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M A R A N A T H A Osfer
M A R
A N A T H A


Copyright Osfer, November 2004


All rights reserved.

May only be distributed for free.
bikini fashion models
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.

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

Comments welcome at osfer.keshgmail.com.
Available
on paperback in 2006Mail the author for
information, join the mailing list
or visit Osfer.com!
~ Enjoy. ~
Chapter I -- outdoor model railroad
As Told By Owen Zelazny
models child

Maranatha City, beginning of autumn. Decent-sized city, big
enough to get lost in even if you've lived there all your life. Which I
haven't, if you gotta know. Moved here to get away from the `rents when I was a
teen. Crazy times. And a crazy city, too. It was good for me, even though I
ended up somewhat on the wrong side of the law. Suits me, though. I've come to
think of this town as my own, you know? children model bikini Never had much of a connection with my
first home, but this... It's grown on me. In me. I can tell the season by the
smell of the fumes in the air. I can tell when somebody famous died by the
people that you see and don't see on the street that evening. It's become mine,
my city.
My Maranatha. Owen's Maranatha. That has a nice ring to it.
Ratty apartment, view of a brick wall. Only about half as
much glass in the window as needed to make them water-proof, but that's no
biggie since the brick wall keeps most of the rain out and the only thing near
the windows is a sink, so it don't matter if it gets a little wet. In fact,
it's just as well since the sink don't got water of its own and rainy nights is
the only time when the worktop gets washed.
There's a haze of smoke in the apartment, but the only fire
around is the cigarette I'm holding. It'd be so easy to just drop it and walk
out pteen boy models the door. Let the shaggy carpet burn -- it'd go up like a lake of gasoline,
with all the booze that's been spilled on it over the years -- and take all the
crappy furniture with it. I ain't stupid enough to pretten child model keep anything worth stealing
in my pad, since it don't got a lock, so I wouldn't have to go back for
anything.
It'd sure feel amazing. To go etaru model mayhem out my door and know that
everything I left behind would disappear as soon as I passed it. Every step I
took would burn away a year's worth of mistakes and grief and nobody could ever
shove it back in my face, and if I just kept walking eventually so much would
burn away that I'd come away all clean and I could start over.
Hell, as if. Why would I wanna go and do something like
that? The smoke blows out of my nostrils in sharp puffs as I chuckle, sitting
on the single rickety chair in the room, hearing it creak as if this time, this
time for real, it's going to collapse under me. I pull my cigarette out of my
mouth and take a swig of the beer I was holding in my other hand. Mmm, beer.
I got neighbours, and none too bad ones. Pair of punker cats
on one side, they play their music way too loud and way too late but that bondage model jesse don't
bother me since I'm never home after dark and when I am, I just walk over, ask
`em to turn it down so's I can catch some see-saw, and they turn it right on
down. Old woman with a big dog on the other side. Decent, old-fashioned lady
with a black belt in three arts and a police record long as my dick. The one
time my pad got burgled I was out for the night but she came in through the
door and broke six of the models pics teen thief's bones while he started screaming for the
police. When the cops came, she put one of `em in hospital with a burst spleen
before they managed to cool her down. Her dog's a rottweiler, blind like Stevie
Wonder and fierce as the Devil's stepmomma to anyone he don't like the smell
of.
Upstairs is empty due to the absence of walls and above
that, if you can climb the rope ladder, you've got an attic so cramped you have
to belly-crawl or roll over to get from one end to the other. Fierce roaches up
there. Best to stay out of it, I say.
That leaves downstairs, the domain of our honourable
landlord. I could say he's a mangy old bastard who charges way too much for
crappy apartments, screams and yells all the time and goes through my things
and he's Adolph Hitler without the nonude childs models moustache, but really, I don't know where to
begin with this guy. He's a Buddhist or a Hindu, Hare Krishna or Rama or Sai
Baba or Toshiba, I don't know. The old weasel's going grey at the temples but
has hobbies he pursues with all the energy of a twelve-year old and, shit, the
dude's nice. Which is like the meanest joke in the universe because it makes me
want to pay my rent on time and when I don't, he says it's okay but I feel so
bad I let model sandra elizabeth him down.
And this one time, when I was really down on my luck and
didn't have a dime, he actually let me off the hook. No questions asked, no
favours demanded, nothing. It still wakes me up at night sometimes.
Not tonight, though. I don't know what woke me up. Sure,
it's cold and sure, the punkers are playing their tunes way too loud. There was
some gunshots a while back and cop sirens half an hour later outside, but I was
awake before then. So here I am, sitting in my chair, shivering, balls-nekkid,
smoking my last cig and sucking my last beer and thinking thoughts I usually
save up for Christmas.
I exhale some stale errotic models
smoke and smell my fingerclaws
smouldering as the cigarette burns down. I stub it out on the chair's wooden
armrest and I can feel myself shuddering with the cold, but I still can't bring
myself to get up and curl up in my creaky, comfy bed or just move my arms to
get some circulation going, or give Li'l Owen a good yank to really get my
blood pumping. I just sit, looking at the rain dripping down the neon-lit brick
wall outside my window.
Something must be bothering me. It's the only explanation.
The bottle's empty when I swig it and I have to stop myself from throwing it
against the wall like some kind of drama queen. This is exactly the kind of
thing I could talk to Barry about -- that's my landlord, even though he insists
we all call him Butterfly Riverbed. He'd spout all kinds of wisdom and crack
those glossy books he reads and I know I'll feel better, if only because I know
he's really trying breast nude model to cheer me up.
But I don't wanna do that.
latina little models I don't know what I want to do. Here I am, in the middle of
Maranatha fucking City, den of fucking sin and iniquity, and I don't know what
I want. If I collect all my debts 4u asian model and pick up my stashed savings, even if I
forgot a third of `em, I could have anything I wanted tonight. A blowjob from
an eight-year-old. A lime green `80s Toyota, factory condition. A double
mozzarella pizza FedExed from Firenze, Italy, still warm from the stone-oven by
the time it reaches my door, hell, I could probably even afford one of them
slaves imported from Layleaux.
But, fuck it, I don't know what I want.
So I might as well go do what I'm good at, instead of moping
around here all night.
topless lingerie models
Half a shake later, I'm outside my apartment. I don't bother
closing the door, too busy hopping on one foot, trying to get my fucking boot
on. The damn lace snaps and with a growl I tumble over, thumping against the
old lady's door with my shoulder by accident.
It opens lucy bikini model immediately. Pickles, the demon rottie, is growling
and Mrs Ackerby is at the door in a pregnant prono model night-gown, with a candlestick held in one
hand. The gown is silk, and looks nice on the old skunkess, but it's offset by
the prison tattoo on her bulging left bicep. "Oh, it's you sonny,"
she says, all sweetness and light and sets the candlestick down. Pickles turns
around in his nuts models sex basket three times and goes back to sleep. "You okay,
precious?"
I don't like the way she talks to younger sex models me. She talks like she's
my mom's best friend. But I value my life and my nutsack so I never tell her
this. "Bootlace snapped. You got duct tape or something, Mrs A?"
No sooner have I spoken than she's taken a roll of duct tape
off a shelf near the door. It's the silverbacked kind, the kind that you could
use to tape a plane's parts together and not worry about it falling apart. I
don't even want to think why this lady's got a roll of it right next to the
door, but I tape my boot closed, thank her kindly, and pick my jacket pre bikini models up mature women models
off
the floor. I realise, as I tug it on, that it's the denim one with the sleeves
cut off mid-bicep and that I forgot to bring a sweater, but although it's
mighty cold outside I seriously don't want to go back to my pad right now. So
down the stairs I go, two steps at a time and in my head I hear the pounding of
music I won't yet hear with my ears for at least half an hour.
Bah. A brisk, wet, midnight walk is just the thing to pick
me up.

The sky's overcast with thick, fluffy cloudcover that
drizzles the city's sodium-ochre light right back down on it, mixing in some
cool sheets of rain. Your fur starts drying the second one of those little
droplets hits it but there's always a next one to soak you a little bit deeper
as soon as you're almost done and you never feel anything but wet. At least
it's a clean kind of wetness, though.
My pants are soaked, clinging so tight to my legs so tightly
you can see the muscles in my thighs moving and I'm sure you can imagine for
yourself how good a job a pair of sodden jeans does at hiding your privates
from view. I'm proud of what I got swinging, I'll admit, even though it ain't
my primary source of income, but real models tgp it's hardly discrete to be walking around with
a jacket that just about stretches across your shoulders and can't possibly
close across your chest -- okay, maybe I could zip it up over my abs up to the
bellybutton but that'd look retarded -- and for all the good my clothes were
doing I might as well be naked with boots on.
Come to think of it, that'd certainly turn a few heads where
I was going, uk escort model
but it'd likely attract the attention of the police long before I
got there and there's only so many times you can blow a cop for a
get-out-of-jail-free card before you run into an actual clean cop you can't
turn. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but believe me -- they're out there.
A thunderclap. Great. A sonic pressure-wave caused by the
rapid expansion of air around the super-hot arc of electrical energy between
two opposite highly-charged areas, resulting in atmospheric turbulence which,
in clouds, can cause condensation cores to form, which then attract the
ubiquitous microdroplets and what do you have? Gonorrhic piss-rain, that's what
you have.
I hear the patter of the heavier raindrops before I feel
them on me. Man, do I love the sound of them and man, don't it suck to be stuck
out here with that kind of rain coming down. I put some fuel on the proverbial
fire and get to running. True, when you're soaked through there's no way you
can get any wetter but I don't want to be soaked for very long and when I reach
the Dive, with its lights and noise and smoke and warm bodies I'll be dry in no
time flat.
Water splashes high on either side of my boots as I run down
the empty streets. During the day these lanes are gridlocked but right now
they're open territory, with not a car in sight to claim them. I like running.
All I think about is going forward, planting my foot right, thinking only where
I'll plant the next bangkok nude model
one. Even the rain doesn't bother me as much as I'd like to
complain, all I feel is warm blood in my veins, my muscles moving and my heart
beating.
I'm almost there. I can feel the soft vibrations in the air,
the faint, imperceptible hints of the rhythms that the Dive pumps out so
generously into Maranatha City's night-time air. It lures me like a warm,
radiant amateur models photo beacon, ready to engulf me in its comfort and is rosaleen young model
excitement and, oh,
fuck, I left my wallet at home.
I don't slow down even as realisation hits me, I just keep
going, trying to push the thoughts out of my mind that interrupt the purity of
the run and make me think about the hard rain pelting my body, but in my mind's
eye I can see my wallet lying on my pillow back in my pad, in plain view of the
hallway through my door, because I didn't close it. I'm so fucking stupid. One
little funk and I drop my wits like I'm some love-lorn teenager.
No sweat, though. Just keep on running. When I get to the
Dive I'll casey teen model just do some quick trade to get some cash for the night and hope
nobody's stupid enough to take my wallet, back home. After all, in a place like
that... If somebody leaves a bulging-full wallet just lying on his bed in plain
sight, you'd think twice about picking it up. There's gotta be something fishy
about that.
Overwheel Avenue. Pretty quiet this time of night. A couple
of skanky hookers huddling in doorways, trying to stay dry and praying their
pimp doesn't come along and spot them slacking on the job. Street's wide enough
for two cars to pass each other, but that doesn't happen often since there's so
many cars parked on either side -- most of `em burned out, forgotten or
abandoned -- that it's become an unofficial one-way street. Some apartment
buildings that, once, were pretty nice but now look even shittier than my digs.
Cracked windows, bullet holes, burn marks... Crack houses, gang dens, and if
the rumours are anything to go by, there's a group of actual,
honest-to-goodness vampires somewhere in this street.
Damn, I love it. The thing about the smell of misery is that
it always carries that weird, sexy mixture of strength and desperation. These
people have lost all their hope and still they go on. They don't expect to live
more than a day from now, but they'll fight for their right to that nude models ukraine
day if it
comes down to it.

The Romans thought that the threshold was something holy,
that gods lived in the doorframe of the entrance to a house. That's why
old-fashioned grooms carry their brides across when they enter the bridal
suite. Well, if they anglesey model village
were right, then wicked demons live in the threshold of
the Dive. Two metal loading doors are swung wide open, a haze of smoke ilegal models nudes
oozing
out from them that masks all view of what goes on inside and glows neon blue
and green and red. The noise of loud music, screams and moans, shouts and soft
whispers mingle to one famous models nudes steady roar as if the coolest part in Hell opened its
mouth to invite anyone in who wants to party.
And I want to party. 13yr nn model My bones are cold and my muscles ache
and I'm soaked clean through. The rain washed away the sweat of the half-hour's
run and I feel clean, which is a bonus. I step into the fog, knowing that
there's bouncers hidden in there with masks and goggles that'll grab anyone
they don't think is ready for the Dive and shove them back out without ever
being seen, but I know I won't be grabbed. The mist is thick, with that weird
freshness of artificial smoke that chokes the throat but doesn't sting the eyes
too badly, and then I clear it, and I'm inside.
To index of altbinariesmodels call the Dive a club would be like calling Hitler an
idealist. From a certain perspective, sure, that's spot-on but it does kinda
miss the point. The Dive is a dive in every sense of the word. It's run-down,
the concrete walls are cracked, there's no noticeable architecture... But it's
huge. A warehouse with a ceiling three storeys high, with lights and speakers
hanging so high you can't even see them through all the rising mist. It's like
you're at the bottom of a ginormous pit with lasers shining down on you from
far, far above.
There's platforms and depressions, railings and balconies,
all so chaotic and difficult to oversee that I'd swear the Dive changes its
internal shape every time I go there. There's some booths that weren't there
last time, I'm sure of it, a couple of tables set up on one of the elevations --
largely deserted, except for some rough-looking guys in suits. For the rest,
there's nothing to see but a vast ocean of bodies thrashing like waves, whipped
up by a sonic storm blaring from the odd-shaped speakers taped to every
conceivable surface, pounding against each other in an orgy more sensual than
any kind of sex.
Sex.
I'm drunk with it the second I step out of the haze in the
entryway and feel the heat of hundreds of bodies distracting themselves from their
base yearnings through the transcendence of dance and drink and music like a
room full of time bombs all waiting for the moment when their dance-drunk
elation is outgrown by their libido and the hunger for another body exceeds the
joy of their own.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, I'm a fucking poet when I'm
horny.
Two steps forward and I'm inside, engulfed in the rippling
mass of dancing people pressing against me despite my dampness, warming me,
drying me as I pierce the sea with all the practised, natural ease of a shark.
My feet slip into the gaps left on the floor, my torso twists and rotates to
suit the currents and eddies of the crowd and in less than two minutes I've
crossed all the way to the very centre of the club, which would take a lesser
barfly half an hour to manage and not without a few bruises.
Here's the bar, a round counter encircling the murky
lightshow going on inside the large cylindrical water tank that forms the heart
of the club, lights glowing inside and penetrating from outside and shining on
the ephemeral, now-you-see-them-now-you-don't apparitions of the go-go dancers
flying through the fluid zero-G space inside the glass column, snagging one of
the many free-floating air masks on their LED-lit hoses for a quick hit of O2
before pushing off in a slow-motion display of naked athleticism you'll never
see on land.
I head for the bar. Not for the drink -- I've got no dough,
remember -- but because that's where people go when they're too horny to dance
and not dunk enough to realise it. I'm still dripping with rain, I realise as I
lean back on the bar with my elbows, feeling my jacket peeling off my back and
slithering off my chest as the sodden garment succumbs to gravity. It's almost
pornographic, and hell, I wasn't even trying.
So yeah, I'm looking for somebody to fuck for some quick
cash. Did that penny drop? Cool, then we're in the same gear.
Ooh, score. I can see this guy, a wolf like me but dark
instead of light grey and his hair's going grey at the widow's peak instead of
a nice, smooth bleached blond like mine. Twice my age, maybe a little less than
that, but not a whole lot less. Not bad-looking, all in all, but I do hope I
age a little better than that, when my time comes. Vanity, what'cha gonna do
about it, huh? He seems to know exactly what he's gonna do about it. He's
grinning at me world porno models from about two hours clockwise around the bar, grinning like he
knows me, or someone who looks enough like me to spark his interest.
This guy's ready. Now I gotta pounce on him before he tries
to ask me to dance and date and all that crap. I lean back good and far,
arching my back, baring my nice, flat tummy and press my shoulders against the
bar top and when I rise up again the sodden denim of my jacket sticks and peels
away from my arms. The dude's impressed by that little show. I leave my jacket
behind since it's worth neither stealing nor losing any sleep over and,
bare-chested, I walk slowly around the bar to my man. A couple of heads turn in
the dancing crowd, a few more at the bar. No complaint from the bar crew,
either. Maybe next time I should come in buck naked...
"You looking for a ride, daddy?" I whisper in my
dude's ear as I sidle up behind him, slipping between him and the guy on the
stool next to him, pressing nice and close. I smile, he smiles, I roll my head
back to let my hair dangle and he snuffles at my throat. "Mmm, I bet you
know how to put a boy to use, huh? Hard and fast, get your jollies and get back
out there..." It doesn't matter what you say when you're putting the moves
on somebody. They can't hear you, anyway, so all that matters is how you say
it. My voice is pretty smooth and I raise it an octave to try and shave a
couple of years off my ripe old age of twenty-three. I'm a wolf and he's a wolf,
see, so there's good odds this guy's got a wife and kids and that one of `em
maybe looks a little bit like me and maybe this dude's done a little bit of
thinking about the fine young man his son's becoming. nude christina model Course, he'd never do
anything, being a good dad and all, but if I can tempt him just right he might
want to indulge that little fantasy with me, and tip real nice while he's at
it.
"How much you charge, boy?" His southern drawl is
even thicker than mine. I completely misjudged him, I think. He's no family
man, he's just passing through, partaking of the local party scene before
heading off to other pastures... Gotta use a different tactic, but the result's
the same.
I lay one arm around his shoulders -- firm and broad, mrowr --
and pree teenage models
slide the other up and down his thigh. "Twenty-five for a ride,
mister... fifteen," I add, sliding my hand up between his jeans-clad
thighs and giving that package a nice gentle squeeze, "If all your fella
here wants is a nice long kiss."
He's looking me straight in the eyes, one hand on his knee,
the other cupping his glass of beer, just sitting there while I do my schtick.
"A blowjob sure sounds nice," he says and clears his throat... You
know, I think this guy's testing me, seeing if I'm just some self-absorbed coin-slot
or an actual pro. I'm the latter, and I'll swear that on a stack of Bibles model little
and
the entire Tenach and all the Vedas and the fucking Finish translation of the
Quran and, fuck it, I'm a professional and that's all there is to it so I don't
so much as bat an eyelash when he seems to go for the cheaper option. Seems
like that impresses him, cause when he's done coughing he grins and reaches out
to grab my own package, squeezing a good bit harder. "But I think I could
use modelmaniablue a ride."
Score.

vietnamese girl model One minute later, mens' room. The night's only half-way so
it's pretty clean, but even if it wasn't, this wolf wouldn't care. Rough sorta
fella, plaid shirt, worn jeans, big-ass belt-buckle. I don't even look over my
shoulder as I lead the way into the nearest empty toilet stall, leaving the
door open in plain view of the guys at the urinals and at the sinks as I step
to the side of the toilet seat, face the stall wall and start to unbutton my
jeans.
The wolf laughs, growls, I can't tell which and comes in
after me, slamming the door shut. Doesn't say a word, either, just pulls down
his zipper while I child modeling opportunity tug my pants down far enough to free my tail-end and just in
time, too, because before I can say "Forsooth!" there's something
warm and hard poking under my tail and with a deep wolfish grunt in my ear it
gets shoved right up where the sun don't shine.
It hurts, dammit, I ain't ashamed to admit it. When I don't
get a little bit of warm-up, when they don't use lube, getting fucked still
hurts -- but I'm kinda proud of that, you know? Means I'm still good and tight
and by the way this guy's wheezing in my ear once he's half-way up inside me,
he's noticed that. "That all you got, daddywolf?" I whisper over my
shoulder, putting on my dirtiest grin. That's the good thing about when it
hurts a little -- you're none too horny so you can really focus on doing a
bang-up job and getting your John good and worked up.
And this wolf, man, he's got his juices flowing. He's got
his big hands on my hips, fingerclaws digging into my fur as he dives in
deeper. He's hard as a steel rod, I tell ya, this guy ain't unloaded in
anything but his hand in weeks. I'm in for a hard damn ride...
"There's always a little more, boy," he whispers
back and thrusts in deep. I can feel his shaft sliding up my ass, I can feel it
throbbing inside me... Hell, I can see it in my mind's eye even though all I
can see with my real eye-type eyes is blank wall with "For a good time
call Henrietta" scrawled on it. I wonder how long he is? I can usually
make a good guess if they stick it in me for a while, but this guy doesn't seem
to have that kind of patience.
Warm breath blows from his nostrils and his elaborate belt
buckle knocks against my tail base the second time he thrusts in. The third time,
I flag my tail higher and further to the side but that buckle keeps hitting my
coccyx -- that's the part where your tail meets your spine, I'm told. I dunno.
Hell, I'm glad I can spell it, but then, I'm pretty good with anything that's
got `cock' in it. Like my money-maker right now.
Getting fucked without a warm-up ain't something I'm fond of
but it's something I'm used to, so it don't even occur to me to moan or
complain. He's got a raging hard-on that he's ploughing up my butt like his
life depends on it and it's my job to make it all good. So I squeeze when he
thrusts in and he almost yelps like a puppy at that feeling; I relax on the way
out so he can get ready for a new thrust quicker. I roll my hips, pushing
gently back against his thrusts, just enough to make them a little bit harder
or faster than he intended. You can't buck back too much, you can't go acting
like you're diggin' it, not when they ordered just a quickie. This is their
dollar and their ride and all I gotta do is stand there and take it and be
sexy.
And I fucking am sexy. And he knows it. He's kissing my neck
and his hands are moving on their own... A quick squeeze of my nuts, a stroke
over my sheath and then up, over rippling abs and nice, firm pectorals. I love
being me. And this guy clearly loves being in me. He's grunting like a bull,
shoving his dick in me with the kind of patience a guy has when he's well into
a fuck he doesn't want to stop. But flattering as that is, I need to get the
job done and collect my fee and get out there and get nice and boozed and dance
the night away, with maybe one or two stops in this stall to recharge my
pocket-money with some other horny stud.
"Come on, daddy, fill me beautiful model young up nice and deep, yeah?"
I look at him over my shoulder, my drying hair dancing in front of my damned
pretty blue eyes as he jostles me back and forth. "I want to feel your
load in me..." I'm whispering so soft I'm sure he can't hear me over the
drone of the music outside the bathroom and the sound of running water at the
urinals but he sure does get the message and he grabs my hip in one hand and
the top of the stall divider in the other and goes to model cars victoria
town on me, pinning me to
the stall wall with his chest as he rabbit-humps my backside. In and out,
inch-long strokes, rapid as heart model an Uzi. I can feel his breath on my cheek, I can
feel his abs pressing against the small of my back through the rough fabric of
his shirt and for a second, just a second I let myself think about what it must
look like: a studly old hickwolf boning a shirtless lupine hustler with his
jeans around his thighs and -- shit, the dude's there!
I'm almost too late, almost but I manage to reach back just
in time, grabbing his dick by the base as he goes in for the very last thrust
and I can just about catch hold of his slippery cockbase as it swells into a
nice, respectable knot. I squeeze it good and hard and he's too far over the
edge to tell whether or not he's tying with my tail-hole or my fist, his whole
body goes rigid an a whine of air escapes his clamped lungs before his breath
gushes out in a deep sigh and hot, creamy cum gushes up my bowels to soothe
their aching walls.
It always feels so nice when somebody shoots a wad up there.
It feels good for me, it heals all the aches of an un-lubed fuck, but that's
not what I mean. Feeling somebody getting off inside me, knowing that they're
enjoying a few seconds of paradise in my body... It's a good payoff for a job
well done.
"Good... good catch, kid," he groans, collecting
his breath as he shoots his last and I relinquish my hold on his knot. My hand
lowers and cups his balls, now not quite as heavy as before. "I don't
think either of us wanted ta be stuck in here for half an hour waiting for my
knot to go down.... That was quick thinkin', kid," the wolfdude says,
babbling on while he presses little panties model his cheek against mine. His body's warm, the kind
of warm you only feel after you've had a nice long bath nn sandra model
or a much-needed fuck
and it chases away the last of the chill I caught when I jogged over here. I'd
be happy to stay like this for half an hour, I realise, but I'm sure there's
other things to do that'd make me happy too.
And this guy, well, he's happy he got his nut off but he
wants cristina modeling to get out of me and get out of here and hook himself some sweet thing for
the night to prove to himself that he can still get laid without paying. The
softening warmth between my cheeks is withdrawn quickly and he's already zipped
up before I can clench my buns together and pull my pants up. As I'm zipping up
and turn around he waves some cash at me -- three ten-notes and slides them
between my grinning lips. "Keep the change, kiddo," he says and with
that macho swagger guys like him always have after boning me, he opens the
stall door and marches right past the guys at the urinals -- guys that finished
pissing ten minutes ago, but stuck around to listen to the show. Some of them
have obvious hard-ons, of which they are unashamed.
I smile and lean forward, letting my wrists rest on the top
of each of the two stall dividers, leaning lazily out of the door opening,
looking like a slut in heat and focusing on nobody in particular.
"Twenty-five for a ride, guys. Who's next?"

Half an hour later, I'm done. That is, I've been done, and
how. About half the guys in the mens' room decided they wanted to have a go and
none of `em lasted more than five minutes. Not a one of them wanted to try my
mouth, so I spent a lotta time up against that stall wall and later simply
leaning against the mirror behind the sinks. I'm kinda sore under the model teen archive tail, I
guess that goes without sayin', but I got a nice full pocket o' cash and the
whole night to spend it in.
After the last guy was done and the only folks in the mens'
room were fellas honestly there just to take a piss I flushed away most of the
semen they'd deposited in me, since I wasn't about to spend the rest of the
night dancing all conservative-like with my buns clenched together; splashed
some water on my neck to wash away their drool and smoothed my hair back before
marching right back out and into the crowd.
I let the waves of bodies buck me submission. Now, I'd let
the guys in the bathroom use me, but that wasn't really submission. I don't
mean to get all technical about it, but permission ain't the same as
submission. And these urges, this mass of thrumming, thrashing flesh and
energy, these are things I'm willing to submit to. Shoulders bump against mine,
breasts against my back, hard abdomens against my own and even harder groins
against my thighs and all of us are lost in it, the energy of dancing, the
transcendence of the music. We don't need any of the tunes. We don't hear them.
Some good drumming would be more young modeling
than enough, as any so-called primitive
tribesman could tell you. All that matters is the beat, the power, the movement...
I don't know how long I'm dancing, time stops mattering when
you're in a trance like tha--

The hell?
The club's gone, the sound's gone. Not even a ringing in my
ears. Its dark -- no, wait, my eyes are closed. It's cold, freezing even. And
there's sound after all, dim, muffled. There's weak sunlight, I think, maybe
it's just about noon. When I open my eyes I find that I'm in an alley, which
ain't an unusual place for a fella like me to find himself in. Except I don't
know how I got here, which I usually do, and there's a few... weird things
going on.
I'm aching. And I don't just mean back there, I mean all
over the place. I feel like I've got a million bruises on every cell and fibre
like an army of Lilliputians worked me over with really small hammers. My
knuckles are a little bloody, which does calm my nerves a little. It's a macho
thing, I'm sure, but the idea that I laid a few punches during the time I can't
remember makes it a little easier. Licking my knuckles, I survey the rest of
me.
No clothes. That's gonna be a problem. Going around naked
can get you some things really quick -- money's one of them, but so's trouble. I
stand up and lean on the wall. It feels cold as ice nude teens modelling
and it aches to lean
against it, but I gotta keep my balance.
The people walking by the mouth of the alley at the far side
pass too quickly for me to get a good look at them so I guess that means I'm in
a rough neighbourhood, which is odd, because I know my way around the rougher
neighbourhoods of town pretty well and I know I'm still in Maranatha because I
can see the knife-like Sargasso Holdings building on the skyline, just beside
the sun. So I must be in the slums somewhere. Bricktown, maybe. More bums than
crooks, even less that's worth stealing than where I live. How the fuck did I
end up here?
I give myself the habitual asian sport models
check-up almost without thinking:
fingers through my hair, under my lips to check my gums, throat, ribs, belly,
balls... Balls? That's weird... I don't mean they're gone or anything, but
there's, like, a metal ring around the neck of my sack lollitas model
and what the fuck?
Theres some kinda metal... thing around my sheath. It's sleek and polished and
closed at the top and welded to the ring around my nutsack. I give it a few
good tugs, but it's stuck right and good. By the feel of it, there's an inner
tube as well, inside my sheath, encasing Li'l Owen.
So that's the two mysteries: how did I get here and how did
that get here. More importantly, how am I gonna get out of here? I'm on the east
side of the city so it's an hour's jog home and there's no way I can swing that
without getting busted by the cops. I need clothes. I rub my eyes, opening them
only to find that the world's still there. This isn't some crazy drug-dream. I
expected as much. Okay, Owen, you know what to do. Get to work.
Away from the street, deeper into the alley. At night this'd
be a pretty scary place. Now, I'm no pussy and I know how to handle myself in a
fight, but I'd sure think twice before heading in here a-whistlin'. This time
of day it's pretty quiet, though. beach model naked All I have to do is duck down one alley after
another, stay away from the streets and in no time flat I end up in what you
might call a plaza of sorts, a square between buildings with alleys running off
in all directions. Couple of bums are talking to each other, huddled in one
corner, couple of others are asleep. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves as
I step out into the open and clear my throat, since none of them have noticed
me yet.
"Can I have your attention?" I ask loudly,
standing in the middle of the square with nothing but that weird metal thing
over my privates and try to muster the stupendous amount of attitude I'll need
to pull this off. "I seem to have lost my clothes and you guys, well, you
got it rough. The first guy to offer me a good long coat gets to fuck me, right
here if he wants to. Sloppy seconds go to whoever gets me a pair of pants and
round three goes to a pair of shoes. Whoever gets me bikini tits model
those can go twice, if the
shoes are good enough."
I cross my arms and young tgp model
wait, idly flicking my vlad model tgp tail back and
forth and just 101 teenie models let them watch me. Most of these guys are close to demented and
those that aren't, well, hard life's taken its toll. They wanna know if I'm for
real or if somebody spiked their booze bottle yesterday. One fella comes
forward, pulling off his coat -- an ugly yellow raincoat, but it comes down to
the knees. He's a badger, with a red woolen cap on and a set of blue mechanic's
overalls that look like he's worn them every day teen model india
since the first Christmas.
"You, uh," he croaks, folding his coat over his arm as he
thoughtfully scratches his chin. "This..." His gaze drops lower and
my tail freezes for a second. If this guy starts laughing, everybody will join
him and I'll have to find some other set of bums to try this trick on.
"What you got there?" he asks, pointing -- or at least, trying to
point, at the cyber-looking chastity thing over my Johnson.
"What I got, pops, is a pair of buns wanting to be a
hotdog. You got a sausage for me?" I answer with a grin, unfolding my arms
to give my ass a good hard slap. This gets the crowd's attention. They get that
I'm for real, now, and they're wondering whether they should make the first
move or show respect for someone higher on the pecking order and let them have
first dibs. Or young model panty they're wondering if it's going to start getting colder soon and
maybe they'll need their coat for themselves.
"This.... This do ya?" he says, his voice raspy
from years of alcohol and asian models young smoke. He holds up the coat as he steps closer to me.
The sun's moved in the minutes since I stepped here and through a broken window
in one of the tall, deserted buildings around us a single ray of sunlight falls
right on me like a spotlight. If I wasn't so pissed off at my situation, I'd be
loving this. "It's good against the rain, and alla that..."
Oh, see, now, that ain't no fair. By all accounts he oughta
be a mean old sonofabitch who wants to feel like a big stud by taking advantage
of a vulnerable young man, but this guy -- shit, it's like my landlord
Butterfly. He's asking me, he's nonude model missy
hoping. It takes all sisters models the balls I've still got,
despite that fucking metal ring around the neck of my sack, but I manage to
keep up my attitude. No reason to let the other bums think I'm soft. "Looks
decent, pops. You wanna dog me, or up on the wall?"
The badger continues to scratch his chin, his ratty old
fingerless gloves doing nothing to hide the tremble in his extremities. Maybe
it's nerves, maybe lust, maybe Parkinson's, who knows. "Uh..."
"Dog. As in doggy-style."
He nods a little too enthusiastically and laughs a bit.
"Yeah, yeah, I got that, and it sure sounds really nice, but... You mind
if we go inside?" From behind me, I hear a few disappointed or disdainful
sounds. "Please?" he asks, holding the coat out to me.
I'm a softy down deep, okay? Part of me wants to spend the
whole afternoon with this guy and show him a glimpse of heaven that'll last him
the rest of his life. I could make this guy so happy with no more effort than a
few sexual favours and a little attention and I know he wouldn't ask for more
and it'd feel so good to do that for somebody... But, fuck it, I can't. Not
now. "Whatever," I reply in my most impatient, bitchy voice. He waves
at a little shack little models porno
in one of the corners of the square, something I'd have
mistaken for a pile of garbage. A half-rotten mattress, some sheet metal,
wooden crates and off-colour cloth fashioned into a roughly waterproof little
tent, of which he seems quite proud. I peek my head in, feeling a dozen pairs
of eyes on my back, or maybe just on my tail. I give it a little flick and
crawl into the dingy little hovel, wide enough for two mattresses and a
footlocker, on which rests a single lamp.
"Switch that on, will ya?" the badger says as he
crawls in after me, closing the flap of his little tend and sets the coat down
on one of the mattresses. The space is cramped, barely large enough for the
both of us. "You know, kid, I'm mighty curious as to how a fine-lookin'
thing like you gets inta so much trouble he's gotta do the dirty with scum like
me..." Now he's young kds modeling talking my language. Now he's going to tell me what he
thinks of dirty boys like me, how we're good for nothing but fucking, how he
should damn well do me any way he pleases and keep the coat. This, I'm ready
for. This, I'm familiar with. But then he turns around and drops a bombshell on
me. "But if it's really that bad, then I don't wanna make it worse. Let's
just hang out here for a while and let the guys outside think I'm getting' my
jollies, huh?"
My friend Malloy taught me this cool word: flabberghasted.
It's when you're so dumbstruck you don't know what's just happened, and that's
what I am right now.
"What's your name, son?" he asks and I actually
jolt, I pull back toward the end of the tent with the footlocker and pull my
knees up. "Hey, no need to freak out or nothin', just bein' civil. Name's
Holloway, kid, Robert Holloway. What's yours?"
I had expected to be on my back trying t nasty angels models think of something
more pleasant by now, but my mind's drawing a blank at this particular moment.
"Owen," I decide in the end. "Owen's my name. Listen, man, you
gotta--" The badger raises his hands, trying to interrupt me but I press
on, taking his hands in mine to capture his attention. "Listen to me. It
ain't honest for jessie model nn me to accept a gift like this, you hear? If I told you what
was up and you still wanted to give it to me, that'd be fair, but I ain't
inclined to talk about my situation. So do me a favour, Holloway," I say,
looking him straight into those hazy old eyes as I guide his hands down to my
sides, setting them around my waist. "Accept what I owe ya."

tori thompson model The fuck was a lot harder than I expected -- not hard in the
sense of rough, but hard in the sense of difficult. This guy hadn't dropped a
load in far longer than the wolf loita model thumbs in the Dive but he had none of the wolf's
urgency. He kept taking it slow, pausing when he tensed up so he wouldn't cum
just yet and while I was having a pretty good time on my back on that skanky
old mattress with a portly but still relatively clean street beggar badger on
top of me, I needed to get out of here quickly.
That was the hard part: I couldn't bring myself to denying
Holloway his fun. If it were up to me I'd lie there till the sun went down,
feeling that mild beer gut rubbing against my hard abs, that chubby dick
slipping between my firm buns, hell, if he took a breath mint I'd even let him
kiss me...
"Do it, Holloway," I groan, uncurling my arms from
their relaxed posture behind my head and reaching up to grab his thick, burly
neck with one hand and his hip with the other, squeezing his waist between my
thighs, pulling him down on top of me. He hadn't taken much convincing to
accept my... hospitality and by his disappointed groan I guess he was hoping
for some more, now that callista model butt
I'd put out so freely, but I've got two more guys to
see to.
"Ya don't mind," the badger grunts, peering at me
through half-lidded eyes as he starts humping faster and faster, his slightly
chubby body pressing me down into the mattress, "if I pop inside ya?"
I grin up at casting models toplist
him, raking my claws through the fur of his
neck -- guys love that -- and nod to the rhythm of his final thrusts. "All
the way in," I assure him, locking my ankles together behind his back to
show him he doesn't have to diecast model toys
pull out when he shoots. He's anal teens models gonna be a gusher, if
I'm any judge, grunting like a priest in heat, jostling my steel-clad package
as his belly rubs over it until I can feel him stiffen all over and hiss
something, someone's name, I can't make it out... I clamp my thighs around his
waist and pull him deep inside me. My balls are crushed between me and the
naked badger on top blue press models of me but it's nothing I haven't felt before, and all I
care about at moments like these is getting my guy off nice and hard, whatever
the cost.
Holloway moans deep; faintly, from outside, I can hear
people murmuring. Maybe some people are peering into the gaps of Holloway's
tent to sneak a peek or maybe they can just hear him, but outside there seems
to be a crowd gathering, the way that two dogs fucking will invariably attract
an audience. God, I was right about this guy being a gusher. I can feel the
spurts inside me, hard squirts of thick, sticky semen. His massive body
shudders on top of me, the reek of street living washed away by the healthy,
all-overpowering scent of sweat and sex.
Holloway slows down, succumbing to exhaustion and lying down
on top of me even though his stubby badgercock still continues to spew its
sticky load into me in lazy gouts... And then I hear him snoring.
"Holloway?"
Nothing. Just another snore, a mumble, a trickle of his
drool running onto my shoulder and a brief hump of his still-hard dick.
Motherfucker fell asleep! Okay, Owen, think fast. You got a big stinky badger
on top of you and inside you and God knows how many wet reams this dude's gonna
have before he rolls over. I grab him by the shoulders and try to push him off
me, but he's too young model fresh
heavy. I try rolling him over, but the damn mattress is too
feeble for me to get any purchase. He seems to be enjoying my efforts, though,
every time I try to get him off me he, er, gets off in me.
Fuck.
"Hey, I could use a little help in here!"
Nobody replies.
"Yo! If anybody out there's got me some pants you
better get in here and help me out or it'll be myusenet nn model a long damn time before you get
to go for round two!"
That gets results. The flap's tentatively lifted by a
seriously drugged-up polar bear who blinks a few times when he sticks his
scruffy head into the tent. I look at him over Holloway's shoulder, doing my
very best not to shoot amature male model lasers from my eyes as this klutz just ogles the scene.
Really, the guy's just gawking for a whole kids models porno
minute before his face sort of folds
in on itself and forms what some might consider a grin. "Duuuuude!"
the bear slurs as he stumbles into the hovel. "Holloway passed out! That's
so rad, man!"
I'm less stunned by the absurdity of all this than I am by
the fact that he actually said rad. "That's right, now if you want your
turn, help me get him off me, got it?" I snap at him and, chuckling, he
obeys. He's dressed in a tattered asian supermodels babes grey sweater that's way too loose on him but
by the way the sleeves draw tight when he lifts Holloway's hips up, drawing his
dick out of my ass with a discrete but still slightly embarrassing slurp, he's
packing quite a bit of muscle. Bears are built that way from birth, I guess.
There's a crowd of people outside who're trying to look like
they're not there for the show. Four guys spring up when I appear out of the
tent, three of them holding up raggedy old pairs of pants, but the other one
tries to sneak past me. A scrawny young dog, he brushes past my shoulder,
letting his hand `accidentally' brush my thigh. I give him a nice good shove in
the chest with the palm of my hand, sending him staggering backward.
"Ain't nothing in Holloway's tent there that's yours, boy," I inform
him. He stammers something about "checking his stuff" and I take a
step toward him, and he backs off. And that feels kinda good. Gives you back
your self-worth when you're standing buck-naked with some weird clamp on your
dick, in broad daylight, surrounded by beggars, with a load of cum up your ass,
clutching a yellow raincoat.
"I'm, like, I'm gonna do you right here," says the
drugged-out bear and models sexy little tosses me a pair of pants, as if he's certain that I'll
pick him to mount me instead of the other three hopefuls. And, fuck it, he's
right. bikini model desktop
Leather fucking pants, biker grade, barely scarred. The other three
hopefuls slink back and teen model voyeur
stuff the moth-eaten, stained old trousers they got
back in their packs or tents or shopping carts, I can't really tell, I'm too
engrossed studying this garment. I'd have to work a month without eating to be
able to afford a pair of leathers of this quality and he's letting me have it
just for a bone? Nuts, I tell ya.
The knees are padded, excellent for my line of work and the
leather smells new, even though it don't look it. Around the calves there are a
few scars and marks, no doubt from spraying gravel. The waistband's elastic and
has a gap at the back, a little downward dip the tail can hang over. At the
front it has a large lia gril model
buckle instead of buttons or zippers, really handy for
pants-down-pants-up quickies.
I'm so engrossed in my study of this truly impressive pair
of leathers that I completely miss the sound of the junkie polar bear's zipper
and by the time I know what's happening I feel a large hand yanking my tail up
and a hard, thick cock shoved up my tailpipe. "Hey!" I yell, more in
annoyance than surprise, looking over my shoulder at the bear, who's totally
out of it. I hear something dripping and realise that his quick penetration
probably dislodged Holloway's copious load, the badger's semen dripping down
the bear's balls and onto the concrete pavement. I feel a pang of
embarrassment; this is really unprofessional of me, after all. Looking around,
I see that we're getting more than a few odd looks, but the bear's probably got
some kind of reputation because nobody's saying anything, not even to each other.
To call what he's doing under my tail `fucking' would be an
insult to the verb. The rough, irregular shoves of his stoner boner don't have
anything to do with the rhythm of sex, of breeding, it's just muscular spasms
without focus or purpose. I sigh and throw both my new coat and my trousers
over one arm, placing the other on my knee to brace myself against the bear's
chaotic thrusts. Standing ass-up in the middle of Bum City getting boned
haphazardly by some junkie fucker... I thought I was humiliated before, but
this right now is a new low.
He's gonna take his time. It's not going to be a question of
sexual pleasure, when this guy cums, just a question of chemistry. When the
dope in his brain sloshes just right so a random pair of neurons connects and
sparks off a mockery xxs model pics of an orgasm. And yeah, it hurts again, because I didn't
take my time to loosen up, once again. Jeez, how long's it been since I had a
fuck I was actually into?
I smile and probably some of the bums think it's because I enjoy
getting fucked by this bear, but who cares what they think. I'm smiling at a
memory.

It's... I don't know, two weeks ago, plus however long I was
out since the Dive. An apartment near the centre of town, over a pawn shop, a
proper apartment with a proper absentee landlord, not a condemned building and
some freak like I've got. All the trimmings: a small kitchen on one side of the
living room, a bathroom with a shower, a TV and both a couch and a bed. The lap
of fucking luxury.
I'm lying on the couch, with my head on someone's lap. No,
not in his lap, just on it, using it as a pillow as we watch some stupid Badass
Action Movie. His name's Malloy, Q. I. Malloy, and if you ever find out what
those initials stand for I'll give you a dozen freebies because he's never told
anybody as far as I know. He's a dobermann, and haaaaandsome. I mean it. He's
rock-hard, and I'm sandra melissa model
not talking all bulgy and buff like those steroid-crazy gym
bunnies, I mean he's toned and every part of his body's hard to the touch.
We lupines, we're a pretty graceful bunch by nature and
canines tend to be a bit, shall we say, clunkier in their motions. But this guy
puts us all to shame. There's a fluidity to his motions, a focus of direction
and speed that makes people regularly mistake him for a panther or some other
type of feline that has that sleek, silk-velvety dark brown hide he's got.
This isn't to say I'm in love with the guy, mind. I just
appreciate a sexy male, is all. I'm pretty damn sexy myself, but I'm no Narcissus.
Besides, he's one of my best friends. models pteen Grew up together, ran away from home and
moved to Maranatha together when we were green little teens... We grew apart
for a few years as our career paths diverged but we got back in touch once we
were each in the groove of our new trade. We've been hanging out once or twice
a month for the last three years.
"Let's fuck."
I don't even remember if he said the words or if I did. We
have sex now and again, like we did back when we were still in school. It's not
`making love', really, it's just fucking, something we both enjoy and which we
can do together. Only thing better than getting your jollies is helping your
buddy get his in the process.
So we move to the bed, the movie forgotten. We're already
naked; it was raining outside and when we came in with our soggy Chinese
take-out we simply stripped and turns up the thermostat and chowed down. Or
rather: chow-meined down. I'm such a joker. Yeah. Naked and on the bed we roll
over ach other. No kissing -- we've never kissed, that'd just be too weird -- but
touching, rubbing, stroking. That hot, hard body of his, those gently rippling
muscles under that glossy hide, so mirco bikini model warm to the touch. He likes my figure, too.
Almost a match for his in length and width of shoulder, but leaner around the
waist, less blocky, a tad more boyish. And fluffier, of course, with a coat of
light grey fur that ought by all accounts to be bristly, but which I keep
smooth and soft with regular shampoo and conditioning, even though that's a
serious pain in the butt.
laurie model archive
Pain in the butt is what brings me out of that memory again
and with a sigh I turn my head to look at the spaz-eyed junkie bear boning me
from behind. He's going harder now, I'm rocking back and forth, his thick prick
shoving in and out of my sore tailring, and then he slows... Is he going to
pause? Please, don't let it be so...
No, wait. I feel warm, and not just from the ache. I clench
my ass nice and tight and hear him moan in discomfort. Hey, all right! The
junkie's done! "You had your fun, bro. Fair trade, yeah?" I say as I
straighten up and wav the leathers at him over my shoulder. He kindasortamaybe
nods, I can't really tell, so I say "Cool." and take a step forward,
feeling his sausage slip out of me, giving my battered colon some much-needed
relief. It slips out fully and silently and I wince as I squeeze my buns
tightly together, not wanting to leak any more.
I start walking toward one of the alleys that angles off
this plaza, away from the now sizeable colony of bums. Half a dozen guys wave
pairs of shoes at me, hole-ridden sneakers, all of them, some of them even only
offer one fucking shoe and all of them have those pernickety little grins as if
I owe them something. Me owe them. I ain't all high and mighty, but there's
something to be said about knowing your place. I'm a hustler, I take it up the
ass and in the mouth for cash, and I don't expect any respect for that, just to
be paid fair and square. These guys... It's bad enough seeing that kinda
attitude in some good ol' boy business-dude, but these fellas, they got nothing
to justify those grins.
I shake my head, trying to pull my leathers on as I walk,
hopping awkwardly, my new so young models raincoat slung over my shoulder. Fuck off, with your
ratty old reject shoes -- they're not worth a fuck! Closest thing to sex you'd
get for a pair of those is to have your dick spat on. In my mind, I say this
just as quickly as my lips say the words "Sorry guys, that's all I got
time for." I pull the leathers on xx pretens model completely and stagger against the wall.
Ooh, that feels nice...
The pants feel like they're custom-made. They hug my models ukranian teens ass
good and tight, cling to my thighs while leaving enough room at the knees that
I can bend and stretch my legs easily. The legs even reach down far enough that
they spill over my bare footpaws, which I think looks kina cool and the buckle
at the front looks badass. Whoever owned this either packed quite a basket or
liked to pretend that catalog child modeling
he did, because there's plenty of space at the crotch for
my package, which ain't tiny, and all the bulgier with that metal device on it.
I hear a couple of growls behind me, but I don't pay them no
heed. Bunch of pussies. Aside from the badger and the bear porn model jobs there wasn't a
single guy there that I couldn't take on one on one, what with half of them
being boozed up and the other half being wimps. The odds of an honest to
goodness troublemaker being up at this time are slimmer than the bear's grip on
reality. I don't normally like to leave a crowd disappointed and a part of me
wants to go back and pick someone to trade his shoes for a ride so that
everybody can have some closure, but really, what am I, the fucking Pope? These
guys wouldn't know a good piece of ass if it sat on their face and I feel that
if I ain't being appreciated, there's no point in being all civic-like.

I must be quite a sight. A grey wolf with blue eyes and
tousled blond hair, a yellow-beige Columbo-style raincoat and butthugging
leather pants. Barefoot, to boot. Now, if I can just get home...
Wait, no. Hold on. There's nothing kid jessi model
for me at home, nothing
except my wallet, no answers and maybe, if I'm unlucky, some bad trouble. Shit,
man, could I be in trouble? The modeling pantie woman thought hadn't teen latin supermodel
occurred to me before but now
that I'm actually walking down the streets of the city, I'm feeling uneasy
about the idea of going home. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it doesn't
feel like a good idea.
Instincts. I'm used to accepting these when it comes to
judging people, so I might as well err on the side of paranoia and accept their
warning this time as well. If not home, then where, though? I pat my pockets,
trying to find where they all are and, miraculously, I find one whole quarter
stuck in the lining of one of the raincoat's inside pockets. Bit of luck, that.
It's a habit of mine, the pocket-patting. Malloy says that I always do that
when I'm considering a problem.
Malloy! That's who I should get in touch with. I trust him
from here to Hell's shit-house. Clutching my precious coin I walk up to the
nearest pay-phone, giving it good looking-over. Looks like it was vandalised
and repaired, so there's a chance it might eat my quarter and not give me a
connection, so I walk on. I have to keep the pace up so as not to look out of
place. People walk fast in this part of town, faster decision models forecasting
even than in the concrete
canyon. I guess maybe they won't want to spend too much time out in the open,
or they won't want to seem like they're looking around too hard.
There, a better-looking payphone next to a gas station. I
nod a polite hello to the snoring burro in the office and cross my fingers as I
slip the quarter into the slot and dial Malloy's cellphone on the shiny chrome
buttons. There's a click as the connection's mad and it starts to ring. I have
to stop myself from muttering "Come on, come on," since that's an
irrational thing to say, not to mention really cliché.
"Malloy," a tinny voice barks in my ear. "How
the hell'd you get this number?"
Malloy's always a little paranoid about unfamiliar phone
numbers showing up on his caller ID screen. "Dog, relax, it's Owen.
Listen, I'm in kind of a weird situation..."
"Owen! Glad to hear you're doing better!"
"Yeah, listen, I'm in, I think I'm in Bricktown and I
just had to let to bums have little amateur models a go at me so I could get some clothes so I could
go home but now I feel like I don't wanna go home and I thought maybe you could
help me." I pause, as a thought strikes me, so distracting that I
completely miss the insert-another-coin tone. "Malloy, what do you mean by
`doing better'? I ain't sick."
And then the line clicks and goes dead. I hang up and lean
against the phone, hoping it'll ring. He saw the number on his caller ID
screen. He'll call back. Then again, maybe all his screen showed was that it
was from a public payphone. Not all of them have call-back numbers either,
these days. Come on, Malloy, don't let me down...
After five minutes I figure it really ain't gonna happen and
rake my fingers through my hair. I look over chrissy child model
at the mule in the office, with
grease-stains on his overalls and a big-ass pot belly and his hooves propped up
on the desk as he reads his newspaper. Probably he'd give me ten bucks for a
blowjob. Maybe even a rika nishimura models ride into the city. But I've already got a butt full of
cum from guys I wouldn't have looked at and mule cum is sterile and that makes
it really rancid-tasting.
I guess I'll just walk. To be continued.Available
on paperback in 2005Mail the author for
information, join the mailing list
or visit Osfer.com!

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