Maranatha - Chapter XI, as told by Owen Zelazny
#11 of Maranatha
M A R A N A T H A
© Osfer, January 2005
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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
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Available on paperback in 2005
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Chapter XI - As Told By Owen Zelazny
Owen Zelazny, reborn as the rock star Luke McCall? Wouldn't that make for a
beautiful story. I could shuck my old name entirely and take the globe by storm,
I could spend my millions on having that goddamn metal thing over my sheath
removed and discrete doctors would take care of my little microbe infestation
and none would be the wiser.
Hardly.
Some of the older or more post-modern country music fans among you may have
recognized the name McCall from the seventies, when a small-time advertising
firm invented the character C. W. McCall, a fictional truck driver who proved so
popular that the three guys who invented him brought out a couple of LP's of
'his' songs and none other than Sam Peckinpah made a movie out of one of his
most famous songs, called Convoy.
Malloy, bizarre out-of-the-box thinker that he is, made the connection shortly
after procuring papers for me under the name Luke McCall and tentatively
suggested I maybe 'get into music'. After staring blankly at him for some time,
he shrugged and dropped the matter but not two days later I heard Will and
William, the punker cats next door, talking to each other as I passed them on
the stairs, and they were talking about starting a band.
They had their arms full of groceries; they were hosting a dinner party for the
band they'd just put together, which I learned when I helped them open their
door and bring their stuff inside. I'd always been good friends with Double
Bill, as they're collectively called, so it was hard for me not to be too
familiar with them. They didn't think too much of me in return, which offended
and flattered me, since Luke didn't quite compare to the friend they'd lost when
Owen disappeared.
So I left them to it and heard their guests arriving while I was doing my weekly
preening - fresh dye job, careful full-body shampooing, even more careful
full-body steel comb brushing, claw clipping, fur trimming, some exercises...
People forget, sometimes, what an effort it takes to be a pretty-boy. I was just
taking my third shower of the day - a cold shower, because Butterfly may be a
groovy, laid-back landlord but he's every bit as laid-back about keeping the
fucking boiler in working order- when at once there came a tapping, as of
someone loudly rapping on my chamber door.
I had been singing, for no other reason than to drown out the loud voices coming
from next-door, which I thought at first was jubilant conversation but which
soon turned into a shouting match. I can't stand that sort of thing, and singing
was the natural way to drown it out, just like I'd done as a kid when my folks
were having their marital problems. And like those times, in my efforts not to
hear what was happening, I'd favor raucous volume over melody and that, it seems
caught Double Bill's attention.
The screaming match I heard from next door was apparently the neonatal band
breaking up even before they'd thought of a name due to their lead singer's A)
ego, B) apparent alcoholism and C) pederastic tendencies. They had kicked him
out, thoughtfully escorting him through the hall, down the stairs and out the
door so as not to let him cause any damage to the building which Butterfly would
not only fail to notice but also neglect to fix and on their way back, you
guessed it, they heard me sing.
I can carry a fair tune, I'm happy to say, but what I was doing wasn't singing
as much as it was roaring at that point, yet it impressed them. I was singing a
song from one of those pretend bands, you know, the one from that funny movie.
British, it was, because it was Malloy who'd clued me in on it and he was very
proud to have produced it In his country, till I recognized one of the actors as
the guy who does most of the voices in the Simpsons, and he was so crestfallen.
Anyway, I was on one of their songs, pitching up the tempo half-again and
banging my soapy sponge against the cracked-and-fixed-with-duct-tape divider of
my shower stall. My door was open, they found out, and Double Bill and their
three remaining band members, drunk on cheap booze and home-made food, piled
into my bathroom and asked my little old balls-naked me if I wanted to be the
vocalist in their new punk band.
And so it was.
My utter lack of musical experience was matched only by theirs, and so was my
enthusiasm. I helped Double Bill plead with Butterfly to be allowed to use the
attic, dilapidated as it was, as a rehearsal space and helped lug heavy
equipment up the rickety ladder while Will put down some crude electric cabling
that wasn't too much of a fire hazard. Will's a law-school drop-out and has
applied and been rejected for a job as a fireman twelve times in the years I've
known him, so all of us walk over his dodgy cabling with extreme trepidation.
Fast-forward a few weeks. Couple of gigs at the Crosshairs, Double Bill's
favorite haunt, where we play accelerated, juiced-up covers of country and folk
songs. William described it as postmodern reclamation of outdated genres through
musical violence, but since none of the band are really skilled musicians, the
songs we play are really simple and it all ends up being about how forcefully we
play. The band started off as the Deep Fried Underpants but after the original
singer left Will & William sat down to think of a new title for the band, which
became... No, I'm not going to say it. I'm actually kind of embarrassed.
Speaking of being bare-assed...
I'm walking off stage, talking with William and Rod, the bassist, a rather
wiry-looking fox who likes dressing in tight white clothes, primarily about why
I was so late for the gig. I don't tell them about the little episode with
Patrick and the Muz Ozul stag, not that they'd be too shocked, but telling them
that I overslept somehow feels more appropriate. Part of me doesn't want people
liking Luke McCall too much, lest they end up liking him more than Owen. Call me
silly, but this really does matter to me.
As usual after we get off stage I leave the guys to pack up the instruments and
other gear while I make my way backstage. It's pretty quiet at this time,
because all the go-go boys and pole dancers are all in the club itself and the
shift change isn't for another half an hour. Bare concrete corridors lead all
the way around the back of the building, props rooms, emergency liquor supplies,
replacement electrical components, the joints boys' and girls' dressing room,
which nobody ever causes a fuss about 'cuz all the boys are queer and all the
girls are bitches. As I walk I start tugging off my tank top, still damp with
sweat from my exertions on stage and hang it over a nail hammered into one
unmarked door before I open it and step into the dark, quiet space inside.
A hand grabs me and lips are pressed to mine. I feel strength in the grasp on my
bicep, the urgency of the male who pulls me toward him and as I open my mouth to
him, the clack of fangs, so whoever this is is a predator. I wonder who it is?
Now, while I'm sure you feel no surprise at the news that I'm intimately kissing
with a perfect stranger, the situation is this. Our first gig was a bit of a
disaster, with some of Will's wiring failing, and so to appease the manager I
gave him some head. He so liked this that he asked if I'd mind doing it again
sometime and naturally I said I didn't. After the next blowjob he gave me twenty
bucks and a proposition: he'd give the B-- I mean, our band a weekly gig and give
me, personally, fifty bucks after every show if, after every show, I'd go to
this supply closet, close the door, and have sex with whoever was inside.
Soon, the male I'm kissing tires of it and awkwardly tries to unbutton my pants.
I help him, quickly, suckling on his tongue and expose the leather jockstrap I
wear to keep my sheath-trap hidden and my tailhole readily available. Then he
breaks the kiss and with a heavy hand he pushes the top of my head down in a
none-too-subtle sign that he wants me to suck him. Like I said before, I'm
pretty good recognizing cocks so as soon as I get my lips around him I'm sure
I'll figure out who it is.
I've engaged in deals like this before. When I was still Owen I'd go to the Dive
once a month to fuck whoever the management told me to; that was a managerial
incentive. The employee of the month doesn't get his face in a stupid frame, he
gets an hour for free with Owen Zelazny, and I imagine this ain't likely to be
much different.
I stagger out of my pants and kick them toward the door and, naked, I land on my
knees. My hands go out to pull down the dude's zipper, but his fly's already
open and my fingers wrap around a nice, fat, straining shaft. This guy needs to
get off, so right after whispering 'nice' under my breath, because the guy's
really got a nice tool, I open wide and dive down, plunging his glans down my
throat before I even seal my lips around it, swallowing so deep my lips brush
against the rim of his sheath. I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, and I mean
hard, until I feel him gripping my hair as his body tries to figure out if it
wants me to stop or it wants more. Yeah, I'm that good, people.
"Easy," says a familiar voice, much lower and softer than I usually hear it and
immediately I slow my suckling and look up, though in this total darkness I of
course can't see a damn thing. My ears prick up, too and I cant my head,
dragging my tongue over his thick, pulsing shaft, causing him to shiver. Then I
open my mouth as wide as I can and, with his cockhead still lodged in my throat,
I gurgle a word.
"Hang?" I ask, which means 'Hank' in cocksucker-speak. He hisses at me, as if
afraid somebody outside the door might hear us, which causes me to giggle -
which, those of you who've ever had their dick sucked might imagine, is a
hazardous ting. Choking and sputtering around my throatful I slowly manage to
calm myself, bringing a hand up to fondle the big tiger's balls and let him know
I'm only joking. By the feel of his dick he doesn't think it's that funny, and
could use the reassurance. "Haub ge ipe?" I ask, cocksucker-speak for 'how's the
wife', which he absolutely doesn't appreciate and that large hand that pushed me
down to roughly now grabs the back of my head and forcefully pulls me forward,
silencing me in my absolute favourite way.
His musky, warm pole thrusts into my mouth and jabs down my throat, rubbing the
sensitive lining so deliciously and leaving a trail of precum which causes a
prickling sensation I've only ever felt one other time, and that was some
fucking expensive champagne. I turn my head from side to side, since it's the
screw-motion, rather than the in-out motion, that offers the most stimulation.
The slightly sweaty member slides in and out of my warm, available mouth,
occasionally pulling free of my throat and treating me to the pleasure of having
a cock to actually suckle on, to nurse on it and cherish the sensation of
drawing spurts of precum from it.
I resist the hand on the back of my head, if only to savor that sensation a
little longer. The delicious, familiar ache in my jaw from stretching wide
enough to accommodate Hank's prick, the dryness of my lips from being rubbed
over his thickly veined surface, especially as his barbs begin to make
themselves known. His balls are warm, and though I have to dig my hands
awkwardly into his fly to cup them, it's worth it for the loud purring the large
tiger emits as I hold them, softly massaging, finally acceding to the rhythm of
his hips and settling down for some good old-fashioned headbobbing.
God, I could do this for hours.
And very often have.
I may have told you before, but I love making people happy, and while getting
fucked is great and doesn't take a whole lot of effort, actually getting down on
your knees and getting somebody to just sit or stand or lie still and let you do
everything for them to make them feel good is more satisfying than I can
describe. To taste that outpouring of salt semen or to feel it stinging my
throat, warming my belly after just a couple of strong surges, mixed with that
outpouring of groaned pleasure from the dude... It makes me feel so good.
Not, I'll wager, as it's making Hank feel. Both his hands are resting heavily on
my head without pushing and while his ass is tensed enough to stretch his
slacks, his hips are still and all he's doing is standing there, no doubt with
his eyes closed, listening to my slurping and suckling and feeling me pump my
mouth, my hot, fuckable mouth up and down his prick.
I shift on my knees to get some circulation going and to avoid sneezing, which
would really disappoint both of us if I did it right now. I'm keeping him on the
edge, carefully sensing when his nuts tighten up and then slowing my strokes
just a fraction, or pausing for half a second so his ejaculation instincts have
to reboot.
I'll admit, I'm being selfish. It's been a good two weeks or more since I've had
a dick to suck on, everybody who's hired my services wanted under my tail and,
dammit, I've been starved for cock. So I'm going to make this one last.
Occasionally I even pull off, slobbering up and down the sides of his fat
tigercock, lapping my tongue doggishly as I run my lips along the surface before
engulfing the cooling member in the heat of my mouth again, rewarding Hank for
that momentary torment by swallowing him balls-deep again, and oh, how he purrs
and groans and whimpers.
Music to my ears. And like all music, it has to end and I like to end with a
bang. I feel him approaching climax again and no doubt he expects me to force it
to subside again, but not this time. This time I speed up, bumping my nose
painfully against his belt buckle, but I don't care, I'm going for it, folding
my ears as if the added aerodynamics could help me suck him better and grip his
hips with both hands, clinging to his strong thighs, listening to him pant and
even when that first splash hits the roof of my mouth I don't stop pumping, I
swallow the sticky, salty cream along with the rod that's squirting it, letting
each spurt land where it may, drooling down my throat or splattering against my
teeth, tongue, it doesn't matter.
I love every second of it. The sound of his rapture, the satisfaction of it, the
taste of his sperm or the incredible throb of his member, all of it I feel a
pang of sadness that its already over, it hasn't been more than half an hour
yet, but even that is masked by the warmth in my belly from his sticky, thick
load and the deep satisfaction of having brought another male, even one who's as
impatient and disregardful of me as Hank and finally, when he spurts no more, I
slow completely and simply hold his still-hard penis in my mouth, warm and
comfortable.
"Damn, kid," he whispers in the dark, petting my head as if I were a dog. "They
old me you were good, but... damn."
I like a bit of praise now and then. Maybe you've noticed.
By way of reward I slowly slip his cock out of my mouth and set to licking it,
careful, obviously, not to overstimulate. The glans is off limits and so is the
very base, but the middle of the shaft, that's fine and causes the tiger to
breathe more deeply as if the stress of yet another evening's work is melting
off him.
I never expected Hank to come to the back room, to be honest. Despite being the
stage manager and being responsible for the 'entertainment', he never ever had
himself a sneaky bit of fun with any of the boys or girls. He's got a wife and
two daughters, I know that from the banter, so I guess he loves 'em a whole lot.
"You're still hard," I whisper. I could speak aloud, but I get the distinct vibe
that Hank feels a little... dirty, doing this, especially with me, and doesn't
want to feel like it's anything other than sneaky quickie sex. "You wanna fuck
me?"
By the rustling of his clothes, I hear he's shaking his head and I can't help
but wonder what he's thinking. Maybe he just wants to get out of here, pretend
nothing happened. But no. He's still here, still leaking precum against my lips,
which I lap up patiently, savoring the taste of another man's juices after
having gone without for so long. I kinda feel like a vampire, from one of those
books by... What's her name. She writes about really gay vampires. Anyway, that's
what I feel like.
"Again?" Hank asks softly, his tone and manner worlds apart from his usual
violent shouting and as he rolls his hips softly forward as if to slide his dick
back in my warm mouth without my knowing, I realize what's up. Hank's wife won't
suck his dick.
That's why he's so skittish now, or one of the reasons why. If anybody found out
that poor Hank was daily desperate for head he'd never again be able to muster
the terrified respect he extracts from all the Crosshairs' employees and he
would no longer be able to serve as stage manager, and I reckon that's got him
mighty nervous.
He's noticed how long I've delayed and probably figures I have an inkling. I can
hear the big tiger's breathing quickening and then his hands go for his fly, to
zip himself up and get out of here, but I bat his hands away with more strength
than you'd expect from an eighteen-year-old punk, and kiss him on the cock,
silencing his breathing on the spot. "As many times as ya like, big guy," I
reassure him and a sigh issues from his lips that has more to do with relief
than with the fact that my skilled lips are sliding back down around his shaft
and I go down on him for the second time, but much slower this time, to let him
savor it a bit more.
His fingers actually rake through my hair. It's not an affectionate gesture, as
such, but it's acknowledgement, something I wouldn't have expected from a
confirmed heterosexual like Hank. I guess he wants to apologize for barking at
me when I came in late, which was, truly, far more extreme than his usual
tirades. Hey, maybe he'd known he'd get to be in the Back Room later that night
and he was worried I wasn't going to show up and that he wouldn't get the
blowjob he'd so looked forward to. That in turn woulda made him feel guilty
about wanting to get his dick sucked, and that...
Never mind. It don't matter why he's here, or what he wants. I'm a professional,
and despite all that's happened, I still love my work. I love the throb of a
man's cock the first time I slip my tongue along it, the intake of breath when I
take the whole length into my mouth, my snug, warm mouth after teasing it for a
minute. I love the way I can make a man tense and relax simply by tensing or
relaxing myself and I love feeling a man cum in me, to feel such a powerful
orgasm inside me, to know I've given somebody such pleasure.
"This is... this is really nice," the big tiger groans softly and there's a hint,
obviously, of guilt in his voice. He's ashamed that he's breaking his role as my
superior, he's afraid I might use this against him sometime when he needs to
assert authority and he's maybe ashamed of the idea that this, my mouth bobbing
gently but deeply up and down his erection, is much nicer than having sex with
his own wife. "But... I've got to get back to work." Slight misery in his voice.
Nice.
I nod dot him, which makes him shiver with the sensation of his cockhead
slipping, twice, down my throat, where it is s well-received and welcome. Slowly
I pull off and Hank lets out a sigh of acceptance, but before he can withdraw
his hips to start tucking himself away again I grab his balls. "We can finish
this tomorrow, if you like," I say. There's no particular benevolence to my
idea, no generosity in my tone, and why should there be? Giving head's a small
effort on my part.
"That... I'd like that," says Hank, almost coldly, and finally pulls his hips back
so he can tuck his bits away and once he has himself zipped up, he turns on the
light. I'm still kneeling on the ground, butt-nekkid, and you know what Hank
does, confused horn-dog that he is? He actually closes his eyes and turns around
as if he walked in on his daughter getting dressed, flushing red where his fur
is white enough to see the blushing. "Oh, hey," he says as if trying to fill the
seconds it takes me to stand up, brush myself down, and start pulling my pants
on again. "Somebody left this for you."
From his back pocket he pulls a small envelope, sealed, and holds it out to me
without looking. "It's cool, bro, I'm decent," I inform him, trying not to sound
too casual with him as I button up and accept the envelope, tearing it open on
the spot and emptying the contents into my hand.
Four small ivory tiles, like Mahjongg tiles, except they have letters on them
and with a chuckle I realize that they're just plastic Scrabble tiles, two
vowels and two consonants. I pocket them quickly, shaking my head. "Weird fans,
huh?" I say and give Hank a nod, which he as expected doesn't return. I open the
door of the supply room and head out into the hallway, taking up the tank top
I'd left on the hook on the door. I expect Hank will be coming out of the room
soon, not wanting people to know he was the lucky guy who got to spend some time
in the Back Room and so he'd better move PDQ if he doesn't want to bump into the
second shift of dancers, who should be coming in shortly.
I say a few polite greetings, ducking my head into the dressing-room to collect
my longcoat, the room now full of a dozen or so naked males and females, all
exhausted, getting undressed and scrubbing make-up from their faces and breast
and bellies, stripping out of their tight, uncomfortable costumes and putting on
their cheap, ragged jeans and sweaters to get a few hours of sleep at home
before they start their shifts as waiters and receptionists and whatever it is
these beautiful young men and women do for their nine to five jobs.
After that I'm out the door, giving the bouncers each a kiss on the cheek just
to cheer them up and get them scandalously smart-talking each other about which
of them I find more attractive, a game they continue as I walk out of the alley
and wrap my coat around myself, warmed from the load in my belly and chilled by
the wind, warmed by the comforting normalcy of the tired business of sex, lust
music and life that goes on in the Crosshairs, and chilled by the four little
Scrabble tiles I have in my pocket.
"The minstrel boy to the war has come, in he ranks of the South you'll find
him," I say into the receiver of the only un-smashed phone booth for blocks
around, located right under a streetlamp and then I slam the receiver back down
and slump against the phone with clenched fists as if I can do something about
it all.
Malloy's fucking voicemail. Our goddamned code using his infinite supply of
fucking folk songs. It's a wonder I even remembered it, when we were talking
about it I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to him because I figured that if
trouble ever found me I'd be dead before I could tell Malloy about it. And now
he isn't even picking up his phone!
I back out of the booth and feel cool drizzle on my face. In the distance
there's a thunderclap, but I'm not worried about it starting to rain, it's too
far away. I wish it would rain.
South, I said in the song so the safe location in the north of the city is where
I need to go. I should have mabe said west because the eastern location is
easier to reach, but I think I can be excused for being a little confused right
now.
I feel drunk. Not full-on drunk, but the way you feel when you've had way too
much and you've thrown up and everythig and you want to sleep, but you can't and
you just sit at home and try not to think about how you're feeling.
"Hey, do I know you?" a voice asks? I look around quickly and don't see anybody
and then I realise that of course I do see somebody. A bum, lying at the mouth
of an alley I'm just passing, his brown blanket so perfectly blending with the
muted brown colour the pavement absorbs from the dreadful yellow street-lights.
"Sorry, pops, you got me confused," I tell him. Not in that hurried, disdainful,
trying-to-pretend-you-didn't-hear way that pepole use when they don't want to be
bothered by a poor person in case they're crazy or dangerous.
The bum chuckles and rolls over, snuggling up a little more under his blanket.
"You mean mistaken, son. And I'm pretty sure I ain't. You done a paintjob on
your fur, I see, but under lights like these I see ya clear as day," he
continues. I sniff the air quickly, but there's no scent of alcohol on him. He's
a big guy, under that blanket, with big boots and a warm coat and a hunter's cap
on his head that throws a shadow over his face. Maybe a bear or something.
I shrug my shoulders and turn away, but he grabs my ankle. I turn back with a
snarl. "Listen, pops, this ain't the night ta be botherin' me!" I'm shocked,
myself, at how loud my voice is. "I'm... I'm sorry," I say and I hunker down,
running my fingers through my now spikey hair. I sigh and look at him, and then
I notice the marking on his face. He's a badger, and now I'm this close to him I
catch his scent. "Holloway?"
He nods to me, and suddenly I feel very, very cold and in danger, and the
feeling of danger mixes with the fear I was feeling already and they sharpen
each other. My heart hasn't even had the chance to beat more than twice at its
accellerated rate before the badger yawns, his lips smiling. "Don't worry, kid.
You showed an old bum a ood time couple months ago and asked no more'n a coat
that was too ugly even fer me. I'll keep yer secret he way I keep my own."
"You have secrets?" I ask, and I don't know why exactly, but I feel really good.
I sit down on the ground and I see shadows of people moving, walking around me
and the bum in wide circles, but my heart's calming down simply from being
connected to somebody who knows me as Owen. I feel a pang of something in my
stomach and I hug my abdomen suddenly.
The badger nods. "Everybody does, kid, you know how it is. Sergeant Holloway
becomes a vagrant, and the cute piece of tail that walked into Bricktown,
balls-bare, with a weird thing around his sheath turns into... Well, what are ya
now, kid?" he asks, shifting into a sitting position against the wall. I sit a
little closer to him, leaning against him and actually enjoying the warmth of
his body, despite the powerful, unwashed smell.
I smirk at him, rubbing the swirling discolored patterns around my eye. "I'm a
singer," I say and we both start laughing. "No, no, really. I'm not bad,
actually," I inform him and, nodding, he takes my word for it, holding up his
hands in surrender.
"Well kid," he says, "I wasn't a very good sergeant."
There's a silence, then and a few more people walk past. Drunks, staggering out
of one of the dark drinking holes around here, men and women laughing in
high-pitched voices, all of them, and none of them see me or the old badger. I
look at him for a little while and think. Here's a guy I've known for, maybe,
half an hour in total. I let him fuck me in exchange for a raincoat, which I
needed at the time, and he'd have given it to me for free, except I don't do sex
for free. Owen didn't, anyway.
Owen didn't.
"Holloway," I say and stand up again, cricking my neck and extending my hand to
the badger lying on the pavement. "You wanna come into the alley with me?"
The old guy smiles so broadly at this and his face contorts in a wealth of
different emotions. Hopefulness, mistrust, bitterness, humor, lust and disdain
all at once. One of these wins out, though and with a groan he reaches up to
clasp my hand. I lean back hard to help pull him up off the ground, the already
portly badger weighed down by his heavy winter clothes and whatever supplies and
valuables he's got hidden in his pockets.
Clutching his blanket he staggers up to his feet and slaps a beefy arm acoss my
shoulders. "You know, I knew a private that looked like you look now once. It
wasn't weird, back then, for fags to get stomped on and I guess it ain't weird
now either. Either ya keep quiet, ya put up with the beatings, or you drop out,
simple as that. This guy was a putter-upper. He was a little shorter'n you,
little more muscular, too," the badger explains, hugging my shoulders, folding
his blanket over one arm as we walk, slowly, into the alley, with its wet
cardboard boxes and overflowing dustbines.
"Was he as good a cocksucker as me?" I joke and I realise i feel closer to
Holloway, now, than I do to anybody, even Malloy. He's the only one who knows
who I am, but even he's been... distant. Like he's trying to help me out of a
sense of personal defeat and pride, rather than actually helping his friend.
Holloway's just honest, living from one moment to the next, keeping a
comfortable distance from his past and enjoying whatever life throws at him.
Like me, for instance. A handsome young wolf with no gag reflex.
"I don't even know how good a cocksucker you are, kiddo, just that you've got a
really sweet ass. If you're offering, it's that ass that I'd like to try again,"
he says casually and I nod to him, actually kissing him on the cheek, so
terribly grateful to be near somebody I can be honest with.
I shrug off my coat and toss it onto a garbage bin. "It's yours, man. You don't
mind a stand-up fuck, do you? It's too cold for missionary, tonight," I tell
him, walking up to one of the least grimy wall and unbutton my pants, tugging
them down just enough to expose my ass. Wordlessly the big guy steps up behind
me, spreading the blanket out and draping it across his own shoulders. "I got a
question, bud, and don't mind not gettin' an answer. You fucked anybody since
you did me last?"
There's that familiar sound again, a zipper being undone, stuttering and
awkwardly, no doubt the zipper's rusty. "Not a soul," says the badger, nudging
the tip of his plump but surprisingly stiff member under my tail and into the
snug ring hidden there, which has seen a lot of visitors lately.
He's cautious as he enters me and there really isn't any reason for him to be so
I shove my hips back and take him all into me, tight, warm and comfy... "Share
your blanket?" I ask, finally feeling the chill in the air now that the shock of
what was in the envelope's starting to wear off.
Holloway leans closer to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and lets the
thick horse blanket fall over me as well, creating a comfortable little hutch as
we both share a nice, intimate, almost anonymous stand-up fuck.
Intimate, is that the right word? I'm just doing it for the warmth and the
comfort and the ego-boost of giving somebody pleasure like this, feeling so
sexy. He's just doing it to get his balls emptied, maybe he's imagining that
wolf private he mentioned so briefly, maybe that's who he's imagining as he
nibbles on my arched neck. So we're both having sex with ourselves, together,
and we couldn't be farther apart. It feels intimate, still.
"The new color suits you," he says conversationally, panting into my ear and I
suspect he's making small-talk to mask his inability to get off in any timely
fashion, so I start rolling my hips back in counter-point to his thrusts. Not
just pushing, but tilting, turning it upward to let his shaft slide up my ass at
a different angle, stimulating him more... It sounds cold when I describe it like
that, but if anybody's ever done it for you, you'll know how much of a
difference it makes. It's called the 'bunny hop' and, appropriately, I learned
it from Cannit, the hare.
"Jesus," Holloway groans and chuckles, hugging his bulky, pudgy farame more
tightly to my back, humping me with a bit more excitement. "That feels damn
nice," he adds as if it's something to be embarassed about and fucks me a little
harder, pressing me against the cold, wet bricks, pushing his thickly-dressed
body against mine and his fat prick up my ass. Outside the alley people still
walk by and all they'd have to do is turn their head and they'd see me getting
boned by a bum, no doubt thinking that I was just some street urchin selling his
ass to make enough money to pay for an immunisation treatment to kill the bugs
he no doubt picked up from selling his ass in the first place.
"Holloway," I whisper in a soft voice and he leans his snout closer to my ear.
"Have you ever had to hide so deeply that you felt like you were invisible?" He
doesn't slow his motions, but his hands move from my hips to my bare, cold
stomach, rubbing it swiftly to warm me up, kissing me on the crook of the neck
and shoulder, and nods. "I don't like it," I say to him and then I let out a
long, soft groan.
I feel him cumming in me, but it isn't that which makes me feel as warm as I now
feel. It's as if simply saying it makes it less bad and I gratefully accept
Holloway's simple silence just as I accept his load inside me and the way he
hugs me from behind tells me he's grateful to me, too, for my warm, tight ass
and whatever else he feels I'm giving him.
People pass us by and they don't look into our alley, and I wonder what they'd
think if they did look. A portly old wino, standing up against a thoroughly cute
guy, both of them panting in the wake of his orgasm. "You feel scared, son,"
Holloway says and I chuckle, not because he's right but because he's just shy of
being right. When he said it, fear wasn't on my mind, you see. But it quickly
returns, and with it the light twitching of my abdomen that I can never really
keep under control and which he has no trouble feeling, with his hands so
greedily groping my washboard tummy.
He says no more than that, then pulling his limpening prick out of me with a
polite cough and as I tug my pants back on and he goes to zip up his fly. I
think about sucking it clean for him, but God knows how long it's been since
he's washed it and despite all my prowess as a cockserver there are still some
standards of hygiene I cling to. I button back up and tug my coat on, shivering
more when I've got the woolen longcoat wrapped about me than before, because the
garment took up the night's chill in the time it was laid aside. I give the old
badger a kiss on the cheek and a smile, and without another word I walk out of
the alley.
And that would have been that, except as he lays himself down to go back to
sleep, Holloway calls out to me. "Hey kid," he yells and two people across the
street stop walking, unsure whether he's talking to them, and then quickly press
on. "I owe ya for the ride, so here it is. Somebody once told me, and I know for
sure you've heard this corny oldy before, so don't smirk, he said 'Don't get
mad, get even.' And that's good advice, it really is, but I got somethin'
that'll work better for you, I think. Don't get scared, kiddo... get serious."
My heart stops fluttering and with a calm I wouldn't have thought myself capable
of, I nod and turn away, heading for the uptown safehouse, careful to take the
biggest and best-lit streets, being very conspicuous in walking so as to attract
the least notice, you know how that goes. As I walk I rub a hand over my abdomen
- as always, showing a smile in satisfaction as I feel my abdominals - and feel
no twitching there. I don't feel out of breath, in fact, I can find no physical
symptoms of anxiety at all and it then occurs to me that I'm truly not scared,
now, and that this is mighty peculiar indeed.
I turn the corner into MacMillan street, which is fairly busy even at this hour,
despite the shops all being closed. In the heart of summer it'd probably be
getting light already, but the people walking about are nighthawks, not early
birds, looking like they went to a movie, then out clubbing, then a drink and
only now are heading back home, taking the scenic route along the nice shops.
Jewelry stores with Swarovski crystal compete with liquor stores with fine malt
brandies, a high tech, whiz-bang computer place sits kitty-corner from a fashion
shop infinitely more stylish than the threads I pillage from the Haberdash when
I can afford it.
I hop the fence covering the mouth of the alley between a halal butcher and a
little place that's full of antique furniture, but you know how those shops are.
The owners are all sixty-somethings who want to collect and catalogue the
beautiful things they love so much and to be able to say 'I'm in antiques' at
their bridge meetings. The last thing they want to do is sell these things.
Also, when I say 'hop the fence' I mean 'clamber up a fence with straight bars
twice my height quick enough and quiet enough so's nobody notices me.' Just so
you know Malloy ain't the only guy with a little prowess when it comes to
getting' to places I ain't been invited.
This place, though? A door at the end of this alley, which belongs to nobody but
which everybody thinks belongs to somebody else, fitted with a lock so old an'
fucked up that it can't be opened 'less you jigger it just so, something - if
ya'll allow me to add to my rep as a breaker-inner - I discovered all on my
lonesome. That door leads to a house, and a real nice one, too. Weird thing is,
though, it don't look like it's been occupied for a while and what's weirder
still, it ain't been looted, neither.
Don't you think that's bizarre? A house full of pretty nice stuff, old furniture
and pictures, couple leather books and even letters! They were a pretty big find
when we discovered them, I tell ya. This'd been our first crash pad, me an'
Malloy, when we came to Maranatha and it felt like providence, especially cuz
half the letters was signed by some dude named Standish Mark Malloy, at least,
that's what the squiggly writing looked to be sayin', and all of 'em was dated
seventeen-somethin'.
You should have seen us when we saw those. Two pups - well, one wolfpup and one
dog too old to get this childishly excited about a find like this - frolicking
through the house, turning up the collars of our coats and pretending to be fine
eighteenth-century gentlemen. Malloy would flip up his shirt and half-open the
coat collar and walk through the house with his hands steepled as if he were a
pastor or somethin', and he'd find me, a hedonistic, rich merchant's son, and
have me kneel before him to receive a few coppers and a benediction, or I'd be a
choirboy and he'd be a sailor, just back from a trip to the Old Country. Those
games were so much fun, and Malloy, sweetheart that he is deep down, never
forgot to add a little money to the playing out of respect to my budding
professionalism.
And that bed... They say people were shorter back in those days, but whoever owned
this house wasn't one of 'em. The bed was perfect, although it smelled a bit
funky 'till we treated it with a creative mix of lemon juice and vinegar and
some other things that we discovered, through experimentation, could wrench the
stench from the old curtains, clothes and furniture. It was soft, and didn't
make no noise on account of the springs being so well-oiled they were still
greasy when we found 'em.
We didn't stay there long, though. First thing we did was find some other place
to crash so's The Old House, as we so imaginatively called it, would stay
secret. And it did, and so me an' Malloy decided that it'd make a good hideout.
I grab the latch. Lift, nudge sideways, wiggle twice, shoulder the door, lower
it, pull sharply, turn the latch and then simply let it fall open.
A steep stairway, tightly curved so that whoever owned this would have had to
hoist his furniture in through the windows. Never step on the third-from-the-top
stair, it's close to buckling and could take the entire staircase down and we
got no idea what's kept in the basement. Hoisting myself over the Doomsday Stair
with one hand on the wall, whose paper long ago peeled, and the other on a still
splendidly red-lacquered handrail, I reach the door at the top of the stairs and
enter the room.
It's a number of rooms, actually, but the owner of this house had it built
contrary to the sensibilities of the time and had it designed with a remarkable
openness so that you can see into all of them from any other, primarily on
account of there being no doors to hamper vision. Why he didn't just leave out
the wall s as well is a mystery to both Malloy and me, but neither of us can
deny the simple childish pleasure in playing hide and seek, naked as innocence,
darting through the rooms and over the furniture, finally to land, pinned, on
the bed and to, well, you know what Malloy and I do from time to time.
Speaking of whom, just as I'm opening the door and step into the small but
spacious, orderly yet labyrinthine house I see one of the alley-facing windows
on the opposite side being opened from the outside and a sleek black figure
positively oozes into the room, silently shutting the window.
"Hey, you just getting in? Sorry I'm so late I was... occupied," Malloy says,
sealing the latch on the windows, whose glass isn't smooth entirely but varies
in thickness, showing its age. "Did you know Alice has a girlfriend?" he says,
coming toward me.
I curl my lip at him. "Jesus, Malloy, get with the program," I snarl and give
him a quick hug and a kiss, which has strangely become our familiar greeting
these last few weeks. "We've got a serious- that is, I've got a serious- Alice
has a girlfriend?" All worry and thought drips out of my mind like Ben & Jerry's
out of a sieve on a hot day, as I picture the beautiful, effeminate young
lionboy, so popular with the older men who hire him, with a girlfriend. A girl,
who'd likely stand a very good chance of being more masculine than him,
although, no, his stature and manner can be quite masculine when he ain't
thinking.
Amazing, simply amazing how a bombshell like this can completely, what's the
word, relativate things. That's what I mean, I think. Like, I'm still worried
about the Scrabble tiles in my pocket and Malloy shares that worry when I hand
them to him but at the same time the powerful implications of those little
things are pushed from the number one spot on our priorities list simply by the
realization that there are still other things going on, things which are also
important.
I sit myself down on the couch, or sofa or chaise longue or whatever it's called
and Malloy seats himself next to me, pulling me across his lap. He's warm, warm
through the ridiculously thin short-sleeved black silk shirt he still wears even
in the cold winter we're having. My hand raises up and I cup his neck from
behind, a casual, familiar gesture that somehow, in its simple affection, feels
more intimate than his dick up my ass or his cum in my mouth and it makes us
both strangely uncomfortable, so I stop, and simply lie in his lap, thinking.
"This isn't so bad, then," I say and I don't even know for sure what I mean, but
Malloy gets me.
"It don't matter overmuch how all this plays out if Alice is all right. And
Nezzy, and Mrs. Ackerby and Double Bill and Mark and everybody else," he muses.
There's... I don't know, there's pain in his voice and I sense he's deeply unhappy
and I guess it's got to do with him pining after Alice so I don't mention it.
"N, E, O, W," Malloy reads out as he checks the tiles again. "How much will you
bet these are for a guy called Weno?" he jokes, but our laughter isn't as hollow
as it might have been.
I shake my head nonetheless. "It was addressed to me, dropped off with the
Crosshairs' stage manager."
"Hank?"
I nod. "That's the one. Somebody knows Luke McCall is Owen Zelazny, Malloy, and
I sure as fuck didn't tell anybody." I pause and I feel very small, lying on his
lap, though I feel the pressure of that sheath I sucked more than any other in
my life and always, up until the disaster some weeks ago, for money. "What's she
like?" I ask.
Malloy doesn't even flinch as he shifts trains of thought to Alice's girlfriend.
"Remember that batch of heroin hookers that got set free last year? That police
raid?" he asks, lightly toying with my navel. I stare up at him in amazement.
"She's one of them?"
"No, they were all Vietnamese," Malloy assures me with a grin, leaning down to
kiss my nose, "She volunteered as a social assistant to help them acclimatize to
local customs. She dropped out of high school to continue that work - she's
working part-time at the Regency drug clinic. I don't know how they met, but I
saw them coming out of a movie theater, holding hands and all that," the
dobermann says with a wistful chuckle.
I smile. "That is the sweetest thing ever. Have you talked to him about It, yet?
Has he been thinking about quitting? Malloy, we've got to get him out of my line
of work," I say, a cascade of concern and planning as if, in some bizarre way,
Malloy and I were Alice's fathers. "Things are changing, aren't they," I say
softly. Again, I'm not really sure what I mean, but I see something akin to
understanding in Malloy's eyes and while we don't embrace, we try to get a
little closer to each other.
"You know I love you, right?"
I nod. "Of course."
"And Alice, too? And Nezzy?"
I nod again. "Of course," I say again and he seems terribly, terribly relieved
to I turn my head and kiss that flat, shirt-clad stomach of his, so finely
rippled, so hard and I feel the muscles twitch like mine do when I'm scared, so
I kiss him again.
Then Malloy does something which anybody else might take the greatest offense
at, but which I'll never stop being grateful for. That arrogant, sexy fucking
horndog reaches into his shirt pocket and withdraws a rolled-up wad of twenties,
four or five of 'em, and tosses the money onto the ornate little table whose
lacquered mahogany surface has received a number of value-diminishing scratches
and cigarette burns and coffee stains since we moved into the Old House.
It's that casual act of paying me for sex - paying me, and very naturally
demanding sex, showing respect for my professionalism and testing it at once,
that reminder of what my life used to be like and how much we both want it back,
that more than any of the words remind me that Malloy is truly my best friend,
and just as he expressed his love in a curious way, so I express mine.
Two seconds flat and his zipper's down and my mouth is where he likes it the
most, both of us groaning, perhaps more at the memory of a better life than at
the sensations. His cock flexes between my lips, throbbing to life as I skin his
sheath back, swallowing and slurping hungrily on it and I remember that while it
may have been a while since I had a dick to suck, until I had Hank earlier, it's
been forever since I got to blow my buddy Malloy.
He's writhing on the couch, much more affected by the blowjob I'm giving him
than usual and I have to put some considerable pressure on his chest to pin him
in place - as much as you can pin down a firmly-muscled dobermann like him. A
good, solid grip on his balls does the trick though, and he lies back, arms
splayed out over the couch's backrest, eyes cracked open just a fraction to
watch me work.
I work with relish. I don't just savour the act, the taste and feel of a nice,
big cock in my mouth, the way my throat tingles when a little precum dribbles
down it, I savor my friend, Malloy, and he me, and I'm reminded again that it's
because we love each other so deeply and because we have such good sex that we
can never be lovers, but who gives a fuck? Honestly, who cares?
Up and down my muzzle moves, my skilled, deep, warm muzzle, lips sealed around
his throbbing member, sliding it along the gulley of my tongue and then into my
throat, swallowing hard around it and corkscrewing my head for extra
stimulation, loving the feel of that tapered cockhead sliding down my gullet. I
tell you, I suck on that thick, long doggydick like it's the best thing I've
ever tasted, moaning like a bitch, which I don't often do, my face scrunched up
like I'm in pain, the way it gets when you get something you truly, deeply need.
And Malloy's no different. He groans, his fingers run through my spiked hair, he
wheezes his breaths through clenched teeth and his steel-hard erection shows all
the signs of a male who's so far gone that he can't even cum just yet. I push
the issue, bobbing my head faster, gripping him by the base and by the balls and
devoting all my art to this, to getting him off but keeping him on the edge,
building and building the orgasm I need to taste so badly.
My head's swimming as I lay sprawled on that couch, fully clothed as Malloy is,
the sexual act no more than a kiss in an intimate spot - a deep, French kiss,
but a kiss nonetheless. I imagine myself an apprentice boy, pleasing the master
he respects so much, or a servant who brings a noble guest a meal and some
pleasure, and I imagine myself when I was fifteen and Malloy was twenty-two and,
not a day after our first, furtive fuck, I tried cocksucking for the first time
and realized I loved it, as I love it now.
Warm semen, a saltiness so familiar to me now, floods my mouth but I pay it no
heed. I swallow as much as I need to to keep breathing, the electrifying milk
only heightening my awareness of the taste of Malloy's meat and for his part, I
think he barely notices the climax either, it's just one crescendo in a symphony
of lust and even as it tapers off, the flow of cum, I keep sucking and he keeps
bucking, and before we know it our clothes are all over the place and furniture
is overturned and we're on the bed, sweating like dogs, and fucking, and fucking
till the sun comes up.
To be continued.
Available on paperback in 2005
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