in me isn't so much an awesome, ass-kicking vampire as a  \nsniveling, tail-raising fox. Which is doubly humiliating for a wolf like myself.  \nIn fact, I'm probably a lot more like Batman, who - no, wait, Superman. Because  \nSuperman, if he gets found out, his whole life would be destroyed and the  \nmillions of citizens he saved would turn against him and no, no, I'm not  \nSuperman either.  \n  \nBut I do have a secret identity, which in itself is pretty cool. This is a  \nnecessity, obviously, since the microbes that I hate so much are, I'm told,  \npretty valuable and a lot of people want them. Sharpish in particular. So, now  \ndoubt you're wondering how it is that I'm still footloose and fancy-free? As  \nAlice would say, \"a small help from my friends,\" by which he means \"a little  \nhelp from my friends\".  \n  \nWhen I read about the police being unable to capture some criminal right under  \ntheir noses because of a dye job, or some wicked cool new technology that can  \nrecognize a person despite that kind of disguise, I always think it's rather  \ndumb, like the police simply aren't doing their job. But now I've gotten some  \ndye myself, man, I can walk right up to people I knew, and talk to them and if I  \ndo a funny accent they won't even recognize me. Not at all! It sort of makes me  \nwonder if any of my old acquaintances ever pulled that job.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I haven't gotten used to the new dark brown tint of my fur. It makes me look  \nmore like a dog than a wolf, which harms my pride a little, and it's a bitch to  \nkeep up. You have to set yourself to soak twice a week if you don't want the  \nroots to show and you have to brush yourself down really hard every day,  \npreferably more than that, so you don't shed too much when outdoors. After all,  \ndyed fur can look quite normal but a single hair looks much thicker, it's pretty  \nnoticeable if you know what to look for.  \n  \nA brand new hairdo went along with it - gone are the shoulder-length locks that  \nsuited me so well, the whole Valley Boy look, and in is the new messed-up spiky  \nshort style so popular with the skaters and such these days. Really, I look  \neighteen again, and while being underground is hardly what you call fun, it's  \nkind of liberating to be able to act like a teenager again, to not be totally  \nprofessional, to suck somebody off for free once in a while for o other reason  \nthan to impress them and their friends...  \n  \nLuke McCall, at your service. I don't know where Malloy rustled up that ID;  \nmaybe it was some poor sod who crashed and burned in his car when he just  \narrived in town, or some guy in prison that sold his documents for a few packs  \nof menthols, I don't know. All I know is, once we added the lightened swirls in  \nthe fur around my left eye I looked enough like Luke McCall that I could pass  \nfor him without having to replace any of the pictures in his drivers' license or  \npassport or whatever.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Malloy might take credit for getting me the new identity, but it's Alice and  \nNezzy that really helped us pull our heads out of our asses and figure something  \nout. Me and Malloy and Alice were hiding in some dingy warehouse near the docks,  \nmoving only occasionally, to score some Rut to calm me or, in desperation, a  \ncouple of rowdy sailors to fuck me to sleep.   \n  \nAlice and Nezzy came to us, folded their arms and told us flat-out that if we  \ndidn't do something about this, they'd leave us and after that we got our asses  \nin gear. Malloy went out and got me a new ID, I stopped feeling sorry for myself  \nand now I'm Luke McCall. And you know the genius of it?  \n  \nI'm hiding right under everybody's nose. I'm living in my old apartment, making  \na show of making the acquaintance of my neighbors (you know, Mrs. A and the two  \npunker cats William and Will whom we collectively call Double Bill, who I'm not  \neven sure are in on the joke. They believe, like Sharpish does, that Luke McCall  \nis a young ambitious hustler-boy who wants to make it big in Maranatha City,  \nstars in his eyes and pads on his knees. It's easy to play this part, since he's  \nwhat I'd have liked to be when I was his age. That kind of innocence and joy in  \nlife, but with the resilience to disappointment that comes with a little  \nmaturity.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; He's gotten - that is, I've gotten myself a job at the Dive, of all places, as a  \ntank boy and occasional waiter. I spend an hour or so in the large cyllindrical  \ntank in the middle of the club, swimming and dancing with the other dancers like  \notters at play (except seriously fucking sexy), moving gracefully from one  \nfloating scuba mask to another, taking hits of air from the bubbling  \nmuzzlepieces. After my shift's over I swim up and climb out, usually to greeat  \napplause and, still dressed in only a thong, I climb out and walk into the  \ncrowd, letting the lustful ogling males dry my fur as they press against me.  \nIt's a Dive ritual, and one of the reasons most guys visit there in the first  \nplace.  \n  \nThen I wrap a beach towel around my waist and start taking orders from the  \ntable, which is where the big dogs sit. I've even served... can you guess? I've  \neven served Sharpish. Served him drinks, sat on his lap, and he didn't recognise  \nme. Alice and Malloy called me a fool for taking a risk like that afterward but  \nI could see even they were impressed by the excitement of it.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; So life as Luke McCall really is a lot better than life as the hidden-from-sight  \nrecluse that I was forced to be, and which Sharpish thinks that I - that Owen -  \nstill am. Is. Be. Whatever Malloy still scores Rut and runs roofs and sewers to  \na 'secret location', making sure he isn't followed or tracked, going to a  \ndifferent location each night... And then heading back in plain sight, paying a  \nvisit to the new young dog that moved into Owen's old apartment, one that seems  \nto be his flavor of the month, for a tumble in the hay.  \n  \n  \nAnd we do have that, occasionally, not just the fucks to keep me from scratching  \nat the wallpaper. He doesn't enjoy those any more than I do. No, we actually  \nhave sex now and again, just to enjoy a bit of closeness, which is weird,  \nbecause we never really used to do that. Sex was just for fun, and because I'm a  \nprofessional and he's a bad boy money would always be exchanged as part of the  \ngame.  \n  \nNot any more, though.   \n  \nIt happened accidentally, the first time. That was... maybe three days after he  \nand the others had rescued me from St Claudia's hospital and he finally figured  \nout I could be calmed down and returned to sanity by administering some Rut. Up  \nto then he'd been keeping me sated with a steady stream of males, pimping my  \nhalf-conscious self out to sailors on leave and such - nothing I haven't done  \nbefore, and nothing I seriously mind.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; When I awoke from that fucked-up haze of horny and saw Malloy's handsome  \nDoberman face looking at me with such depthless relief... I felt like I was seeing  \na long-lost brother. Although the way I kissed him and the passion of our  \nsubsequent mating could hardly be considered brotherly, to be honest. We went at  \nit on the bare concrete floor of the dimly-lit basement where he'd stashed me  \nthat night and went at it for hours.  \n  \nNaturally, I didn't think to insist on so much as an IOU, the way I normally  \nwould, nor did he think to make the gesture of reaching for his wallet by the  \ntime we were done with each other. It felt so complete, such a satisfying end to  \nthe torment I'd just endured, to be rejoined with my deepest friend, to show my  \nlove for him.  \n  \nAnd yet we still aren't lovers.   \n  \nWe're closer than most married couples and have a lot fewer arguments and a hell  \nof a lot more sex. We each lost our virginity to each other and ran away from  \nhome together, we stood up for each other, lied, bribed and damn nearly died for  \neach other. I can't remember anything he did ever hurting my feelings, nor vice  \nversa.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; And yet...  \n  \nWe can't be lovers. There is no affection I can show him that I don't show  \nanybody else who pays for it, and Malloy can't help but maintain even for me the  \nshow of strength he shows the world. Neither of us can be different to one  \nanother than to the rest of the world simply because we've each embraced the  \nroles we chose in life so fully that they've become a part of us - me, the  \nhustler, him, the thug - as if the masks we donned when we came to Maranatha all  \nthose years ago actually became our faces, which we can no more remove  \nvoluntarily than anybody else can remove his skin.  \n  \nAnd so we have nothing to offer each other. Maybe to others, yes, maybe we can  \ndo that. Malloy could fall in love, I think. Perhaps he's already in love,  \nconsidering the ice I saw in his eyes when I told him Alice was in trouble. I  \ndon't think it's mutual, but it at least shows that he can be in love, so he  \nmight fall In love with somebody else. That'd be good, I think. It'd have to be  \nsomebody extraordinary, but I think it'd be good for him to have somebody and I  \ndon't think I'd be jealous, really.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Me, though? I don't think I can do it. Be with somebody, I mean. Maybe if Malloy  \nand I had never met before, and met maybe six months ago, for the first time...  \nMaybe we could have grown to trust and love each other. But probably that's just  \nwishful thinking.   \n  \nAnd playing the part of Luke McCall isn't doing me any good, either. Playing  \nsomebody so young only reminds me that, while I'm certainly no old fogy, my  \nyouth is behind me. That is, the years where I'm entitled to make mistakes, in  \nthe knowledge that I can still easily fix them, is over. And oh, how lovely it  \nis to make those mistakes! To be unprofessional, to share my body simply because  \nit makes me feel sexy... It's pretty nice, I gotta tell ya.  \n  \nBut it only reminds me that I can't afford those mistakes. Luke McCall, two  \nyears down the line, is going to be a public-property bitch, so taken for  \ngranted that he'll have lost all value along with his novelty. I've seen it  \nhappen before, to dozens of boys and it could have happened to me - to Owen, if  \nnot for the shrewdness of Malloy and the damn good advice of McIlwain...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; McIlwain. There's a name I haven't considered in a while. And what's more,  \nMalloy hasn't mentioned him, while I'm certain he's been on the dog's mind.  \nMcIlwain, the small-time crime boss who took in a promising young wolf named  \nOwen and a quick-witted Doberman named Malloy and gave them guidance and  \nemployment. Hardly what you'd call a father figure, and if he'd wanted to  \nexploit us in our stupid young years he'd have gone about it just right... But he  \ndid right by us. Told us how to behave, what you could get away with and what  \nyou should under no circumstances risk.   \n  \nHe grew into one of the greater crime bosses of Maranatha I honestly can't tell  \nyou how many there are or what they do, Malloy usually keeps track of such  \nthings, but what's important right now is that he's a pretty big dog, and  \nSharpish is a much smaller dog by comparison.  \n  \nBut it was Sharpish who took Alice, and who took me and put those damn microbes  \nin me and it's Sharpish whom we now fear. I haven't seen McIlwain at the Dive or  \nanywhere else in a while, now, and that's kind of weird when you consider what a  \nhands-on guy he was. He liked micromanaging, but not the kind that some of the  \nshowier top dogs like to do, calling meetings while they're having dinner,  \nhaving poor performers reprimanded or executed in front of everyone... The kind of  \nmicro-management that serves only to make the top dog feel good. He liked to get  \nhis hands dirty and get involved, simply to remind people of who they worked for  \nand what he stood for. Don't leave too many bodies, don't squeal if you get  \ncaught, and don't hurt any kids.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Maybe Sharpish took over? Wouldn't that be a damn disaster. I'll have to ask  \nMalloy next time I see him.  \n  \n  \nFor now, though, I think I've had enough of worrying. I've been sitting in my  \napartment, naked on a chair just like I'd been that first stupid fucking day  \nwhen all this shit started, except my balls can't dangle free and my sheath  \ncan't sag against my thigh because of this fucking metal thing on my sheath, now  \nscorched black and scratched here and there from our many attempts to remove it,  \nalso my fur's a different color, I'm a little leaner and I'm called Luke, now.  \nOther than that, though, I've been feeling just as sorry for myself, and that  \nshit just doesn't fly.   \n  \nI get dressed. Always an adventure. Let's see what my wardrobe - read: crate -  \nhas in store for me today. Ragged-edged tank top, tartan, no less. Smells clean,  \nso It must be the new batch of fashionable rage Malloy pilfered for me from the  \nHaberdash. I asked him to go for rave gear, but he doesn't quite seem to  \nunderstand what that means. Still, it's a nice, tight fit and ends well above  \nthe navel, so it shows my tummy off nicely. And while I've never been a slouch  \nwhen it came to crunches, I must say, this new dye job really brings out the ol'  \nabs. It's not as shiny as Malloy's fur, but then, jeez, there's colts out there  \nwith hides less silky than his. Mrowr.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Baggy pants and old army boots complete the outfit, lacking a belt but sporting  \na very handsome drawstring at the waist. Beige. Hardly a matching costume, but  \nit's just till I get to work. Hell, nobody's even going to see it. It's getting  \ncold outside, so I pull on my trusty charcoal-grey woolen trench coat, turn up  \nthe collar and, without bothering to button it up - abs like these need to  \nbreath, don't ya know - I walk out the door, down the hall, past Mrs. A's place,  \ndown the stairs, past Butterfly's familiar chanting, and head out into the cool  \nair of my Maranatha.   \n  \nLuke's Maranatha. Don't quite have the same ring, I don't think. It'll do for  \nnow.   \n  \nThe fluffy white flakes that lightly twirl down from the neon-lit clouds  \noverhead are barely worthy of the name snow and rest like dandruff on my  \nshoulders for only a few seconds at a time. My breath steams in the air but  \ndoesn't feel chilly on my bare stomach since there's no wind, which is a shame  \nbecause longcoats really need a good breeze to look good. Can't have everything,  \nI suppose.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I pass a bum muttering to a paper-wrapped bottle and instinctually reach into my  \npocket - I'm not usually soft-hearted and generous, but winter's coming and the  \nguys on the streets can use every break they can get. Sadly, my pocket's empty,  \nso it's a good thing the old dude never even noticed me. Two truly bitchy drag  \nhookers across the street hiss at me and swear with screechy voices. Owen was  \nsort of friends with them, the way that you can be 'friends' with even your most  \ndreadfully obnoxious aunt, but Luke isn't on such good terms with them. He's  \ntough competition, he's the hypermodern Japan to the transvestites' Reagan-era  \nUS of A. I open my overcoat at them like a flasher and blow them a kiss before  \nhopping along on my merry way.  \n  \n\"You on the clock, Lukey?\" a voice yells out to me from across the street. The  \nwind picks up a little and a hazy cloud of snowdrift blinds one side of the road  \nfrom the other, but then I see who called me. Patrick. Only nineteen years old  \nand the snobbiest, snottiest punk you ever sneered at. Dad's in real estate and  \nthe boy's his trophy, you know the kind. Punk's actually blessed with half a  \nmind, which he cleverly puts to use since bringing home straight A report cards  \nbuys him free tickets to the fucking universe.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Daddy gave him a sleek silver Saab, leftovers from the old man's upgrade to an  \neven fancier vehicle, but to Pat's credit, he doesn't drive it. Instead of that  \nannoying deep hum that the upper middle class exec cars favor, the sound he  \nmakes when riding around town is the throaty purr of his finely tuned Kawasaki  \nand as much as I loathe the kid, I gotta admit, I do feel kinda twinky when I'm  \nriding bitch on his bike. Sure, I got some dignity, I'm a hustler and not a  \nslut... But man, does it feel special to be a preppy-boy's bitch once in a while.  \n  \nWithout thinking I shake my head to throw my hair out, not realizing I don't  \nhave my shoulder-length tresses any more, so I guess it looks kind of stupid,  \nand that's okay, since Luke's kind of stupid. \"You know I'm on at Crosshairs,  \nPatsy,\" I reply, and I'll probably explain later on what Crosshairs is  \nprecisely. He grins at the jibe and starts walking along with me, on the other  \nside of the street, past unlit windows and windowless cars. He's a cougar, Pat  \nis, dressed in what must be the coolest frat fashion. Stainless khakis with a  \nlot of pockets and a white short-sleeve shirt - if he'd put all his clothes  \nthrough a dark gray dye wash he might look just like Malloy.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Sure you haven't time for a quickie, Lukey? I've got a C-note that'd look real  \ngood in your pocket,\" he says, flicking his thick tail this way and that as if  \nweighing the options for me. He's grinning those perfect teeth at me and smiles  \nthat perfect smile. Here's a boy who knows how his life's going to go. He's  \ngoing to work for his dad in the summer, like every summer, but with a more  \nimportant job. He's going to go to dad's parties and hobnob with the other real  \nestate people, get to know their sons and, more importantly, daughters. He's  \ngoing to hook up with his dad's boss' daughter and everybody will be happy about  \nit. His dad will get a promotion and, as a friend of the family, Patrick Junior  \nwill be first in line to replace him at his old function. He'll marry the girl,  \nwho's just as ambitious as he is and they'll have a kid, just one, that's all  \nthey need. They'll get a good nurse and private tutors for the kid, just like  \nthey got themselves and then they can get on with their lives. The wife will see  \nother men, perhaps ones she works with, and the husband won't object. The  \nhusband will go out partying, grab himself a boy like Luke now and again and as  \nlong as he doesn't bring the boys home, the wife won't mind. And then they're  \nretire, and if he dies first she'll hook up with the pool-boy and if she dies  \nfirst, maybe he will.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; All that's reflected in his eyes. They say mean people can't be happy, not  \nreally, but he is, deep down. He knows he's got it good and he's just cocky  \nbecause that's all he knows how to be. He's perfect for the life stretching out  \nahead of him and he knows it. Part of him's grateful, I'm sure. I wrap the coat  \naround myself, stuffing my hands into the pockets, and actually consider it.  \nOverwheel street's another ten minutes' walk. I could easily give him a quick  \nblowjob and have him give me a ride on his bike.  \n  \nHis bike... The beautiful, blade-angled red Kawasaki's parked just at the next  \ncrossing, chained to a streetlight... With a rather tall leather-clad stag  \nappreciatively inspecting its features, much to Patrick's dismay. He's clearly a  \nbiker, or a biker-wannabe, since he doesn't seem to have wheels of his own  \nparked anywhere near. He's got blue bandanas tied around his neck, clearly a  \ngang emblem, but since I've never seen that around before it probably means that  \nthere aren't too many of that particular gang. Maybe he's with the Muz Ozuls, a  \nsmall-time group I've been hearing about lately, but then, maybe not.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Nice wheels,\" says the stag, standing up straight with a lazy smile that he  \nseems to have copied from any number of gang movies. He runs his hand over the  \nsmooth, polished contours of the bike, lightly running his fingerclaws over the  \npaintjob, just shy of actually scratching the paint. Patrick bristles at that,  \nthe suburban Yup-child in him urging to spring up and tell the stag how much  \nit'll cost to get it repaired, but the part of him that's been aound these  \nstreets a fw times keeps him quiet. \"How much?\" asks the stag, leaning back on  \nthe motorcycle with a creak of leather. My leathers were much better, I think,  \nit's a shame I can't wear them again for fear of being recognised.  \n  \nHe's smiling, the stag is and instantly I look away. It's an instinct, and I'm  \nnot sure if I'm ashamed of it. The confidence in his voice is jarring, it's like  \nwhen Malloy barks at someone or Sharpish whispers, it just cuts right through  \nyou and you know you'd better be on your toes. This stag's got balls and you  \ndon't want to cross his path, but sadly for Pat, his path leads right to him.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Ain't for sale,\" Pat mutters in the way people mutter when they've been  \ninstantly cowed. He sounds like the nerds in high school he ignored when the  \njocks were picking on them, I'm sure he realizes it. The stag's leaning against  \nthe Kawasaki, Patrick looks at me as I continue walking and I have to really  \nsteel myself to keep from looking back. I don't know if he's pleading, probably  \nhe isn't, but I doubt he's very happy. He's obviously out of his depth and sees  \nabsolutely no options.  \n  \nThe stag's continuing his as I walk away tough-talk and I know what's going to  \nhappen. If there's anybody living in any of these houses they're going to shut  \ntheir curtains and turn up the volume of their TV set while this prep school boy  \ngets bent over his bike. If the gang this guy's from is like the Muz Uriols from  \nuptown he might even cap the poor kid just for having fangs, they're that  \nanti-carnivore.   \n  \nI walk, and I want to give the kid some advice, I want to tell him not to put up  \na fight and not to scream and maybe he'll make it home, minus his bike and some  \ndignity. Pappa'll get the police, spread some money around maybe if he's rich  \nenough, and the bad guys might end up in jail. It's not pretty, but he'll still  \nbe alive and that ain't bad.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nThe wind's picking up. I'm less than half a block away from the crossing; hell,  \nI could look back and see them going to town on Patrick, if that's what they're  \ndoing, but I can't bring myself to doing it. The stag'll have him against the  \nwall by now, the stag marching back and forth making a show of deciding what to  \ndo with the boy. Considering the neighbourhood he won't even bother dragging him  \ninto an alley. He'll douse his bandana in gasoline and stuff it in his mouth to  \nshut him up, maybe threaten to light it on fire. The stag won't do it, but he'll  \nstill be scared.   \n  \nAh, hell, he'll probably let Pat go. The stag's a young upstarta and won't want  \nto get too high on the radar by leaving a good-looking corpse like Patrick  \nbehind. It'll teach him a lesson, too. He'll learn some humility, learn that he  \nhas to be careful. Maybe he'll even get scared straight. Get out of the rough  \nneighborhoods and study to learn rather than just get grades. Get himself a nice  \ngirl, and all.   \n  \nBesides, what's a little rape anyway? Been raped plenty often myself, and I  \ndon't just mean those times when I did the deed and the guy didn't pony up the  \ncash. I mean held down and taken in turns. Course, I always had McIlwain to run  \nto, and when he didn't do anything, Malloy'd track the motherfuckers down and  \nkick their ass, but rape's still rape and it never done me a whole lotta harm.  \nAin't sayin' it was fun, mind, just sayin' it ain't the end of the world.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Besides, I got work to do. If I'm not on stage in twenty minutes I'm in a lot of  \ntrouble, and then I could be back to sitting in a room and brooding all day,  \nwhich ain't my idea of fun. No, I gotta stick with what I gotta do and, hell,  \nPatrick oughtta know better than to come to a seedy place like this with money  \nlike his and expect to get away hassle-free.  \n  \n  \nThese are all really solid reasons not to go back. And yet I'm going back. I  \nnotice I'm walking taller than I have lately, my stride's longer, too. I'm Owen,  \nagain, now, not Luke and at some level the Muz Ozuls, if that's what they are,  \nrecognize that. Enough to make them pause.   \n  \nI pass by empty apartments, their windows broken or boarded, some of them with  \nlight behind them. Potheads, crackheads and whatnot, hiding fom the sounds  \noutside. People get shot here every day and I'm sure Pat is beginning to feel  \nlike he might become one of them. He's got tears in his eyes, which he's doing a  \ngood job of blinking back and he's muttering about how his father's going to get  \nthis stag if the sonofabitch hurts him. The stag ain't paying him much mind,  \nthough, talking about bullshit like showing proper respect and not trespassing  \nwhere you've got no business to be. Anybody who's ever been bullied by someobody  \nwith a gun knows what I'm talking about.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"You gonna waste your time on a virgin, when you could try your hand at a pro?\"  \nI declare, walking over to the corner where all this is taking place. Black  \nstreets stretch in all directions and I'm reminded, again, of how huge Maranatha  \nis and how desolate this district. The leather-stag could kill Pat and me and  \nnobody would notice, and if they did they'd pretend not to.  \n  \n\"Come on,\" I say and to my surprise I actually feel as confident as I sound.  \n\"What're you waitin' for? Never seen a real live hustler? I'm good,\" I say with  \na grin, letting my coat slide off my shoulders as I say the word. \"Ask your  \nfriend here. He knows. He was about to cart me off, too... Put some salt on my  \ntongue, know what I mean?\" I ask with a grin, leaning on the bike's handlebars.  \nHonestly, Owen, what the fuck are you getting yourself into...   \n  \n\"You offering yourself in a trade or something?\" asks the stag as it finally  \nsinks in. He's clearly not as clever as he looks, which is too bad since he  \nlooks pretty sharp for a gang type. There's a hint of doubt in his voice, so  \nthis guy ain't used to being talked back to. He really is a newbie. He walks up  \nto me and I lean a little back a ways so I don't stand taller'n him. I arch my  \nback, exposing my stomach and only now does the cold really hit me, causing me  \nto shiver. Mmm, perfect.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Come on, stud... Luke's getting cold!\" I croon to him, smelling the leather of  \nhis jacket, the light scent of motor-oil from his Harley Davidson knock-off  \nt-shirt. Not even those cross-dressing hookers near my apartment could put on  \nsuch a show, and I'd be ashamed of that if I still had anything resembling  \nshame. From the corner of my eye I see Patrick looking at me, silent,  \nhalf-hugging himself as he leans against the wall, his ears folded. That's good,  \nthat is. He's actually got enough confidence not to talk or run or ask for help  \n- he's tough.  \n  \nI feel a hand on my stomach. Score! \"Like what you feel, stud? There's plenty  \nmore... Why don't you slip your hand a little higher, hmm?\" I say and lick my  \nlips. It's like riding a bike, really, seducing a guy that's ready for some  \naction. All it takes is hitting a few buttons and not pissing him off too much.  \nHe's running his fingers over the contours of my abs, which makes me all but  \nblush with pride. There's another hand, now, rubbing a little lower this time,  \nbrushing the waistband of my pants. He's got his back to Patrick, this stag,  \njust touching me and seeing that I offer no resistance whatsoever.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; What's more, I take action. I slide off the bike andas I lift my arms my tight  \ntartan tank top is slid off me by his fingerless-gloved-hands and then, much to  \nPatrick's apparent surprise, I'm kneeling as shirtless now as I was in the  \nDive's bathroom so many nights ago. \"I think you got some urges that need  \nprofessional care, big boy,\" I tell the stag and usually I hate ridiculously  \nexaggerated dirty talk like that, but right now, I need the edge it gives me.  \n  \n\"You know, you're pretty good-lookin'... Little familiar, too. I haven't see you  \naround, have I?\" the stag asks, dropping the tank top over the bike's  \nhandlebars. His breath steams, mixing with the vapour-cloud coming from my own  \nlips and Imake a show of inhaling it, licking my lips again and tasting the  \nlight brown long-lasting lipstick Nezzy fixed me up with to lighten their  \ncolour, which now matches that of the stag's eyes. He's got his full winter  \nrack, now, but it's already getting brittle, a few prongs missing, but still  \nvery impressive. I knew a stag once, though he was the subbiest thing you ever  \nsaw and he'd always have his antlers clipped down to the bare minimum, just  \nenough for his Johns to hold on to as they pushed his head back and forth  \nduring, well, I don't think I need to explain that to educated people like you.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"I get around,\" I reply and let my own hands wanter, rubbing over the front of  \nhis grubby t-shirt, which covers a surprisingly hard stomach. Most guys like  \nthis have a bit of a paunch, but this stag's got himself a four-pack. \"Or I get  \npassed around, sometimes,\" I say as my hand scome to rest on his belt buckle,  \npulling the buck a little closer to me. What you say doesn't matter, at this  \npoint. It's like when you talk to an animal, like a dog or a horse, it doesn't  \nmatter what words you say, what matters is how you say them, how they sound.  \n  \nThe cougar behind him, Patrick, finally moves, standing up from the wall. The  \nshaking in his shoulders is gone and a stab of fear lances through my gut at the  \nthought that he might try something stupid like knocking the stag on the back of  \nthe head, but instead he walks around us both and ends up standing next to the  \nstag, to my surprise and his. \"I'll pick up the tab,\" the young cougar announces  \nand my eyes go wide with surprise.  \n  \nNot at the liberty he takes, mind. I don't mind that at all. There ain't many  \nthings I expect from the guys I do business with and respect certainly ain't one  \nof 'em. No, what really surprises me is the savvy this cougar's showing. He's  \nturning the situation around, actually giving himself a new status. He's making  \nfucking friends with the stag, and it's working. \"You had him before, boy?\" the  \nstag asks in that deep herbivore voice, looking at Patrick as he reaches for my  \nfly and starts unbuttoning, exposing the leather jockstrap covering my crotch.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Patrick nods and gently pushes my shoulder, squeezing it as if to show  \nappreciation for my help despite how he'' using me, pushing me to turn me around  \nto face the bike and I lay my stomach on the seat, feeling the chill of soft,  \npadded leather on my stomach and cool air on my back and butt as my pants slide  \ndown to expose it. \"Lotsa times. He's not as cheap as some of the alley-boys,  \nbut he's worth every penny. Always swallows, doesn't mind a few bruises.\"   \n  \nLazily I turn my head to Patrick. \"Such a flatterer,\" I say to him and grab him  \nby the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt, pulling him toward me to give him a  \nnice, deep kiss, wrapping my tongue around his and as he melts into me my eyes  \nflick over to the stag, whose hands now roam my back.   \n  \nAround my left shoulder-blade I have some elegan swirling patterns just like  \nthose around my left, where my natural fur colour shines through as if it was  \ndyed lighter, and the stag traces a bony fingernail around the curls of the  \npattern.   \n  \nAll the animosity between the stag and the cougar is gone. They're like drinking  \nbuddies now, though the draught they now, together, indulge in is a young wolf's  \nbody, naked in the chill air. Steam rises from the string of saliva that  \nconnects his lips to mine when I break the kiss, a few more seconds and it might  \nfreeze solid.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"I'm cold, boys,\" I inform them as I stretch my torso over the bike's seat,  \nspreading my arms to grab the end with one hand and the handlebar with the  \nother, flexing my arms as if I'm tied to that rack Sharpish had me bound to when  \nhe had me down at the Dive. I'd been on that rack before, and with the exception  \nof that one night I've always enjoyed it.  \n  \nHands on my hips - no doubt the stag. A jeans-clad groin presses up against my  \nbutt, against the twin straps running from the underside of the pouch over my  \ngroin, which tactfully hides the metal sheath-trap, to the waistband of this  \njockstrap, my cleft left splendidly exposed by the V-straps, a hard zipper  \ngrinding against the soft fur there.  \n  \n\"Time for a buck fuck. No more dilly-dallying,\" I say, demanding, and reach  \nbehind me to tug at the zipper, only to have my wrist grabbed and twisted  \nroughly behind my back. I release a small yelp from the shock of it, finding my  \nchest pressed to the leather of the seat. \"Okay, okay, I'll shut up.\"  \n  \nHe's actually hurting me, and Patrick doesn't seem to care. His tears and his  \nworries are gone and he's back to his feeling of invincibility and I almost feel  \ndisgusted with myself for actually trying to help an ungrateful, snotty little  \ncunt like Patrick. I curl my lip at him and if he did something really snobby  \nlike blowing me a kiss maybe I'd get angry enough to kick the stag off me and  \nrun away, and then we'd see who the antlered biker would turn to to take care of  \nhis boner, huh?  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; But his grip's too tight and Patrick only shrugs at me and then I eel something  \nthat I've felt about once a night since I was fourteen or fifteen. You know what  \nI'm talking about, right? Come on, you know. That sneaky warm hardness nudging  \nunder the tail, that instinctual inhalation when it enters, the quickening of  \nthe heartbeat when it slides deeper.   \n  \nI never cease to be amazed at the feeling of a truly rock-hard cock sliding into  \nme and I just can't stay angry at the sensation. \"He's bigger'n you, Pat,\" I  \ninform the cougar to piss him off a little and despite the pain in my shoulder  \nfrom the grip on my arm I thrust my hips back and groan at the feeling of it  \nsliding all the way inside me, a groan escaping my lips. \"Fuck,\" I whisper, warm  \nsteam bilowing out of my mouth and nostrils.   \n  \n\"Name's Patrick,\" says the cougar, making fucking friends with the guy who's  \nballs-deep in me right now. The leather-stag largely ignores him, holding me  \ndown over Patrick''s bike, irregularly thrusting in me, hocking some spit onto  \nthe wall next to us.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I don't feel like a hero, now. The thought that I may have saved Patrick's  \ndignity or even his life isn't in the forefront of my mind. You know how I feel?  \n  \nI'm fucking bored.  \n  \nGetting fucked by yet another biker dude, being held down, my arm twisted behind  \nmy back, with no clue whether I'll actually be paid afterward. Time was when  \nthis is what my usual Wednesday night looked like, and I can't tell you what a  \nfan I was of those times.   \n  \n\"Yeah, harder,\" I say and I can barely keep the contempt out of my voice. In,  \nout, in, out, with Patrick trying to make small-talk and slowly succeeding to  \nget on the guy's good side. And as the stag gets into the fuck - which isn't  \nweird, because I'm often told I've got an ass like butter - he starts loosening  \nup. Introduces himself as White-Keys, which is the lamest gang name I ever  \nheard.  \n  \nI ask him to go harder still and they both laugh at their slut's enthusiasm, but  \nall I care about is getting this over with as quickly as possible because I've  \ngot fucking work to do. Jesus, can't a guy drop a load when he's told to? Nooo,  \nhe's got to enjoooy it, swapping tough talk with Patrick, who's talking about  \ngoing for round two.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; A hand grabs my fussled hair and pulls my head back, Patick does his part by  \nholding my one free arm, forcing a kiss onto my lips and thrusting his tongue  \ninto my mouth again. On a good day I might enjoy myself, because White-Keys is  \nreally quite handsome and Patrick, for all his arrogance, is a really  \ngood-looking kid. On a good day I might really get into it, instead of just  \npretending, Getting ridden on a motorcycle... It could be quite fun.  \n  \nBut insted I'm just growling to myself, feeling White-Keys' breath in my neck as  \nhe plows his fat stag-cock under my tail, slapping his groin against my butt,  \nthat insanely elaborate belt buckle bumping against my tailbase.   \n  \nI'm waiting for his knot to start swelling, I've been boned by canids so often  \nlately, but naturally a deer like this one doesn't have a knot and thus I'm  \ncaught almost entirely by surprise when he grabs my hips firmly and, with a  \ngroan, ejaculates inside me. I genuinely don't feel like describing the  \nsensation of feeling an unwelcome cock squirting warm cum up my ass, it's  \nsomething that feels kind of kinky the first two or three dozen times, makes you  \nfeel kind of sexy... But it gets boring really, really fast.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"You done?\" I ask before I'm able to stop myself, and in the silence that  \nfollows I quickly turn my head to grin at the stag behind m, as if this was a  \njoke. He laughs and punches Patrick on the shoulder and they say things like  \n'he's a feisty one' and that sort of shit.  \n  \n  \nOkay, long story short, he pulled out and had me suck him clean. To make sure he  \nwouldn't turn on Patrick after all (I'm such a fucking softie) I gave him a  \nnice, special treatment, tucking his dick back in his jeans, zipping him up and  \nkissing him on the groin. I swallow a few times to get the taste out of my  \nmouth, pull my pants back up, my tank top on, my coat, check the time, collect  \nmy pay from my cougar buddy and make some polite farewells, and when I leave  \nWhite-Keys offers to buy Pat a drink at a local biker hangout and Patrick givs  \nhim a ride on his Kawasaki.  \n  \nSo maybe things would have turned ot fine if I hadn't done the hero thing and I  \ncould have saved myself a pain in the butt and some annoying delays. God, why am  \nI so soft? Okay, Owen, I mean, Luke, focus. The run over to the Crosshairs warms  \nmy blood up nicely and I'm actually sweating by the time I get to the back  \nentrance. Quarter past nine - not too late, but late enough.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Finally!\" hisses a voice from the shadowy doorway. The bouncer, Tony, unbolts  \nthe door and waves me inside, patting me on the butt as I rush past him. I'm  \nfeeling agitated, just having had my time wasted in the most pathetic way, but  \nthe spark of fun in the bear's eyes has me smiling. Maybe I'll give him a  \nfreebie later on.   \n  \nThe hallway beyond the door is dimly lit and the lights flicker in time with the  \ndeep, booming bass thumping through the building. I push my way through a throng  \nof stripper chicks in Chiquita Banana outfits. \"Excuse me, excuse me,\" I mutter,  \nenduring friendly gropings and giggles from the girls, whom I treat to my  \nslickest smile.   \n  \nBeyond them is Hank, the stage manager. The tiger's dressed in his usual  \nwrinkled white shirt and leather vest, hid bireless headset hanging around his  \nneck, occasionally holding it to his ear and barking commands into it.   \n  \nI try to sneak past him, but the corridors backstage are so damn cramped and  \nwhen I push past his back he turns around and grabs me by the balls, pushing me  \nagainst the wall. \"Where the fuck have you been, you ungrateful little cunt?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Sorry, boss,\" I say in my most chipper tone of voice as if it's all fine, but  \nhe squeezes hard and I'm kind of pissed off that the sheath-trap that's kept me  \nfrom getting hard for almost two months now doesn't cove my balls, because jesus  \nit fucking hurts.   \n  \n\"You better be fucking sorry, you cunt,\" he hisses at me. His breath smells like  \nwhiskey, which is weird because he doesn't usually start drinking until after  \nmidnight. Both of us are jarred by a crashing, electric sound that thrums  \nthrough the bare concrete walls, he looks at me and emits a short scream. I  \nhonestly don't know why. \"Run,\" he says softly to me. \"Or I'll break your  \ngoddamned legs.\"  \n  \n\"I'll get changed as quick as I c--\"   \n  \nHe roars again, actually lifting me off the ground by his grip on my balls. Over  \nhis shoulder I see some of the Chiquita chicks wincing in sympathetic pain. \"NO,  \nYOU WILL NOT!\" he roars, \"You get on that GODDAMNED stage!\"  \n  \nStage?  \n  \nHeh.  \n  \nYeah.  \n  \nAs soon as he lets go I bolt down the hall, mumbling apologies to the serving  \ngirls and boys I bump into on my way, skidding over pudldes of beer on the bare  \nfloor. I reach the corner of the wings, pushing past the lighting guy at his  \npanel right by the stage door. He gives me a smile and a pat on the shoulder.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; A wall of sound hits me. It was there already, the sound, but it'd been filtered  \nby brick and concrete and voices of the Crosshairs' employees, the waiters and  \nwaitresses, the stripper chicks and go-go boys, bouncers and watchers, but now I  \nget it full-blast.  \n  \nHundreds of voices raised in cheer, their voices absorbed by a current of  \nelectrified music, passion conducted through strings and skins and keys,  \ncoursing down wires, skipping switches and swimming at light-speed through the  \nsmoke-laden air over invisible carrier waves to burst, finally, from dozens of  \nspeakers, forcing hundreds of heartbeats to sync to its rhythm.  \n  \nMusic.  \n  \nI haven't even changed, I'm still in my tartan fucking tank-top, but it doesn't  \nmatter. Applause and drum-beats pound my body from all directions and everything  \nmelts but my deepest core. My irritation at my recent bike-fuck, my frustration  \nat having been unable to get a stiffy for weeks, the stress of having to hide  \nlike this - it's all gone and all that remains is pure lust for life and the  \nurge to scream.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; And then I trip, but it's fine. My knees hit the ground and my momentum carries  \nme forward, past William and Will with their instruments, through their  \nwide-eyed, amazed glances, and I land right at the microphone. I raise myself up  \non my knees, my coat falling from my arms as I do so, just in time for me to  \nwrap my fingers around the cool, gleaming metal of the microphone, to pull  \nmyself up and to face a horde of people.  \n  \nBodies, just like in the Dive, but they're different. In the Dive, your body is  \na drop in an ocean, that swirls and dissipates and reforms, but here, they're a  \nmillion needles on a million corks, all pointing in one direction - me.   \n  \nThere's a short silence behind me, the pause between beats that stretches for  \never as I gather all the expectant looks, from the audience, the sea of eyes and  \nmen and women, the tenders behind the bar at the back, the people drinking at  \nit, all turned toward the stage, with me and Double Bill and the other guys of  \nthe band, guys I'll tell you about later because right now it's time for me to  \nopen my mouth.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I part my lips, still tasting the salt semen from White-Keys' dick as I lick my  \nteeth, wrap my fingers around the microphone like it was my lover's member,  \ntenderly but firmly and then the song comes out of me before I even know what  \nI'm doing.  \n  \nI sing, and the band plays, and the audience cheers, and for three minutes,  \neverything's right with the world.  \n  \n\n  \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  \n\n","series":{"name":"Maranatha","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4289-maranatha-chapter-ix-as-told-by-reiner-kierkegaard.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4528-maranatha-chapter-xi-as-told-by-owen-zelazny.json"}}