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From: osfer.kesh@gmail.com
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Subject: Chapter VI – As Told By Q. I. Malloy
Date: Fri, 26 Nov 2004 04:19:53 -0800
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===================

Hello everyone. 

I participated in the National Novel Writing Month with great
enthusiasm this year, even organising a few writing workshops for
fellow NaNoers. However, when I got stuck halfway through the month
and decided to cut my losses. I started on a new project, something
I'd hoped would be easy -- furry pr0n, obviously -- however, the story
got out of control and now actually has -- gasp, horror! -- plot and
characterisation

I'm going to put the first six chapters up here to see what sort of a
respone people have to it, and add more as I write them. I hope you
enjoy.

- Osfer

 

M A R A N A T H A
               
               
    © Osfer, November 2004
               
               
    All rights reserved.
               
    May only be distributed for free.
               
    May not be altered in any way.
               
    Contains material of an erotic and homosexual nature which may be
illegal to read in your country, state, province or region.
     

The author takes no responsibility for transgressions on the part of
the reader
               
    Comments welcome at osfer.kesh@gmail.com.
               
               
    ~ Enjoy. ~
                 


           

Chapter VI – As Told By Q. I. Malloy
   
   
    I walk.
    From the second I step out of Nezzy's shop and lock the door
behind me with her spare key, I walk. My emotions drained into the
shower's cold water, leaving me dulled and I would be uncaring, but
for the unyielding determination I feel burning in the furnace of my
stomach. I have my suit, which clings so tightly to my body I might be
mistaken for a bouncer, were it not for the expensively tasteful cut
of the cloth, I have my spare key and Nezzy's, I have my cell-phone,
slightly recharged, I have my passport, slightly altered, and I have a
hand-written letter in an envelope. With these, and nothing more, I'm
going to take on the world.
    Okay, I'll cop, I wish I'd brought Lola as well. She could've
tucked down the small of my back in a splendidly-concealed holster
that made this suit twice as expensive as it needed to be – but, then,
if you want the best, you've got to go to Clemens. He's the one who
once provided Owen with a wrinkle-free light grey suit that had
built-in knee padding and a concealed split down the seat so he could
make his arse available for entry simply by gripping his buns and
pulling at the fabric–
    Owen, that's right. That's who I'm doing this for. Or maybe I'm
not doing it for him, and I'm just doing it because I'm angry, I don't
know. My emotions feel… filtered, somehow. Like when you've stayed
awake for two nights in a row, the way things sound – they're muted,
they don't seem quite real, even though they're really loud. But it's
because you sense them in such detail that they become unreal and
don't affect you. That's why I feel such anxiety at having left my
precious gun Lola back in my apartment, but that anxiety doesn't
affect me that much.
    The walk back to the bank is long, but it can't be helped.
Everything hinges on the strut, and getting out of the wrong kind of
car or arriving too early or too late could arouse suspicion, and once
one red flag goes up I'm screwed. So I walk, and think, and try not to
think.
    The city's waking up, now. Traffic's starting to form, gushing
into the streets like freshly poured Guinness and then congeals like
the thick head of foam. Maybe Guinness is a rubbish metaphor; I
suppose the black stuff could count as asphalt and the foam would be
the gridlocked traffic. No, that's a stretch. I could murder a pint
right now, though. It's tempting to make a quick stop at the Firkin
pub as I pass it – bloody poser's place, ain't a single Brit ever been
involved in setting it up or running the place, yet they've still got
the balls to call it an Authentic Irish Pub – but I have to restrain
myself.
    I wonder what people must think when they see me walking. I'm
still a few minutes away from hitting the business district and I look
seriously out of place. Maybe they think I'm a mobster, perusing new
real estate to claim, or maybe that I'm some kind of hustler like
Owen, heading to a new client. Both of those seem like a ridiculous
idea, so I guess nobody really has any thoughts on who I am or what
I'm doing.
    God's honest? I don't even have much of a clue what I'm doing.
    I've got my plan, for certain, the whole ‘new solution' thing
again. I've got it planned out. But only up to a point, or rather,
several points. In half an hour I'll know if I'll end up in jail. In
two hours I'll know if I'll live. By the end of the day I'll know if I
can get Owen back, or if I'll never see him again. But even if
everything goes as it's supposed to go – which you and I both know is
seriously unlikely – I don't know what'll happen tomorrow. Or the day
after. I don't know if anything I do today makes a damn fucking bit of
difference, or if it's all just a waste of time and worry and money
and lives.
    Oh, fuck. My feet carried me quicker than I expected, and now I'm
standing where I was not two hours ago: in front of the glass walls of
the Northern Transnational building. The bank's just opened, but
inside it's already buzzing with business, people in expensive suits,
some of them better than mine and all of them obviously newer, walk in
and out of the building with purpose. I don't slow, I just keep going
even though I'm getting a little worried. I thought I'd have time to
prepare myself during the walk but I was so caught up in my thoughts
that I completely missed that opportunity. Ah well, can't be helped.
And I can't help smirking, either, when I notice the stain on the
glass next to the rotating doors, where I licked it earlier.
    Inside the building I notice the smell first. That stale,
businesslike smell that tells you nothing real ever happens there.
Just plans and ideas, pieces of paper, words and promises. It's
important, I'm not trying to diss the whole banking world, as the kids
are sayin', but you just get this vibe about places like this, you
know? I walk straight toward the reception desk, where a white
squirrel, who after a moment I realize is female (I have a hard time
telling with rodents, sometimes) smiles at me.
    "How may I help you?" she asks in that helpful, sing-song tone
receptionists often have. She's wearing a black blazer and a crisp
white shirt with one of those ladies' ties, two diagonal black strips
at the collar.
    I smile at her, effortlessly, and pull the envelope from my inside
pocket, laying it down on the desk as if it's supposed to mean
something. "I'm here to close my employer's account. Account name
Malloy, initials Q. I."
    She types at her keyboard and shows me that blank, friendly face
cashiers normally show. "Malloy… Ah, here it is. Of course, sir.
Please take the elevator to the fifteenth floor, a clerk will be
waiting to help you with your business." She smiles and waves in the
direction of the elevators.
    Do you know why she didn't ask me my name, or check out the
contents of the envelope? It's the strut. What you need to do, is give
people an impression of who you are, let it be their first impression
of you. In my case, a slick businessperson. Most people, when they do
disguises, leave it at that, and confirm the first impression through
their act, but you can't do that. People are used to judging other
people wrong. So you've got to modify their expectations, which
they're used to doing. In my case, because I'm not a slick
businessperson, I'm just a flunky, holding a letter that gives him
permission to close his employer's account.
    There seems to be extra security around, plain-clothes, and not
just around the metal-detectors… Or maybe I'm just paranoid. The guard
I molested earlier seems to have gone home, but, on a whim, I walk up
to the door of the closet next to the elevators and open it a crack as
if looking for the bathroom. I smile as I peer into the little closet
with its cleaning materials and, oddly, a shaving-mirror and see the
wet grey splash on the bare concrete floor where the Shep gurgled out
my load. God, I'm hot.
    It's a few minutes after the hour. The people who are always on
time for work are already at their desks and the people who're running
late ain't arrived yet, so there aren't that many people at the
elevators. The walls are plated with that poncy faux-marble that
should look classy but with the light greet tint it has to it ends up
looking like that lobby from that sci-fi movie with the slow motion
and the digital world. Right now, I sure wish I had superpowers like
that guy.
    The last thing I hear from the lobby is the receptionist saying
"Sir! You forgot your letter!" and then the doors close. Ding, goes
the elevator. Ding goes. Dingoes. Really, my mind's all over the
place. Like the fine, fine bum on the young fox clerk that just
stepped in. Polite wee smile when he got in the elevator with me, as
if he was asking me permission, even though there was four other
people in there already. On a better day I'd give him the ol' smile,
pinch that fine bum and score me some quick fox-arse in the mens' room
without even leaving him my number, but today I've got business on my
mind. So I start coughing.
    "Scuse me," I say and start coughing some more, really heavy-like.
I pull my handkerchief from my breast pocket, really hocking into it,
snarking up some snot and spitting in it. I look at it with worry and
just as the doe next to me loses her cool and tries to see out of the
corner of her eye I start coughing again, my whole body shaking.
    Ding-dong bingo gringo, we have a winner. The doe leans past some
miscellaneous businessperson and presses the button for the next
floor. The doors open and she's first out, followed by mister Misc.
That leaves my boy the fox and two stags, who look at each other for a
second and when the doors start to close, first one and then the other
pushes through and exits the elevator. Guess they must think I'm
contagious or something.
    So now I'm alone with my fox. He looks at me, and then at the
large colour screen showing the floor numbers in 3-D animated glory,
real fancy. We're approaching the tenth floor, which is the button
he'd pressed when he got on. He looks at me again. He's pretty cute,
for a square office-clerk kinda guy. Hair styled short and neat, crisp
white short-sleeved shirt, pressed slacks. Probably some exec's son or
nephew, given a cushy job to prepare him for his initiation in the Old
Boys' Network.
    Looks like this boy's been ‘initiated' already. He notices the
bulge in my fucking expensive trousers which in all honesty was
brought on by the thought of fucking some exec's son than the features
of this fox, who's certainly good-looking but by no means out of the
ordinary. And, remember, I just fucked the single most beautiful lion
on the planet for half a dozen hours and then, sicker than I've felt
in months, muzzle-raped the least dignified member of the security
branch you're ever likely to meet, so going for somebody who's simply
nice-looking is a serious step down from my standards. But then he
hits the Elevator Stop button, I suppose because he thinks the
maintenance guy isn't on time and won't be at his desk to ask if we're
all right, and unbuckles his pants. Ah, why the fuck not.
    He doesn't even look at me, which I think is pretty good. He's
facing the wall to one side of the doors and as I unzip my fucking
expensive trousers, let me remind you, they're really expensive, he
pulls his trousers down just far enough that the waistband hangs below
that soft-furred bum. It really is quite fine, and he's thoughtfully
flagged his fluffy tail to the side. Now he looks at me, over his
shoulder and just for a second, then he places both hands on the wall
in front. I guess he was wondering if he should reach out and grab me
to guide me in, but he decided the better of it.
    I step up, enjoying the silence, which breaks when he lets out a
soft little sigh as I grab his hip, press my tip under his glossy
orange tail, and start to press into him. He's not even that warm,
inside, just… average. And once I'm balls-deep in his arse, holding
his hip in one hand and his shoulder, I start to wank myself off under
his tail and take ten minutes out of my busy world-conquering day to
have myself a perfectly average fox-fuck.
    There's honestly nothing to describe. If you've fucked a fox, then
you know what I'm talking about and if you haven't, words simply won't
express the kind of experience it is. It's completely satisfactory.
I've never met a fox I couldn't get off in, never in all my life. But
with very few exceptions the sex is standard, ordinary, you know? It's
like McDonalds' food. No matter where in the world you go, you can
stand in line with furry-hat-wearers or squint-eyes or yanks or Masai
but you still know, even before you reach the end of the line, what
the burger's going to taste like. That's what it's like to fuck a fox.
It always takes me nine minutes, I never feel the urge to have a chat
the way I usually do when I'm fucking somebody – the German Shepherd
from a few hours ago excluded, naturally – and afterwards I feel the
same as before.
    Which is how I feel now. I'm just looking at the numbers – eleven,
twelve, thirteen – and I've completely forgotten about the fox I just
shot a load in, probably something that'll cheer him up throughout the
day, the knowledge that he's got a stranger's load in him. A strange
businessman, he probably thinks. Me, I think nothing. I don't remember
pulling out and zipping up, I don't remember the satisfaction I saw
when he simply pulled his pants up, lowered his tail, pushed the
Elevator Stop button again and got out on his floor without looking
back.
    I do remember to press Elevator Stop myself, just when we pass the
fourteenth floor. The lift is wider than it's long so I spring forward
and plant my foot against the sealed, gleaming metal doors and as I
push myself backward I straighten my leg to plant it against the other
wall with a resounding thump, keeping myself up in a splits. It aches
a little in my hip-joints, obviously I ain't as young as I once was,
but the stance feels solid enough, I can hold this for a while.
    You see people do this all the time in the movies, slide up the
ceiling panel of the lift and climb out, as if it's that easy. And
sometimes, just sometimes it is. Which is the second of three reasons
I picked the Northern Transnational bank for my little transaction –
the first, of course, being my acquaintance with its weekday
night-guard. And the third, you may ask? Let's go find out, shall we?
    The ceiling's side-panel slides sideways. In any other building I
might have had to yank out some bolts or unscrew some nails with my
very claws. After all, I couldn't bring my old lock-picks any more
than I could bring Lola for fear of setting off the metal detectors.
But no, not in the Northern Transnational building. Just push up and
the panel slides sideways along a little rail. Perfect. Now it's
simply a question of grabbing hold of the edges of the gap and lifting
myself through without letting my clothes touch the oily rim of the
opening. I'm grateful that I'm an upper body kinda guy. I've got
beefier legs than Owen does, that's for sure, but while his legs are
his greatest strength, mine are good for fast running and long jumping
but not much else. Not much use in a fight.
    Now, my arm… My guns, as Owen likes to call them. I push myself up
with no difficulty, my upper torso suspended in the sci-fi bleakness
of the lift tube, I swing my legs up, bent at the knees and part them
again, bracing them on the rims of the opening. The I stand up and
step sideways and as I slide the panel back into place I can hear the
little intercom give a discrete little beep, which is a hell of a lot
better than the burst of static you usually hear, and some bloke with
a voice like he just had a laryngectomy asks if I'm all right. Sure I
am. I'm standing in the void, the sci-fi bleakness of the elevator
shaft, in the lion's den in more ways than one, gambling more than
I've ever earned based on instinct, feeble observation and sentimental
loyalty. I guess I didn't turn out as quite the kind of bad boy I'd
hoped to be, when I came to Maranatha.
    I wait for another elevator to come up. It takes a while, since
it's early in the morning still, but then from the dim abyss below I
see no less than three carriages rising. I wonder which of them have
occupants enjoying some quick elevator sex. After all, if that clerk
was so easy to get into there's bound to be more employees as
‘sociable' as he was and plenty of managers enjoying a quick foxfuck
on the way to work.
    The first one up is too far away and it passes me, opening at the
fifteenth floor. I can hear some stifled gasps when the doors open,
some serious voices asking people to step out of the elevator, another
saying "Where the hell is he?" before being told to shut up. Seems
some people were waiting for me on the fifteenth floor. Gosh criminy,
what a surprise.
    The next lift passes and I get ready, pulling up my sleeves a bit.
I stand at the side of the elevator, feeling it shake a little as its
doors are forced open and somebody steps inside. "Hello?" that croaky
voice asks, probably a lizard of some sort. Fuck it, just wait a
second, I think as I hear him slide in a crate or something to stand
on, just give me two more seconds…
    The second lift whooshes past me with the speed these modern
contraptions have and when it's passed, I make my jump and only then
does it occur to me that I just threw myself at a fourteen-storey
drop, not counting the basement floor, and if I miss this grab I'm
going to die.
    I'm going to die.
    That realisation hits me as soon as I feel the cool plastic of the
thick electrical cables under the elevator against my face and it's
all I can do to swing my arms forward and grab the nearest part of the
lift and hope, fucking hope that it's not the electric cable I can
feel on my cheek because if it is it'll snap and even if I don't get
electrocuted or fall I'll still be fucking dead.
    If I were a religious man I'd be saying a prayer now, as what I've
gripped is metal, the underside of an I-beam that forms the cage of
the lift carriage. It's a precarious hold, one I can feel starting to
slip, but it's the best I can do with that hand. My other comes up and
grabs the other side of the frame and now I'm suspended between the
front and back end of the lift with my arms outstretched, almost
exactly the same position as when I was doing the splits in the first
lift.
    The first lift, whose hatch just opened to reveal some reptile in
blue overalls with a red baseball cap sticking his head through and
shining a torch. "Hello?" he asks again, looking around and shining
that damn flash-light all around and, fuck it, if that beam comes near
me I'm screweder than hat fox I just had.
    I freeze like a deer in head-lights when I feel that beam on me
and hold my breath… Nothing happens… I crack open one eye and look
down, seeing the maintenance lizard in the hatch of the elevator,
shining his light up at me but looking down at somebody talking to
him. I don't think I need to tell you what I'm feeling right now, the
numbness in my dangling legs, the sweat on my aching, white-knuckled
fingers, the tightness in my stomach and the burning in my lungs…
    Then I can't take it any more and I bark out a breath before
slurping in a new one and as I look around, spitting away some drool
so it doesn't drizzle down my suit, I realise I'm ten floors up and
that the light's gone and the hatch is closed and the lift is finally
on its way back down. It's a good thing, too, my fingers are starting
to ache like nobody's business and while they're petty strong – piano
practice as a child, don't you know it – even they have limits. I can
stand the ache in my biceps and I can stand the stabbing pain in my
shoulders, but the fingers, man, and the muscles in my hand, the
pain's almost more than I can take. And there's still two dozen floors
to go…
    I try to distract myself, to think of something else. My mind goes
back to that night in my apartment with Owen, naked in bed, just
talking, and he said something that stuck with me. He said, "If I
leave town, I'd leave without telling you. Otherwise it wouldn't be
like leaving, at all." And that didn't hurt me when he said it because
I knew what it meant and I agreed, if I wanted to leave I wouldn't
tell him either. But now that memory mingles with the last night I
spent with Owen. Well, evening, really. With Alice between us. It's
only been a few hours but, cliché of clichés it feels like weeks. And
that makes it hurt. I know it doesn't make sense but right now, I feel
like Owen knew he was going to leave even that night when he was
straddling my abdomen and we were talking about leaving and where we
would go, and he knew he'd leave without telling me and he'd go
someplace where I'd never see him again.
    I hit rock bottom. That is, the elevator reaches the bottom floor
and I know this because it stops and starts going up again, so I let
go with one hand – sweet relief! – and swing toward the side of the
elevator shaft, the door-side. The only handhold there is the rim of
the ground floor doors, which is a precarious hold, but I grab it and
brace my expensively-shod toes against the walls, and it's enough to
hold my weight if I don't move, and the elevator doesn't change its
mind and comes back down again. I start shimmying to the left,
carefully, since each slight movement of my much-relieved, but still
aching fingers carries the risk of a drop down a shaft that runs down
two sublevels of parking space and a maintenance basement.
    Reaching the very side of the door-rim, right up against the
I-beam that serves as a vertical rail for this lift, I perform my most
dangerous stunt yet: I lean back and sideways and swing around the
I-beam to grab hold of, thank god, a fully functioning ladder. I can't
fucking remember the last time I was so happy that every lift shaft is
designed with a ladder, though I'll wager it was a sitch much like
this one.
    After that, it's child's play. Climb down the ladder, dodge a lift
carriage coming up from the second parking sublevel and finally, the
basement. While all the other floors have doors in front of the
elevator shaft, the basement only has a harmonica-style cage-door. But
not even that craftily-designed safety net is in evidence right now.
The door's open and bleak light spills into the cave-like darkness of
the lift shaft, which would be damn creepy if I had anything in the
way of nyctophobia. Fear of the dark, that is, and it's a word I
always fear spelling.
    I slow my climbing and listen as I descend, silently, rung by
rung. I can hear something. Breathing. Heavy, quick, hot. There's
something else, too. A wet noise. Smacking. Slapping. It stutters the
breathing, interspersed with soft whines and a low groan. I smile. I
know what I'm hearing, and as I reach the lowest rung of the ladder I
swing around and step into the open doorway of the basement elevator
entrance, and stand there.
    My feet are wide apart, my hands resting on the doorframes. I'm
looking down a long concrete hallway wide enough for three men my size
abreast, lit by a string of light-bulbs, with someone, naked, on all
fours. Well, all threes, one hand is between his legs, pumping
furiously. He's facing away from me, his light-brown-and black tail
lashing, and there's a black mark under it, coming into view now and
again. It's writing. On his left butt-cheek. Can you guess what it
says?
    It says my phone number.
    And under that, it says "Go to the basement, open the elevator
doors, take off all your clothes and wait for me."
    Now how, do you ask, could I be so certain that this studly,
dutiful German Shepherd, would obey or even read this hastily-scrawled
command? Let me tell you. I know people. That is, I can tell when
somebody wants something. It's my spider sense, I've talked about it
before. I felt what this guard bloke needed and what's more, I felt
that it was something I could provide.
    I watch him, his handsome body mock-humping some phantom bitch as
he fucks his pumping fist, buns tightening. I let my mind wander a
bit, trying to remember if he'd gotten hard when I fucked him that
night… It's hard to remember, I was being so selfish then, but I'm
pretty sure he was soft. He was soft, and he didn't complain, and now
he's hard. You know, I think I might be the very first male he's ever
been with? It's such a ludicrous thing to realise, such a stupid idea,
but this studdog's probably had one girlfriend after another and only
a few weeks ago decided to go for it and try what it was like to be a
bitch for a change. And then this morning he got another taste, and
now he's decided it's for him.
    Christ. I fucked a virgin. How long's that been?
    He's close, now. His back's arched, his thighs tensed, his tail
tucked low and his buttocks dimpled. With some training, he'll soon
have the reflex to flag his tail higher at the moment of issue, which
is mere seconds away. Three, two…
    I make a fist and hit the doorframe hard, hard enough to make the
retracted cage-door rattle loudly and yell "Stop that!" so that the
poor Shep startles in mid-stroke and tumbles forward and sideways. He
can't help it, he's there and white semen spurts from his bright red
doggydick, hitting him across the chest and muzzle. He falls onto his
back, writhing and spasming, glaring at me wide-eyed, caught between
his body's reverie at climax and his mind's panic at being caught and
all the consequences of that. I smile, it's a soft, cruel little smile
that's just totally appropriate. I can't imagine how fractured his
mind must be now, how the thought of getting caught by his boss and
the humiliation and ridicule he'll suffer is interspersed with the
hollow, unsatisfying high of a spoiled ejaculation.
    I step forward and he falls still, lying on his back, propped up
on his elbows. His cock, forgotten, continues to spurt watery canine
cum across his face, unheeded, and strings of semen comically dribble
from his muzzle. My footsteps sound hard and empty on the bare
concrete, echoing down the hall, but the sound seems to soothe the
dog's breathing. Or maybe it's just his orgasm running out.
    "What's your name?" I ask him, casually looking past him, down the
length of the corridor.
    "M-my…" He looks up at me, head doggishly tilted. "Calhoun. Alan
Cal–"
    "Rover it is," I say simply and lift up my foot, and plant it on
his light-furred belly, just above his still-hard erection. Semen
squishes underfoot, soaking into his bristly belly-fur. "And what do
you do, Rover?" I ask, still not looking at him. That's important, you
know. I'll explain why later.
    He looks up at me uncertainly, but with trust in his eyes. No, not
trust, it's something else. Something lower than submission.
Surrender? I don't know if that's the right word, but it's there in
those intelligent eyes of his – he's willing to surrender himself to
someone else, to give up the burden of being strong and independent
and let somebody else make decisions for him and to not think about
anything ever again. "Security," he blurts. "I'm in security… sir," he
adds hopefully at the end, looking up at me with a smile. He's
probably only ever said that word to actual superiors, but it has a
sexy ring to it, now. I can see his erection throbbing against the
heel of my expensive shoe, staining it a little with semen.
    "Security is a job. Dogs don't have jobs. Dogs have masters," I
inform him. I know it's crude bullshit, and believe me, usually I'm
subtle – but usually the guy I'm doing it with is worth doing it with.
The Cliff notes will have to suffice with this bloke, although I must
say, he's impressing me. He nods at me and lies back on his back and I
can see muscles twitching in his face and body, and a fine body it is.
    It must be such an experience for him. To be naked and at the
mercy of another, to let go of all the things he needs to feel,
safety, security, control. To be sexually aroused by someone he
doesn't consider his lesser, to be aroused by someone who looks down
on him, to be aroused by being looked down upon… I almost wish I had
more time to let him feel it, but I need to get the job done. "Are you
my master?" he asks, closing his mouth and letting his tongue hang out
a little, unconsciously.
    God, what a pushover. I'm half tempted to walk away, fuck my plan
and fuck Owen, simply out of disgust with this happy GSD. And then it
hits me. I massage his hard belly with the sole of my shoe, mashing
his own load into his fur, and he doesn't care. His uniform is in a
crumpled pile next to him, nightstick, sidearm and all, and he doesn't
care. I'm disgusted with this sexy creature. I look down on him more
than I look down on some dumb slut like Cannit, and he's fucking
autistic, and it occurs to me that that is absolutely perfect.
    Who wants to have a slave he respects? Not I.
    "No-one else would have someone as pathetic as you, so I suppose I
am," I inform him and all the twitches and shakes in his body stop.
Just straight out. The happy smile solidifies, the eagerness in the
eyes dims – neither disappear, but they lose their initial edge the
way a campfire burns hot for a few minutes and then starts to burn
long. This dog? He's started burning long.
    "What would you like me to do for you, sir?" he asks. His voice is
deeper now; it's lost that put-on imitation of submissiveness. He's
himself now, a fairly buff, well-trained, confident Shep who's decided
that he doesn't want to be what he is. He wants to be a pet. A dog. I
made a good call when I called him Rover.
    I want five minutes' peace without hearing you," I snap at him, my
voice hard and raw while I keep smiling at him. "Clean your face with
your clothes and when you're certain you won't stain my trousers, you
can take my dick in your mouth." His face brightens and I quickly
stamp on his belly, causing him to groan and double forward and he's
about to grip my leg with his cum-sodden fingers, but I raise an
admonishing finger and he stops, and straightens out. "Bad dog," I
inform him and stamp again. He groans again, grits his teeth. But the
grin only grows wider. I'm actually starting to enjoy this fucktoy,
strange as it seems.
    "To ensure your silence you may take my dick in your mouth. But no
sucking, you hear? No tongue. Just a snug dickwarmer's all I need, if
only to shut you up. And give me your walkie," I add almost as an
afterthought as I lean my weight on his belly, step onto his chest and
then off him, walking a few steps away from him. I stand wide, my back
to him, and hear him scramble, sitting upright and rubbing his uniform
over his face and staining it with semen and not caring. He starts to
stand up, then remembers to snag his walkie-talkie and stands up to
walk over to me.
    I raise a finger, just a finger, and he stops. Thinks. Gets the
message. I hear his breathing quicken again and then I hear the soft
pitter-patter of hands and knees and a cold nose snuffles under my
hand, stuffing the walkie he's holding in his mouth into my hand.
"Good boy," I say offhandly and give him a rough pet on the head,
turning my body so I'm now crotch-to-nose with him.
    He wastes no time. He seats himself on his knees and carefully
licks his fingers clean before he pulls don my zipper and, hell, I'm
hard as a rock. Two rounds in Alice, one in Rover, one in a fox and
already I'm ready for more. He looks up, pleading, whining, but I
shake my head at him and, reluctantly, he opens his jaws wide, closes
his eyes and rests my jutting erection on the bottom of his long
muzzle, closing his lips around the base of the knot. He's a good dog
and I reward him duly, rubbing him over the ears and he looks up
happily, but doesn't suck.
    That's impressive, part of me thinks.
    But what am I thinking of? Hooking myself a slave, of all things?
What's the point! I can get sex anytime I want, I can bat someone up
anytime I want, I can get told how awesome I am anytime I want. I
don't need to have someone waiting for me at home, fuck that.
    Still, an unskilled muzzle like this would be fun to train.
    I flick on the walkie and the first thing I hear is, "And you can
tell Mister Ferrum's fucking security people that the guy never
arrived and I don't appreciate him breathing down my neck like this.
For fuck's sake, this is a police matter, and he's trying to get
office security to solve it for him?" I flick it off.
    It makes me laugh. I hadn't thought a single element of the plan
would go well, up to now. Not getting Mark to co-operate, not the
heist, not the balls-out walking into the building and not discerning,
from mere security chatter, whether Ferrum was already aware the money
got stolen from him, and by whom and it was so fucking easy. That's
four things that went right. Four elements of a plan. That means I've
got one more, and that's it. Never in my life have I had more than
five phases of a plan go right, so I always try to keep them short and
simple. Weird thing, this. I'm almost hoping this next part'll go
wrong, so I'll have some good fortune to look forward to later down
the line. Nothing to do now but wait…
    But not for long. Halfway through a sigh my phone starts ringing
and it surprises Luke – sorry, Rover – enough that he gulps around his
mouthful, accidentally swallowing my tip down his throat, which of
course sets him off gagging. "It's okay," I assure him and grab him by
the hair, then pull him toward me, sheathing my cock down his throat
nice and deep. It feels so nice to have someone gagging around your
dick, and it sounds kind of interesting too, which is what I'm
counting on when I click "receive" on my phone and put it to my ear
quickly to get the first word in.
    "You'll soon have your money back, mister Ferrum," I inform him.
Rover, to my great satisfaction, doesn't look up, simply sits there,
hands on his knees, throat full of cock, trying not to throw up all
over my clothes. He does a good job of calming his heaves, turning his
head sideways, starting to bob a little. That actually feels damn
nice. "I see the receptionist at the entrance finally decided to open
the envelope I forgot on her desk?"
    "Why didn't you cover your tracks?" the deep, confident-sounding
voice says on the other end of the line. The stallion is probably
sitting back in his chair, still sweaty from his morning work-out, a
towel draped around his neck, coordinating his security force's search
for the perpetrator of this theft, something he noticed really, really
quickly. Mere minutes after the banks opened. Or maybe I'm just
imagining he's that cool because I feel that cool, in my expensive
suit with my worthless fucktoy sucking my dick so fucking nice.
    "Plausible deniability. If I'd gone into hiding you would have
assumed the obvious trail to my account was a false one left to hide
the true identity of your robber." Jesus, it's been a while since I've
enjoyed a blowjob this much. Or maybe it's to do with the power I feel
now, dealing on such even terms with someone with as much plain, raw
power as Tiber Ferrum.
    "Who would be someone close to me, and probably who might have a
grudge against you. Such as your friend Sharpish, mister Malloy."
    I smile, even though I know Ferrum can't see me smile, and lay one
hand on Rover's head, pushing him a little to make him suck me harder
and louder. I love the way he gags around my dick and still keeps
going, as if he's learning that the urge to throw up and the sickening
effort of repressing that is simply part of giving good head,
something to be grown accustomed to rather than overcome. "You've
really done your research. I didn't realise you even knew my name."
    "Your name came up briefly in my first conversation with
Sharpish," the stallion says calmly, "He muttered it under his breath
so naturally I memorised it and had it investigated when I had the
chance. If my hunch is correct, you were the doberman-of-action with
Owen when you barged into my office yesterday, yes? And since he has
since been taken into… well, custody might not be the appropriate
word. But you intend to get him free. Do you intend to use my money
for that purpose? I'd be interested to know what you had in mind…"
    I'm humping into Rover's mouth now. I barely heard half of what
Ferrum said to me, I'm so enjoying this rough muzzlefuck, but I get
the gist of it. "You don't need to keep me talking, mister Ferrum. I
know you're probably having the funds stolen back as we speak, and I'd
have expected nothing less. The money is yours, not mine, and I didn't
steal it to spend it. I stole it–"
    "You stole it to impress me. Mister Malloy, that's… impressive."
    I'm on dangerous ground here. Ferrum's tone is so flat and even
and calculated that I just can't get it figured out. I don't know what
he's after, if he wants revenge or to have me working for him or what.
"Thank you," I say, trying to balance respect with mockery, pulling
Rover's head roughly backwards and forward, trusting him to slurp up
his excess saliva and my preseed as I muzzlefuck him for the second
time in as many hours. "I simply wanted to show to you what I can do,
to prove that I'm someone worth having in your debt."
    The horse snorts lightly, a polite gesture amplified over the
phone. "You want to demand something in return for me getting my money
back?"
    "Of course not," I tell him simply and I want to say more, I want
to explain it better, but my eyes are focused on that chiseled canine
face pumping itself so masochistically over my erection, throwing his
own comfort to hell. He's not even hard, and I know for a fact that
Rover's getting off on this more than on any sex act he ever enjoyed.
    "You truly are impressive, mister Malloy. Tell me, now that you're
made your mark, what sort of a favour would you ask of me?"
    And then I came, and groaned into the phone. And I told Tiber
Ferrum what kind of a favour I wanted from him while I flooded my new
fucktoy's throat with cocksnot and I knew right then and there, in
that moment of climactic victory, when a heist had culminated in a
deal with one of the most influential executives in Maranatha – and
one that only visited once or twice a month, too – that at this point
my luck had officially run out.
   
    I don't like telling bad stories nearly as much as I like telling
good ones, so here's the deal. I walked out of the Northern
Transnational building, escorted by Alan Calhoun, the security guard,
who guided me past the checkpoint at the car entrance ramp and toward
the plaza in front of the building's official entrance. There, two men
were waiting. Two men I recognised. A tiger with a black eye and a
jackal that wasn't looking too good, each dressed in plain, ordinary
clothes that looked so out of place amid the stylish suits everybody
else was wearing that they might as well have worn the security
uniforms they wore when I beat the crap out of them in Ferrum's
office.
    They introduced themselves, I forgot their names immediately.
Rover stiffened as my phone went off, which I'd had him set to
vibrate, carefully lick from end to end and then carefully shove up
his own arse. Good thing for him mine was a stylish, ergonomic
clamshell rather than a pointy, boxy brick. He tried to look
inconspicuous about it and I wondered who would call me at this hour,
but I couldn't think of anybody who could call me for whom it would
make a difference if I called them back after what we were about to
do.
    Ferrum had provided us transportation. A black van, not unlike the
one I'd parked in the alley behind Anezka's shop, but better-organised
inside. The tiger got behind the wheel, showing no signs of holding a
grudge, and the jackal got in the back with me and Rover and went
through the weapons available in the van. I'd never fired an SMG so I
politely declined on the MP5 the jackal – I remember his name now,
Reiner – offered me, opting instead for two hand pistols. Black and
well-balanced, they were far from Lola's elegance but felt familiar
enough. I stuffed them both down the back of my pants while I gave the
tiger instructions on where to drive.
    Long story short, I said. I'm going to hold to that. Here goes.
    Alice said he'd been kept in a warehouse that was empty except for
a cage and Owen took Alice's place and I know of three warehouses
McIlwain owns that Sharpish would have access to, and two of them are
used for stolen cars, so I had the tiger… Whose name I totally can't
remember, drive to the third.
    We drove right through the loading doors and all of us jumped out
of the van simultaneously, weapons at the ready, ready to take on…
    Nobody. There was nobody in the warehouse. It was empty, as Alice
had said and there was a cage large enough for a man to crawl in, but
it, too was empty. And a door at the far end opened and Sharpish
stepped through and before I could stop him, Rover leveled his weapon
at the ferret. There was a noise like a thunderclap and then Rover
flew backward, trailing blood through the air and when he accidentally
fired his weapon at the floor, in the haze of smoke and dust I could
briefly see three red lines, laser sights, that redirected themselves.
No doubt at myself and the two men Ferrum had provided, who recognised
a lost cause when they saw one. They dropped their weapons and knelt
on the ground on either side of me, as Sharpish approached and it was
as if it all happened in slow motion, you know?
    I stood there, my guns, drawn but unfired, dropped to the floor. I
stood there in a daze, unable to believe it. The last part, so simple,
the easiest fucking part of the plan now that I'd jumped through all
these hoops and gone through all this trouble and planned everything
from the start and now, this last part… Owen wasn't there to be
rescued.
    Sharpish took long strides toward me and the door behind him
opened, several more thugs in black bomber jackets coming through
after him. I tried to think, tried to think how he'd known I'd come
here, how he'd known so quickly. There was no way. No way. He couldn't
have predicted I'd get this kind of manpower this quickly.
    I saw the glint on Sharpish' fingers. Brass knuckles. He was five
steps away, already preparing the punch and I couldn't think to defend
myself or even get ready, I was so lost in thought. If he wasn't
waiting for me, then he was waiting for somebody else. But who? I
tried to think of the possibilities, but Sharpish was already there
and I tried to raise my hands, to ask him for just a few more seconds'
thought, but I didn't get it.
    And with that, and a whole shitload of regrets, ol' Malloy's out
for the count.
    

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