{"sf1_id":4528,"sf2_id":"Xnr8qWEe","title":"Maranatha - Chapter XI, as told by Owen Zelazny","author":"khakidoggy","words":9369,"posted_at":"2005-01-18T11:19:00.000Z","tags":["Character Development","Doberman","M/M","Music","Oral","Plot Development","Prostitution","Tiger","Winter","Wolf"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4528-maranatha-chapter-xi-as-told-by-owen-zelazny","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/Xnr8qWEe","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/2b/55/2b5586f2-1b77-4023-93be-8ba12c4eff5e","description":"#11 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\n~ Enjoy. ~\n\n  \n\n* * *\n\n  \n\nChapter XI - As Told By Owen Zelazny\n\n  \n  \n\nOwen Zelazny, reborn as the rock star Luke McCall? Wouldn't that make for a  \nbeautiful story. I could shuck my old name entirely and take the globe by storm,  \nI could spend my millions on having that goddamn metal thing over my sheath  \nremoved and discrete doctors would take care of my little microbe infestation  \nand none would be the wiser.  \n  \nHardly.  \n  \nSome of the older or more post-modern country music fans among you may have  \nrecognized the name McCall from the seventies, when a small-time advertising  \nfirm invented the character C. W. McCall, a fictional truck driver who proved so  \npopular that the three guys who invented him brought out a couple of LP's of  \n'his' songs and none other than Sam Peckinpah made a movie out of one of his  \nmost famous songs, called Convoy.\n\n\u0026nbsp; Malloy, bizarre out-of-the-box thinker that he is, made the connection shortly  \nafter procuring papers for me under the name Luke McCall and tentatively  \nsuggested I maybe 'get into music'. After staring blankly at him for some time,  \nhe shrugged and dropped the matter but not two days later I heard Will and  \nWilliam, the punker cats next door, talking to each other as I passed them on  \nthe stairs, and they were talking about starting a band.  \n  \nThey had their arms full of groceries; they were hosting a dinner party for the  \nband they'd just put together, which I learned when I helped them open their  \ndoor and bring their stuff inside. I'd always been good friends with Double  \nBill, as they're collectively called, so it was hard for me not to be too  \nfamiliar with them. They didn't think too much of me in return, which offended  \nand flattered me, since Luke didn't quite compare to the friend they'd lost when  \nOwen disappeared.  \n  \nSo I left them to it and heard their guests arriving while I was doing my weekly  \npreening - fresh dye job, careful full-body shampooing, even more careful  \nfull-body steel comb brushing, claw clipping, fur trimming, some exercises...  \nPeople forget, sometimes, what an effort it takes to be a pretty-boy. I was just  \ntaking my third shower of the day - a cold shower, because Butterfly may be a  \ngroovy, laid-back landlord but he's every bit as laid-back about keeping the  \nfucking boiler in working order- when at once there came a tapping, as of  \nsomeone loudly rapping on my chamber door.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I had been singing, for no other reason than to drown out the loud voices coming  \nfrom next-door, which I thought at first was jubilant conversation but which  \nsoon turned into a shouting match. I can't stand that sort of thing, and singing  \nwas the natural way to drown it out, just like I'd done as a kid when my folks  \nwere having their marital problems. And like those times, in my efforts not to  \nhear what was happening, I'd favor raucous volume over melody and that, it seems  \ncaught Double Bill's attention.  \n  \nThe screaming match I heard from next door was apparently the neonatal band  \nbreaking up even before they'd thought of a name due to their lead singer's A)  \nego, B) apparent alcoholism and C) pederastic tendencies. They had kicked him  \nout, thoughtfully escorting him through the hall, down the stairs and out the  \ndoor so as not to let him cause any damage to the building which Butterfly would  \nnot only fail to notice but also neglect to fix and on their way back, you  \nguessed it, they heard me sing.  \n  \nI can carry a fair tune, I'm happy to say, but what I was doing wasn't singing  \nas much as it was roaring at that point, yet it impressed them. I was singing a  \nsong from one of those pretend bands, you know, the one from that funny movie.  \nBritish, it was, because it was Malloy who'd clued me in on it and he was very  \nproud to have produced it In his country, till I recognized one of the actors as  \nthe guy who does most of the voices in the Simpsons, and he was so crestfallen.  \nAnyway, I was on one of their songs, pitching up the tempo half-again and  \nbanging my soapy sponge against the cracked-and-fixed-with-duct-tape divider of  \nmy shower stall. My door was open, they found out, and Double Bill and their  \nthree remaining band members, drunk on cheap booze and home-made food, piled  \ninto my bathroom and asked my little old balls-naked me if I wanted to be the  \nvocalist in their new punk band.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; And so it was.  \n  \nMy utter lack of musical experience was matched only by theirs, and so was my  \nenthusiasm. I helped Double Bill plead with Butterfly to be allowed to use the  \nattic, dilapidated as it was, as a rehearsal space and helped lug heavy  \nequipment up the rickety ladder while Will put down some crude electric cabling  \nthat wasn't too much of a fire hazard. Will's a law-school drop-out and has  \napplied and been rejected for a job as a fireman twelve times in the years I've  \nknown him, so all of us walk over his dodgy cabling with extreme trepidation.  \n  \n  \nFast-forward a few weeks. Couple of gigs at the Crosshairs, Double Bill's  \nfavorite haunt, where we play accelerated, juiced-up covers of country and folk  \nsongs. William described it as postmodern reclamation of outdated genres through  \nmusical violence, but since none of the band are really skilled musicians, the  \nsongs we play are really simple and it all ends up being about how forcefully we  \nplay. The band started off as the Deep Fried Underpants but after the original  \nsinger left Will \u0026 William sat down to think of a new title for the band, which  \nbecame... No, I'm not going to say it. I'm actually kind of embarrassed.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Speaking of being bare-assed...  \n  \nI'm walking off stage, talking with William and Rod, the bassist, a rather  \nwiry-looking fox who likes dressing in tight white clothes, primarily about why  \nI was so late for the gig. I don't tell them about the little episode with  \nPatrick and the Muz Ozul stag, not that they'd be too shocked, but telling them  \nthat I overslept somehow feels more appropriate. Part of me doesn't want people  \nliking Luke McCall too much, lest they end up liking him more than Owen. Call me  \nsilly, but this really does matter to me.  \n  \nAs usual after we get off stage I leave the guys to pack up the instruments and  \nother gear while I make my way backstage. It's pretty quiet at this time,  \nbecause all the go-go boys and pole dancers are all in the club itself and the  \nshift change isn't for another half an hour. Bare concrete corridors lead all  \nthe way around the back of the building, props rooms, emergency liquor supplies,  \nreplacement electrical components, the joints boys' and girls' dressing room,  \nwhich nobody ever causes a fuss about 'cuz all the boys are queer and all the  \ngirls are bitches. As I walk I start tugging off my tank top, still damp with  \nsweat from my exertions on stage and hang it over a nail hammered into one  \nunmarked door before I open it and step into the dark, quiet space inside.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; A hand grabs me and lips are pressed to mine. I feel strength in the grasp on my  \nbicep, the urgency of the male who pulls me toward him and as I open my mouth to  \nhim, the clack of fangs, so whoever this is is a predator. I wonder who it is?  \n  \nNow, while I'm sure you feel no surprise at the news that I'm intimately kissing  \nwith a perfect stranger, the situation is this. Our first gig was a bit of a  \ndisaster, with some of Will's wiring failing, and so to appease the manager I  \ngave him some head. He so liked this that he asked if I'd mind doing it again  \nsometime and naturally I said I didn't. After the next blowjob he gave me twenty  \nbucks and a proposition: he'd give the B-- I mean, our band a weekly gig and give  \nme, personally, fifty bucks after every show if, after every show, I'd go to  \nthis supply closet, close the door, and have sex with whoever was inside.  \n  \nSoon, the male I'm kissing tires of it and awkwardly tries to unbutton my pants.  \nI help him, quickly, suckling on his tongue and expose the leather jockstrap I  \nwear to keep my sheath-trap hidden and my tailhole readily available. Then he  \nbreaks the kiss and with a heavy hand he pushes the top of my head down in a  \nnone-too-subtle sign that he wants me to suck him. Like I said before, I'm  \npretty good recognizing cocks so as soon as I get my lips around him I'm sure  \nI'll figure out who it is.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I've engaged in deals like this before. When I was still Owen I'd go to the Dive  \nonce a month to fuck whoever the management told me to; that was a managerial  \nincentive. The employee of the month doesn't get his face in a stupid frame, he  \ngets an hour for free with Owen Zelazny, and I imagine this ain't likely to be  \nmuch different.  \n  \nI stagger out of my pants and kick them toward the door and, naked, I land on my  \nknees. My hands go out to pull down the dude's zipper, but his fly's already  \nopen and my fingers wrap around a nice, fat, straining shaft. This guy needs to  \nget off, so right after whispering 'nice' under my breath, because the guy's  \nreally got a nice tool, I open wide and dive down, plunging his glans down my  \nthroat before I even seal my lips around it, swallowing so deep my lips brush  \nagainst the rim of his sheath. I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, and I mean  \nhard, until I feel him gripping my hair as his body tries to figure out if it  \nwants me to stop or it wants more. Yeah, I'm that good, people.  \n  \n\"Easy,\" says a familiar voice, much lower and softer than I usually hear it and  \nimmediately I slow my suckling and look up, though in this total darkness I of  \ncourse can't see a damn thing. My ears prick up, too and I cant my head,  \ndragging my tongue over his thick, pulsing shaft, causing him to shiver. Then I  \nopen my mouth as wide as I can and, with his cockhead still lodged in my throat,  \nI gurgle a word.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Hang?\" I ask, which means 'Hank' in cocksucker-speak. He hisses at me, as if  \nafraid somebody outside the door might hear us, which causes me to giggle -  \nwhich, those of you who've ever had their dick sucked might imagine, is a  \nhazardous ting. Choking and sputtering around my throatful I slowly manage to  \ncalm myself, bringing a hand up to fondle the big tiger's balls and let him know  \nI'm only joking. By the feel of his dick he doesn't think it's that funny, and  \ncould use the reassurance. \"Haub ge ipe?\" I ask, cocksucker-speak for 'how's the  \nwife', which he absolutely doesn't appreciate and that large hand that pushed me  \ndown to roughly now grabs the back of my head and forcefully pulls me forward,  \nsilencing me in my absolute favourite way.  \n  \nHis musky, warm pole thrusts into my mouth and jabs down my throat, rubbing the  \nsensitive lining so deliciously and leaving a trail of precum which causes a  \nprickling sensation I've only ever felt one other time, and that was some  \nfucking expensive champagne. I turn my head from side to side, since it's the  \nscrew-motion, rather than the in-out motion, that offers the most stimulation.  \nThe slightly sweaty member slides in and out of my warm, available mouth,  \noccasionally pulling free of my throat and treating me to the pleasure of having  \na cock to actually suckle on, to nurse on it and cherish the sensation of  \ndrawing spurts of precum from it.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I resist the hand on the back of my head, if only to savor that sensation a  \nlittle longer. The delicious, familiar ache in my jaw from stretching wide  \nenough to accommodate Hank's prick, the dryness of my lips from being rubbed  \nover his thickly veined surface, especially as his barbs begin to make  \nthemselves known. His balls are warm, and though I have to dig my hands  \nawkwardly into his fly to cup them, it's worth it for the loud purring the large  \ntiger emits as I hold them, softly massaging, finally acceding to the rhythm of  \nhis hips and settling down for some good old-fashioned headbobbing.  \n  \nGod, I could do this for hours.  \n  \nAnd very often have.  \n  \nI may have told you before, but I love making people happy, and while getting  \nfucked is great and doesn't take a whole lot of effort, actually getting down on  \nyour knees and getting somebody to just sit or stand or lie still and let you do  \neverything for them to make them feel good is more satisfying than I can  \ndescribe. To taste that outpouring of salt semen or to feel it stinging my  \nthroat, warming my belly after just a couple of strong surges, mixed with that  \noutpouring of groaned pleasure from the dude... It makes me feel so good.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Not, I'll wager, as it's making Hank feel. Both his hands are resting heavily on  \nmy head without pushing and while his ass is tensed enough to stretch his  \nslacks, his hips are still and all he's doing is standing there, no doubt with  \nhis eyes closed, listening to my slurping and suckling and feeling me pump my  \nmouth, my hot, fuckable mouth up and down his prick.  \n  \nI shift on my knees to get some circulation going and to avoid sneezing, which  \nwould really disappoint both of us if I did it right now. I'm keeping him on the  \nedge, carefully sensing when his nuts tighten up and then slowing my strokes  \njust a fraction, or pausing for half a second so his ejaculation instincts have  \nto reboot.  \n  \nI'll admit, I'm being selfish. It's been a good two weeks or more since I've had  \na dick to suck on, everybody who's hired my services wanted under my tail and,  \ndammit, I've been starved for cock. So I'm going to make this one last.  \nOccasionally I even pull off, slobbering up and down the sides of his fat  \ntigercock, lapping my tongue doggishly as I run my lips along the surface before  \nengulfing the cooling member in the heat of my mouth again, rewarding Hank for  \nthat momentary torment by swallowing him balls-deep again, and oh, how he purrs  \nand groans and whimpers.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Music to my ears. And like all music, it has to end and I like to end with a  \nbang. I feel him approaching climax again and no doubt he expects me to force it  \nto subside again, but not this time. This time I speed up, bumping my nose  \npainfully against his belt buckle, but I don't care, I'm going for it, folding  \nmy ears as if the added aerodynamics could help me suck him better and grip his  \nhips with both hands, clinging to his strong thighs, listening to him pant and  \neven when that first splash hits the roof of my mouth I don't stop pumping, I  \nswallow the sticky, salty cream along with the rod that's squirting it, letting  \neach spurt land where it may, drooling down my throat or splattering against my  \nteeth, tongue, it doesn't matter.   \n  \nI love every second of it. The sound of his rapture, the satisfaction of it, the  \ntaste of his sperm or the incredible throb of his member, all of it I feel a  \npang of sadness that its already over, it hasn't been more than half an hour  \nyet, but even that is masked by the warmth in my belly from his sticky, thick  \nload and the deep satisfaction of having brought another male, even one who's as  \nimpatient and disregardful of me as Hank and finally, when he spurts no more, I  \nslow completely and simply hold his still-hard penis in my mouth, warm and  \ncomfortable.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Damn, kid,\" he whispers in the dark, petting my head as if I were a dog. \"They  \nold me you were good, but... damn.\"  \n  \nI like a bit of praise now and then. Maybe you've noticed.  \n  \nBy way of reward I slowly slip his cock out of my mouth and set to licking it,  \ncareful, obviously, not to overstimulate. The glans is off limits and so is the  \nvery base, but the middle of the shaft, that's fine and causes the tiger to  \nbreathe more deeply as if the stress of yet another evening's work is melting  \noff him.   \n  \nI never expected Hank to come to the back room, to be honest. Despite being the  \nstage manager and being responsible for the 'entertainment', he never ever had  \nhimself a sneaky bit of fun with any of the boys or girls. He's got a wife and  \ntwo daughters, I know that from the banter, so I guess he loves 'em a whole lot.  \n  \n\"You're still hard,\" I whisper. I could speak aloud, but I get the distinct vibe  \nthat Hank feels a little... dirty, doing this, especially with me, and doesn't  \nwant to feel like it's anything other than sneaky quickie sex. \"You wanna fuck  \nme?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; By the rustling of his clothes, I hear he's shaking his head and I can't help  \nbut wonder what he's thinking. Maybe he just wants to get out of here, pretend  \nnothing happened. But no. He's still here, still leaking precum against my lips,  \nwhich I lap up patiently, savoring the taste of another man's juices after  \nhaving gone without for so long. I kinda feel like a vampire, from one of those  \nbooks by... What's her name. She writes about really gay vampires. Anyway, that's  \nwhat I feel like.  \n  \n\"Again?\" Hank asks softly, his tone and manner worlds apart from his usual  \nviolent shouting and as he rolls his hips softly forward as if to slide his dick  \nback in my warm mouth without my knowing, I realize what's up. Hank's wife won't  \nsuck his dick.   \n  \nThat's why he's so skittish now, or one of the reasons why. If anybody found out  \nthat poor Hank was daily desperate for head he'd never again be able to muster  \nthe terrified respect he extracts from all the Crosshairs' employees and he  \nwould no longer be able to serve as stage manager, and I reckon that's got him  \nmighty nervous.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; He's noticed how long I've delayed and probably figures I have an inkling. I can  \nhear the big tiger's breathing quickening and then his hands go for his fly, to  \nzip himself up and get out of here, but I bat his hands away with more strength  \nthan you'd expect from an eighteen-year-old punk, and kiss him on the cock,  \nsilencing his breathing on the spot. \"As many times as ya like, big guy,\" I  \nreassure him and a sigh issues from his lips that has more to do with relief  \nthan with the fact that my skilled lips are sliding back down around his shaft  \nand I go down on him for the second time, but much slower this time, to let him  \nsavor it a bit more.  \n  \n  \nHis fingers actually rake through my hair. It's not an affectionate gesture, as  \nsuch, but it's acknowledgement, something I wouldn't have expected from a  \nconfirmed heterosexual like Hank. I guess he wants to apologize for barking at  \nme when I came in late, which was, truly, far more extreme than his usual  \ntirades. Hey, maybe he'd known he'd get to be in the Back Room later that night  \nand he was worried I wasn't going to show up and that he wouldn't get the  \nblowjob he'd so looked forward to. That in turn woulda made him feel guilty  \nabout wanting to get his dick sucked, and that...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Never mind. It don't matter why he's here, or what he wants. I'm a professional,  \nand despite all that's happened, I still love my work. I love the throb of a  \nman's cock the first time I slip my tongue along it, the intake of breath when I  \ntake the whole length into my mouth, my snug, warm mouth after teasing it for a  \nminute. I love the way I can make a man tense and relax simply by tensing or  \nrelaxing myself and I love feeling a man cum in me, to feel such a powerful  \norgasm inside me, to know I've given somebody such pleasure.  \n  \n\"This is... this is really nice,\" the big tiger groans softly and there's a hint,  \nobviously, of guilt in his voice. He's ashamed that he's breaking his role as my  \nsuperior, he's afraid I might use this against him sometime when he needs to  \nassert authority and he's maybe ashamed of the idea that this, my mouth bobbing  \ngently but deeply up and down his erection, is much nicer than having sex with  \nhis own wife. \"But... I've got to get back to work.\" Slight misery in his voice.  \nNice.  \n  \nI nod dot him, which makes him shiver with the sensation of his cockhead  \nslipping, twice, down my throat, where it is s well-received and welcome. Slowly  \nI pull off and Hank lets out a sigh of acceptance, but before he can withdraw  \nhis hips to start tucking himself away again I grab his balls. \"We can finish  \nthis tomorrow, if you like,\" I say. There's no particular benevolence to my  \nidea, no generosity in my tone, and why should there be? Giving head's a small  \neffort on my part.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"That... I'd like that,\" says Hank, almost coldly, and finally pulls his hips back  \nso he can tuck his bits away and once he has himself zipped up, he turns on the  \nlight. I'm still kneeling on the ground, butt-nekkid, and you know what Hank  \ndoes, confused horn-dog that he is? He actually closes his eyes and turns around  \nas if he walked in on his daughter getting dressed, flushing red where his fur  \nis white enough to see the blushing. \"Oh, hey,\" he says as if trying to fill the  \nseconds it takes me to stand up, brush myself down, and start pulling my pants  \non again. \"Somebody left this for you.\"  \n  \nFrom his back pocket he pulls a small envelope, sealed, and holds it out to me  \nwithout looking. \"It's cool, bro, I'm decent,\" I inform him, trying not to sound  \ntoo casual with him as I button up and accept the envelope, tearing it open on  \nthe spot and emptying the contents into my hand.  \n  \nFour small ivory tiles, like Mahjongg tiles, except they have letters on them  \nand with a chuckle I realize that they're just plastic Scrabble tiles, two  \nvowels and two consonants. I pocket them quickly, shaking my head. \"Weird fans,  \nhuh?\" I say and give Hank a nod, which he as expected doesn't return. I open the  \ndoor of the supply room and head out into the hallway, taking up the tank top  \nI'd left on the hook on the door. I expect Hank will be coming out of the room  \nsoon, not wanting people to know he was the lucky guy who got to spend some time  \nin the Back Room and so he'd better move PDQ if he doesn't want to bump into the  \nsecond shift of dancers, who should be coming in shortly.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I say a few polite greetings, ducking my head into the dressing-room to collect  \nmy longcoat, the room now full of a dozen or so naked males and females, all  \nexhausted, getting undressed and scrubbing make-up from their faces and breast  \nand bellies, stripping out of their tight, uncomfortable costumes and putting on  \ntheir cheap, ragged jeans and sweaters to get a few hours of sleep at home  \nbefore they start their shifts as waiters and receptionists and whatever it is  \nthese beautiful young men and women do for their nine to five jobs.   \n  \nAfter that I'm out the door, giving the bouncers each a kiss on the cheek just  \nto cheer them up and get them scandalously smart-talking each other about which  \nof them I find more attractive, a game they continue as I walk out of the alley  \nand wrap my coat around myself, warmed from the load in my belly and chilled by  \nthe wind, warmed by the comforting normalcy of the tired business of sex, lust  \nmusic and life that goes on in the Crosshairs, and chilled by the four little  \nScrabble tiles I have in my pocket.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \n\"The minstrel boy to the war has come, in he ranks of the South you'll find  \nhim,\" I say into the receiver of the only un-smashed phone booth for blocks  \naround, located right under a streetlamp and then I slam the receiver back down  \nand slump against the phone with clenched fists as if I can do something about  \nit all.  \n  \nMalloy's fucking voicemail. Our goddamned code using his infinite supply of  \nfucking folk songs. It's a wonder I even remembered it, when we were talking  \nabout it I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to him because I figured that if  \ntrouble ever found me I'd be dead before I could tell Malloy about it. And now  \nhe isn't even picking up his phone!  \n  \nI back out of the booth and feel cool drizzle on my face. In the distance  \nthere's a thunderclap, but I'm not worried about it starting to rain, it's too  \nfar away. I wish it would rain.   \n  \nSouth, I said in the song so the safe location in the north of the city is where  \nI need to go. I should have mabe said west because the eastern location is  \neasier to reach, but I think I can be excused for being a little confused right  \nnow.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I feel drunk. Not full-on drunk, but the way you feel when you've had way too  \nmuch and you've thrown up and everythig and you want to sleep, but you can't and  \nyou just sit at home and try not to think about how you're feeling.   \n  \n\"Hey, do I know you?\" a voice asks? I look around quickly and don't see anybody  \nand then I realise that of course I do see somebody. A bum, lying at the mouth  \nof an alley I'm just passing, his brown blanket so perfectly blending with the  \nmuted brown colour the pavement absorbs from the dreadful yellow street-lights.  \n  \n\"Sorry, pops, you got me confused,\" I tell him. Not in that hurried, disdainful,  \ntrying-to-pretend-you-didn't-hear way that pepole use when they don't want to be  \nbothered by a poor person in case they're crazy or dangerous.   \n  \nThe bum chuckles and rolls over, snuggling up a little more under his blanket.  \n\"You mean mistaken, son. And I'm pretty sure I ain't. You done a paintjob on  \nyour fur, I see, but under lights like these I see ya clear as day,\" he  \ncontinues. I sniff the air quickly, but there's no scent of alcohol on him. He's  \na big guy, under that blanket, with big boots and a warm coat and a hunter's cap  \non his head that throws a shadow over his face. Maybe a bear or something.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I shrug my shoulders and turn away, but he grabs my ankle. I turn back with a  \nsnarl. \"Listen, pops, this ain't the night ta be botherin' me!\" I'm shocked,  \nmyself, at how loud my voice is. \"I'm... I'm sorry,\" I say and I hunker down,  \nrunning my fingers through my now spikey hair. I sigh and look at him, and then  \nI notice the marking on his face. He's a badger, and now I'm this close to him I  \ncatch his scent. \"Holloway?\"  \n  \nHe nods to me, and suddenly I feel very, very cold and in danger, and the  \nfeeling of danger mixes with the fear I was feeling already and they sharpen  \neach other. My heart hasn't even had the chance to beat more than twice at its  \naccellerated rate before the badger yawns, his lips smiling. \"Don't worry, kid.  \nYou showed an old bum a ood time couple months ago and asked no more'n a coat  \nthat was too ugly even fer me. I'll keep yer secret he way I keep my own.\"  \n  \n\"You have secrets?\" I ask, and I don't know why exactly, but I feel really good.  \nI sit down on the ground and I see shadows of people moving, walking around me  \nand the bum in wide circles, but my heart's calming down simply from being  \nconnected to somebody who knows me as Owen. I feel a pang of something in my  \nstomach and I hug my abdomen suddenly.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The badger nods. \"Everybody does, kid, you know how it is. Sergeant Holloway  \nbecomes a vagrant, and the cute piece of tail that walked into Bricktown,  \nballs-bare, with a weird thing around his sheath turns into... Well, what are ya  \nnow, kid?\" he asks, shifting into a sitting position against the wall. I sit a  \nlittle closer to him, leaning against him and actually enjoying the warmth of  \nhis body, despite the powerful, unwashed smell.   \n  \nI smirk at him, rubbing the swirling discolored patterns around my eye. \"I'm a  \nsinger,\" I say and we both start laughing. \"No, no, really. I'm not bad,  \nactually,\" I inform him and, nodding, he takes my word for it, holding up his  \nhands in surrender.  \n  \n\"Well kid,\" he says, \"I wasn't a very good sergeant.\"  \n  \nThere's a silence, then and a few more people walk past. Drunks, staggering out  \nof one of the dark drinking holes around here, men and women laughing in  \nhigh-pitched voices, all of them, and none of them see me or the old badger. I  \nlook at him for a little while and think. Here's a guy I've known for, maybe,  \nhalf an hour in total. I let him fuck me in exchange for a raincoat, which I  \nneeded at the time, and he'd have given it to me for free, except I don't do sex  \nfor free. Owen didn't, anyway.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Owen didn't.  \n  \n\"Holloway,\" I say and stand up again, cricking my neck and extending my hand to  \nthe badger lying on the pavement. \"You wanna come into the alley with me?\"  \n  \nThe old guy smiles so broadly at this and his face contorts in a wealth of  \ndifferent emotions. Hopefulness, mistrust, bitterness, humor, lust and disdain  \nall at once. One of these wins out, though and with a groan he reaches up to  \nclasp my hand. I lean back hard to help pull him up off the ground, the already  \nportly badger weighed down by his heavy winter clothes and whatever supplies and  \nvaluables he's got hidden in his pockets.   \n  \nClutching his blanket he staggers up to his feet and slaps a beefy arm acoss my  \nshoulders. \"You know, I knew a private that looked like you look now once. It  \nwasn't weird, back then, for fags to get stomped on and I guess it ain't weird  \nnow either. Either ya keep quiet, ya put up with the beatings, or you drop out,  \nsimple as that. This guy was a putter-upper. He was a little shorter'n you,  \nlittle more muscular, too,\" the badger explains, hugging my shoulders, folding  \nhis blanket over one arm as we walk, slowly, into the alley, with its wet  \ncardboard boxes and overflowing dustbines.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Was he as good a cocksucker as me?\" I joke and I realise i feel closer to  \nHolloway, now, than I do to anybody, even Malloy. He's the only one who knows  \nwho I am, but even he's been... distant. Like he's trying to help me out of a  \nsense of personal defeat and pride, rather than actually helping his friend.  \nHolloway's just honest, living from one moment to the next, keeping a  \ncomfortable distance from his past and enjoying whatever life throws at him.  \nLike me, for instance. A handsome young wolf with no gag reflex.  \n  \n\"I don't even know how good a cocksucker you are, kiddo, just that you've got a  \nreally sweet ass. If you're offering, it's that ass that I'd like to try again,\"  \nhe says casually and I nod to him, actually kissing him on the cheek, so  \nterribly grateful to be near somebody I can be honest with.   \n  \nI shrug off my coat and toss it onto a garbage bin. \"It's yours, man. You don't  \nmind a stand-up fuck, do you? It's too cold for missionary, tonight,\" I tell  \nhim, walking up to one of the least grimy wall and unbutton my pants, tugging  \nthem down just enough to expose my ass. Wordlessly the big guy steps up behind  \nme, spreading the blanket out and draping it across his own shoulders. \"I got a  \nquestion, bud, and don't mind not gettin' an answer. You fucked anybody since  \nyou did me last?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; There's that familiar sound again, a zipper being undone, stuttering and  \nawkwardly, no doubt the zipper's rusty. \"Not a soul,\" says the badger, nudging  \nthe tip of his plump but surprisingly stiff member under my tail and into the  \nsnug ring hidden there, which has seen a lot of visitors lately.   \n  \nHe's cautious as he enters me and there really isn't any reason for him to be so  \nI shove my hips back and take him all into me, tight, warm and comfy... \"Share  \nyour blanket?\" I ask, finally feeling the chill in the air now that the shock of  \nwhat was in the envelope's starting to wear off.   \n  \nHolloway leans closer to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and lets the  \nthick horse blanket fall over me as well, creating a comfortable little hutch as  \nwe both share a nice, intimate, almost anonymous stand-up fuck.   \n  \nIntimate, is that the right word? I'm just doing it for the warmth and the  \ncomfort and the ego-boost of giving somebody pleasure like this, feeling so  \nsexy. He's just doing it to get his balls emptied, maybe he's imagining that  \nwolf private he mentioned so briefly, maybe that's who he's imagining as he  \nnibbles on my arched neck. So we're both having sex with ourselves, together,  \nand we couldn't be farther apart. It feels intimate, still.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"The new color suits you,\" he says conversationally, panting into my ear and I  \nsuspect he's making small-talk to mask his inability to get off in any timely  \nfashion, so I start rolling my hips back in counter-point to his thrusts. Not  \njust pushing, but tilting, turning it upward to let his shaft slide up my ass at  \na different angle, stimulating him more... It sounds cold when I describe it like  \nthat, but if anybody's ever done it for you, you'll know how much of a  \ndifference it makes. It's called the 'bunny hop' and, appropriately, I learned  \nit from Cannit, the hare.   \n  \n\"Jesus,\" Holloway groans and chuckles, hugging his bulky, pudgy farame more  \ntightly to my back, humping me with a bit more excitement. \"That feels damn  \nnice,\" he adds as if it's something to be embarassed about and fucks me a little  \nharder, pressing me against the cold, wet bricks, pushing his thickly-dressed  \nbody against mine and his fat prick up my ass. Outside the alley people still  \nwalk by and all they'd have to do is turn their head and they'd see me getting  \nboned by a bum, no doubt thinking that I was just some street urchin selling his  \nass to make enough money to pay for an immunisation treatment to kill the bugs  \nhe no doubt picked up from selling his ass in the first place.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; \"Holloway,\" I whisper in a soft voice and he leans his snout closer to my ear.  \n\"Have you ever had to hide so deeply that you felt like you were invisible?\" He  \ndoesn't slow his motions, but his hands move from my hips to my bare, cold  \nstomach, rubbing it swiftly to warm me up, kissing me on the crook of the neck  \nand shoulder, and nods. \"I don't like it,\" I say to him and then I let out a  \nlong, soft groan.  \n  \nI feel him cumming in me, but it isn't that which makes me feel as warm as I now  \nfeel. It's as if simply saying it makes it less bad and I gratefully accept  \nHolloway's simple silence just as I accept his load inside me and the way he  \nhugs me from behind tells me he's grateful to me, too, for my warm, tight ass  \nand whatever else he feels I'm giving him.  \n  \nPeople pass us by and they don't look into our alley, and I wonder what they'd  \nthink if they did look. A portly old wino, standing up against a thoroughly cute  \nguy, both of them panting in the wake of his orgasm. \"You feel scared, son,\"  \nHolloway says and I chuckle, not because he's right but because he's just shy of  \nbeing right. When he said it, fear wasn't on my mind, you see. But it quickly  \nreturns, and with it the light twitching of my abdomen that I can never really  \nkeep under control and which he has no trouble feeling, with his hands so  \ngreedily groping my washboard tummy.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; He says no more than that, then pulling his limpening prick out of me with a  \npolite cough and as I tug my pants back on and he goes to zip up his fly. I  \nthink about sucking it clean for him, but God knows how long it's been since  \nhe's washed it and despite all my prowess as a cockserver there are still some  \nstandards of hygiene I cling to. I button back up and tug my coat on, shivering  \nmore when I've got the woolen longcoat wrapped about me than before, because the  \ngarment took up the night's chill in the time it was laid aside. I give the old  \nbadger a kiss on the cheek and a smile, and without another word I walk out of  \nthe alley.  \n  \nAnd that would have been that, except as he lays himself down to go back to  \nsleep, Holloway calls out to me. \"Hey kid,\" he yells and two people across the  \nstreet stop walking, unsure whether he's talking to them, and then quickly press  \non. \"I owe ya for the ride, so here it is. Somebody once told me, and I know for  \nsure you've heard this corny oldy before, so don't smirk, he said 'Don't get  \nmad, get even.' And that's good advice, it really is, but I got somethin'  \nthat'll work better for you, I think. Don't get scared, kiddo... get serious.\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; My heart stops fluttering and with a calm I wouldn't have thought myself capable  \nof, I nod and turn away, heading for the uptown safehouse, careful to take the  \nbiggest and best-lit streets, being very conspicuous in walking so as to attract  \nthe least notice, you know how that goes. As I walk I rub a hand over my abdomen  \n- as always, showing a smile in satisfaction as I feel my abdominals - and feel  \nno twitching there. I don't feel out of breath, in fact, I can find no physical  \nsymptoms of anxiety at all and it then occurs to me that I'm truly not scared,  \nnow, and that this is mighty peculiar indeed.  \n  \nI turn the corner into MacMillan street, which is fairly busy even at this hour,  \ndespite the shops all being closed. In the heart of summer it'd probably be  \ngetting light already, but the people walking about are nighthawks, not early  \nbirds, looking like they went to a movie, then out clubbing, then a drink and  \nonly now are heading back home, taking the scenic route along the nice shops.  \nJewelry stores with Swarovski crystal compete with liquor stores with fine malt  \nbrandies, a high tech, whiz-bang computer place sits kitty-corner from a fashion  \nshop infinitely more stylish than the threads I pillage from the Haberdash when  \nI can afford it.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I hop the fence covering the mouth of the alley between a halal butcher and a  \nlittle place that's full of antique furniture, but you know how those shops are.  \nThe owners are all sixty-somethings who want to collect and catalogue the  \nbeautiful things they love so much and to be able to say 'I'm in antiques' at  \ntheir bridge meetings. The last thing they want to do is sell these things.   \n  \nAlso, when I say 'hop the fence' I mean 'clamber up a fence with straight bars  \ntwice my height quick enough and quiet enough so's nobody notices me.' Just so  \nyou know Malloy ain't the only guy with a little prowess when it comes to  \ngetting' to places I ain't been invited.   \n  \nThis place, though? A door at the end of this alley, which belongs to nobody but  \nwhich everybody thinks belongs to somebody else, fitted with a lock so old an'  \nfucked up that it can't be opened 'less you jigger it just so, something - if  \nya'll allow me to add to my rep as a breaker-inner - I discovered all on my  \nlonesome. That door leads to a house, and a real nice one, too. Weird thing is,  \nthough, it don't look like it's been occupied for a while and what's weirder  \nstill, it ain't been looted, neither.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Don't you think that's bizarre? A house full of pretty nice stuff, old furniture  \nand pictures, couple leather books and even letters! They were a pretty big find  \nwhen we discovered them, I tell ya. This'd been our first crash pad, me an'  \nMalloy, when we came to Maranatha and it felt like providence, especially cuz  \nhalf the letters was signed by some dude named Standish Mark Malloy, at least,  \nthat's what the squiggly writing looked to be sayin', and all of 'em was dated  \nseventeen-somethin'.   \n  \nYou should have seen us when we saw those. Two pups - well, one wolfpup and one  \ndog too old to get this childishly excited about a find like this - frolicking  \nthrough the house, turning up the collars of our coats and pretending to be fine  \neighteenth-century gentlemen. Malloy would flip up his shirt and half-open the  \ncoat collar and walk through the house with his hands steepled as if he were a  \npastor or somethin', and he'd find me, a hedonistic, rich merchant's son, and  \nhave me kneel before him to receive a few coppers and a benediction, or I'd be a  \nchoirboy and he'd be a sailor, just back from a trip to the Old Country. Those  \ngames were so much fun, and Malloy, sweetheart that he is deep down, never  \nforgot to add a little money to the playing out of respect to my budding  \nprofessionalism.   \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; And that bed... They say people were shorter back in those days, but whoever owned  \nthis house wasn't one of 'em. The bed was perfect, although it smelled a bit  \nfunky 'till we treated it with a creative mix of lemon juice and vinegar and  \nsome other things that we discovered, through experimentation, could wrench the  \nstench from the old curtains, clothes and furniture. It was soft, and didn't  \nmake no noise on account of the springs being so well-oiled they were still  \ngreasy when we found 'em.   \n  \nWe didn't stay there long, though. First thing we did was find some other place  \nto crash so's The Old House, as we so imaginatively called it, would stay  \nsecret. And it did, and so me an' Malloy decided that it'd make a good hideout.  \nI grab the latch. Lift, nudge sideways, wiggle twice, shoulder the door, lower  \nit, pull sharply, turn the latch and then simply let it fall open.   \n  \nA steep stairway, tightly curved so that whoever owned this would have had to  \nhoist his furniture in through the windows. Never step on the third-from-the-top  \nstair, it's close to buckling and could take the entire staircase down and we  \ngot no idea what's kept in the basement. Hoisting myself over the Doomsday Stair  \nwith one hand on the wall, whose paper long ago peeled, and the other on a still  \nsplendidly red-lacquered handrail, I reach the door at the top of the stairs and  \nenter the room.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It's a number of rooms, actually, but the owner of this house had it built  \ncontrary to the sensibilities of the time and had it designed with a remarkable  \nopenness so that you can see into all of them from any other, primarily on  \naccount of there being no doors to hamper vision. Why he didn't just leave out  \nthe wall s as well is a mystery to both Malloy and me, but neither of us can  \ndeny the simple childish pleasure in playing hide and seek, naked as innocence,  \ndarting through the rooms and over the furniture, finally to land, pinned, on  \nthe bed and to, well, you know what Malloy and I do from time to time.   \n  \nSpeaking of whom, just as I'm opening the door and step into the small but  \nspacious, orderly yet labyrinthine house I see one of the alley-facing windows  \non the opposite side being opened from the outside and a sleek black figure  \npositively oozes into the room, silently shutting the window.  \n  \n\"Hey, you just getting in? Sorry I'm so late I was... occupied,\" Malloy says,  \nsealing the latch on the windows, whose glass isn't smooth entirely but varies  \nin thickness, showing its age. \"Did you know Alice has a girlfriend?\" he says,  \ncoming toward me.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I curl my lip at him. \"Jesus, Malloy, get with the program,\" I snarl and give  \nhim a quick hug and a kiss, which has strangely become our familiar greeting  \nthese last few weeks. \"We've got a serious- that is, I've got a serious- Alice  \nhas a girlfriend?\" All worry and thought drips out of my mind like Ben \u0026 Jerry's  \nout of a sieve on a hot day, as I picture the beautiful, effeminate young  \nlionboy, so popular with the older men who hire him, with a girlfriend. A girl,  \nwho'd likely stand a very good chance of being more masculine than him,  \nalthough, no, his stature and manner can be quite masculine when he ain't  \nthinking.   \n  \nAmazing, simply amazing how a bombshell like this can completely, what's the  \nword, relativate things. That's what I mean, I think. Like, I'm still worried  \nabout the Scrabble tiles in my pocket and Malloy shares that worry when I hand  \nthem to him but at the same time the powerful implications of those little  \nthings are pushed from the number one spot on our priorities list simply by the  \nrealization that there are still other things going on, things which are also  \nimportant.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I sit myself down on the couch, or sofa or chaise longue or whatever it's called  \nand Malloy seats himself next to me, pulling me across his lap. He's warm, warm  \nthrough the ridiculously thin short-sleeved black silk shirt he still wears even  \nin the cold winter we're having. My hand raises up and I cup his neck from  \nbehind, a casual, familiar gesture that somehow, in its simple affection, feels  \nmore intimate than his dick up my ass or his cum in my mouth and it makes us  \nboth strangely uncomfortable, so I stop, and simply lie in his lap, thinking.  \n  \n\"This isn't so bad, then,\" I say and I don't even know for sure what I mean, but  \nMalloy gets me.  \n  \n\"It don't matter overmuch how all this plays out if Alice is all right. And  \nNezzy, and Mrs. Ackerby and Double Bill and Mark and everybody else,\" he muses.  \nThere's... I don't know, there's pain in his voice and I sense he's deeply unhappy  \nand I guess it's got to do with him pining after Alice so I don't mention it.  \n\"N, E, O, W,\" Malloy reads out as he checks the tiles again. \"How much will you  \nbet these are for a guy called Weno?\" he jokes, but our laughter isn't as hollow  \nas it might have been.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I shake my head nonetheless. \"It was addressed to me, dropped off with the  \nCrosshairs' stage manager.\"  \n  \n\"Hank?\"  \n  \nI nod. \"That's the one. Somebody knows Luke McCall is Owen Zelazny, Malloy, and  \nI sure as fuck didn't tell anybody.\" I pause and I feel very small, lying on his  \nlap, though I feel the pressure of that sheath I sucked more than any other in  \nmy life and always, up until the disaster some weeks ago, for money. \"What's she  \nlike?\" I ask.  \n  \nMalloy doesn't even flinch as he shifts trains of thought to Alice's girlfriend.  \n\"Remember that batch of heroin hookers that got set free last year? That police  \nraid?\" he asks, lightly toying with my navel. I stare up at him in amazement.  \n  \n\"She's one of them?\"  \n  \n\"No, they were all Vietnamese,\" Malloy assures me with a grin, leaning down to  \nkiss my nose, \"She volunteered as a social assistant to help them acclimatize to  \nlocal customs. She dropped out of high school to continue that work - she's  \nworking part-time at the Regency drug clinic. I don't know how they met, but I  \nsaw them coming out of a movie theater, holding hands and all that,\" the  \ndobermann says with a wistful chuckle.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I smile. \"That is the sweetest thing ever. Have you talked to him about It, yet?  \nHas he been thinking about quitting? Malloy, we've got to get him out of my line  \nof work,\" I say, a cascade of concern and planning as if, in some bizarre way,  \nMalloy and I were Alice's fathers. \"Things are changing, aren't they,\" I say  \nsoftly. Again, I'm not really sure what I mean, but I see something akin to  \nunderstanding in Malloy's eyes and while we don't embrace, we try to get a  \nlittle closer to each other.  \n  \n\"You know I love you, right?\"  \n  \nI nod. \"Of course.\"  \n  \n\"And Alice, too? And Nezzy?\"  \n  \nI nod again. \"Of course,\" I say again and he seems terribly, terribly relieved  \nto I turn my head and kiss that flat, shirt-clad stomach of his, so finely  \nrippled, so hard and I feel the muscles twitch like mine do when I'm scared, so  \nI kiss him again.  \n  \nThen Malloy does something which anybody else might take the greatest offense  \nat, but which I'll never stop being grateful for. That arrogant, sexy fucking  \nhorndog reaches into his shirt pocket and withdraws a rolled-up wad of twenties,  \nfour or five of 'em, and tosses the money onto the ornate little table whose  \nlacquered mahogany surface has received a number of value-diminishing scratches  \nand cigarette burns and coffee stains since we moved into the Old House.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; It's that casual act of paying me for sex - paying me, and very naturally  \ndemanding sex, showing respect for my professionalism and testing it at once,  \nthat reminder of what my life used to be like and how much we both want it back,  \nthat more than any of the words remind me that Malloy is truly my best friend,  \nand just as he expressed his love in a curious way, so I express mine.  \n  \nTwo seconds flat and his zipper's down and my mouth is where he likes it the  \nmost, both of us groaning, perhaps more at the memory of a better life than at  \nthe sensations. His cock flexes between my lips, throbbing to life as I skin his  \nsheath back, swallowing and slurping hungrily on it and I remember that while it  \nmay have been a while since I had a dick to suck, until I had Hank earlier, it's  \nbeen forever since I got to blow my buddy Malloy.  \n  \nHe's writhing on the couch, much more affected by the blowjob I'm giving him  \nthan usual and I have to put some considerable pressure on his chest to pin him  \nin place - as much as you can pin down a firmly-muscled dobermann like him. A  \ngood, solid grip on his balls does the trick though, and he lies back, arms  \nsplayed out over the couch's backrest, eyes cracked open just a fraction to  \nwatch me work.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I work with relish. I don't just savour the act, the taste and feel of a nice,  \nbig cock in my mouth, the way my throat tingles when a little precum dribbles  \ndown it, I savor my friend, Malloy, and he me, and I'm reminded again that it's  \nbecause we love each other so deeply and because we have such good sex that we  \ncan never be lovers, but who gives a fuck? Honestly, who cares?  \n  \nUp and down my muzzle moves, my skilled, deep, warm muzzle, lips sealed around  \nhis throbbing member, sliding it along the gulley of my tongue and then into my  \nthroat, swallowing hard around it and corkscrewing my head for extra  \nstimulation, loving the feel of that tapered cockhead sliding down my gullet. I  \ntell you, I suck on that thick, long doggydick like it's the best thing I've  \never tasted, moaning like a bitch, which I don't often do, my face scrunched up  \nlike I'm in pain, the way it gets when you get something you truly, deeply need.  \n  \nAnd Malloy's no different. He groans, his fingers run through my spiked hair, he  \nwheezes his breaths through clenched teeth and his steel-hard erection shows all  \nthe signs of a male who's so far gone that he can't even cum just yet. I push  \nthe issue, bobbing my head faster, gripping him by the base and by the balls and  \ndevoting all my art to this, to getting him off but keeping him on the edge,  \nbuilding and building the orgasm I need to taste so badly.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; My head's swimming as I lay sprawled on that couch, fully clothed as Malloy is,  \nthe sexual act no more than a kiss in an intimate spot - a deep, French kiss,  \nbut a kiss nonetheless. I imagine myself an apprentice boy, pleasing the master  \nhe respects so much, or a servant who brings a noble guest a meal and some  \npleasure, and I imagine myself when I was fifteen and Malloy was twenty-two and,  \nnot a day after our first, furtive fuck, I tried cocksucking for the first time  \nand realized I loved it, as I love it now.   \n  \nWarm semen, a saltiness so familiar to me now, floods my mouth but I pay it no  \nheed. I swallow as much as I need to to keep breathing, the electrifying milk  \nonly heightening my awareness of the taste of Malloy's meat and for his part, I  \nthink he barely notices the climax either, it's just one crescendo in a symphony  \nof lust and even as it tapers off, the flow of cum, I keep sucking and he keeps  \nbucking, and before we know it our clothes are all over the place and furniture  \nis overturned and we're on the bed, sweating like dogs, and fucking, and fucking  \ntill the sun comes up.   \n  \n\n  \n\n_To be continued._\n\n  \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\u0026nbsp;  \n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Maranatha","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4437-maranatha-chapter-x-as-told-by-owen-zelazny.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/4986-maranatha-chapter-xii-as-told-by-owen-zelazny.json"}}