Date: Wed, 22 Nov 2006 16:26:36 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: STREETS OF NEW YORK - 6

STREETS OF NEW YORK - 6

Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Streets of New York" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

This story is indebted for both its inspiration and many of its ideas to
several books, especially Tyler Anbinder's FIVE POINTS, Jacob Riis's HOW
THE OTHER HALF LIVES, and Luc Sante's LOW LIFE.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 6

(Revisiting Chapter 5)

After Tony had been checked by the medical staff and it appeared that the
fire was indeed being brought under control, the two boys half-carried,
half-dragged him back to Mulberry Street.  Arriving at Tom's flat, they
threw off their smoke-fouled clothing and lay their friend between them on
the bed.  All Tom remembered was a heavy arm flung across his back and the
mumbled, wondering words, "Oh, man... I've never had friends like you
guys."

(Continuing Our Story - Escape)

As was only proper, the next couple of days were devoted to supporting
Tony.  Other than when he indicated a need for private grieving, he was
never alone.  The responsibilities incumbent on a surviving son were shared
by his friends - from searching for possessions in the ruins of the
tenement, to arranging for a Memorial Mass, to greeting friends of the
family who came to pay their respects.  In everything, Tony's gratitude for
being bound into a new family was apparent in his eyes and on his lips.

On the third morning, Tom and Tony were in the process of choking down
rolls and coffee when Dross burst into the footballer's grimy quarters.
Have you guys heard that the bodies of twenty-three children were found
this morning, some still lying in alleyways, some concealing a murder or
terrible beating, some floating along the shore of the East River?  Dad
says while forty percent of City deaths involve children, this is an
all-time record, a record that is the shame of all New York!  Tom's face
blanched and he murmured that he needed to see the "Subway Gang" (the group
of youngsters discovered in the remnants of a subway tunnel whom the boys
had befriended).

"Those kids are in real danger," Tony growled as they walked towards the
area in which they lived beneath a broken and deserted tenement.  "The
oldest are thirteen; they've got a slew of really little ones and no
leverage to protect them.  Rag-picking and salvaging garbage may put a
little food on the table, but they're not going to pay enough to be left
alone.  Any way to get them out of New York?"  "Dunno," Tom mumbled in
reply.  "There's at least thirty of them and that could add up to money.
My folks said they'd help - like they did when we took those kids up to
Morningside Heights for a day out in the fresh air - but there are limits."

As they neared the tenement entrance, they came across a little kid who
couldn't have been older than six...maybe seven.  Dragging a large sack, he
would struggle for a few feet, rest, and drag the damned thing a few feet
further.  The tears were streaming down his filthy face.  Seems that he had
drawn the job of going down to the docks, picking up pieces of coal that
had fallen off wagons and the like, and getting it "home."  Recognizing the
boys, his tears turned into a delighted laugh when Tony picked up the sack
with one hand and began pumping it in an exercise routine.  It was also
clear that he remembered the favorite game from their outing when Tom
lifted him up onto his shoulders.  "Yay, hossie, giddyup," he shrieked, and
off they went!

The three young men spent a couple of hours down in the hole with those of
the Gang who were around.  Tony showed himself to be something of an expert
in helping a few of them to reinforce their "nests" around the edge of the
central excavation.  Dross took some "makin's" his mother had sent along
(and Tom had supplemented) and got a good-looking stew started on a cooking
fire.  Tom gathered some of the little ones, sat them down, and proceeded
to tell them some stories of the Wild West.  Thoroughly enchanted, they
kept switching who could sit on his lap and calling out for "one more
story"!  Actually, it was during one of these stories that he remembered
something that had been going on in the city for a good forty years.
Thanks to an old minister and some dedicated young women, destitute
children were being collected and sent out west to begin new lives.  What
had their project been called...the "orphan train"?  Maybe that represented
a positive escape route for these kids.  He'd have to check into it.

(Dinner at Eight)

"You young men really did a job," Serge Morstein said, pointing a finger
emphatically at Tom Arnold.  "I've received an order for a second
Abercrombie shoot from Peter Morton, I'm told that three other city firms
have contacted Morton's agency about advertising shoots, and I have a
private offer that will knock your socks off.  Nothing to do with Morton -
the money will come to us directly without any fees!  Interested?"

"You bet, Serge," Tom answered, "though I'm still somewhat nervous about
the 'private' shoots.  Fill me in?"  "For starters," Morstein continued,
"the assignment would pay you approximately FIVE TIMES what you realized
from the Agency shoot.  That's the largest modeling fee I have ever heard
of in the city - and, if it goes well, I suspect that there will be
more...more offers and more money."  "Wow..." Tom breathed.  "What's your
fee, Serge?"  "No cash as such," Morstein answered, "but full rights to the
photographs I take."  Continuing, he said, "As I warned you, it's a little
weird (see Chapter 4).  The rich have a lot of money they can use to
satisfy themselves - and they can get pretty kinky.  You either do what
they want and take the money, or you refuse and go home.  Everyone has to
agree not to say anything no matter how it works out."

 "What do they want, Serge?" Tom pressed.  "So..." Morstein paused and took
the leap.  "The host and hostess - immensely rich and powerful - want you
and your models to join them for dinner.  Afterwards, they would have you
present a series of 'tableaux vivant' or living pictures.  You would work
in the nude, but your bodies would be made up to resemble Greek sculptures
carved of marble.  (Author's Note: For those afficionados of entertainment
that captured the popular consciousness immediately before the rise of
moving pictures, both the tableau and the pantomime were common.  The
"pantomime" allowed movement and music, whereas the "tableau" or "living
picture" allowed neither.  Historically, both were important art forms.)
Following the presentation and after you had removed the cosmetics from
your body, you would join them over drinks - still in the nude - for
discussion of the experience.  If they wished anything further, even to
touch you, more money and your agreement freely given would be necessary.
So...?"

The somewhat shocked football star sat silently for several minutes.  "Did
you have some ideas for the living pictures?" he finally blurted out.
Morstein motioned him over to a table where he spread out roughly pencilled
diagrams of six tableaux - five that involved single models, one that
involved everyone.  "Note," he said, "that everything would be in black and
white.  Furthermore, the end of the host's music room can be curtained off
and lined in black for a stage.  The visual impact should be powerful; the
sexual impact, overpowering."  "Thank you, Serge," the lad quietly said.
"I'll go over these with my models directly and get back to you.  Thanks
for your good work."

Tom lay on his back that evening, one arm around his sleeping white-haired
lover.  In speaking to Dross earlier (see Chapter 1), he had said that
while he didn't want to save the world in his time on the Lower East Side,
he did want to leave it a little better off than had he not been there.  He
had no problems with the clothing shoots, but he was not completely
comfortable with the porn work.  Did his sufferance, let alone his
leadership in this work really improve their world?  The photos created
enough questions, but how about this new proposal?  Did he really want to
have anything to do with a proposal that brought the boys into contact with
adults who were primarily interested in their bodies?  Wasn't his naivete
showing?  Further, at their ages didn't they have the right to answer such
questions for themselves - and wouldn't it be naive to ignore their sexual
experience?  Sure, he would clearly have a role if they were members of the
Subway Gang, but they weren't!

After a relatively sleepless night, Tom finally decided - for good and/or
bad - to share Morstein's information with his models.  The day was
viciously hot and humid.  As heat lightning flickered in the sky, they met
that very night on the roof to share a little beer and talk quietly about
possibilities.  It goes without saying that they were dumbfounded by the
suggested fees.  None save Tom had ever seen that kind of cash.  Even
Dross, who had his reservations, commented that the money might help his
family keep their heads above water as his father's medical bills mounted.
All of the boys asked detailed questions about what would go on when they
returned to the guests after cleaning up from the performance.  On that
question Tom had a clear answer.  Serge had assured him that NOTHING would
happen that 1) they didn't allow to happen, and 2) for which they weren't
paid a mutually agreeable sum.  On the other hand, they might expect the
guests to want to touch them and, probably, to answer questions on private
(possibly embarrassing) matters.  Who knew what else - but they could
always say "No thanks."  Finally, the boys were quite pleased with the
photographer's suggestions for six tableaux.  (Not that anyone could come
up with something better!)  After further discussion, they decided to
accept the proposal.  At a meeting with Serge, they made arrangements to
help him paint several props, large and small.  He and Tom would make the
final arrangements; rehearsals would be set.

The rehearsals went smoothly; all was in readiness.  On the appointed
evening, six handsome young men dressed simply but cleanly and their
photographer appeared at the door of one of the most impressive mansions on
Manhattan shortly before seven thirty.  They were shown to the library by
the butler with the greatest courtesy imaginable where they were greeted
kindly by the host and hostess, Colonel and Mrs.  Albert Marsden, who
introduced them to approximately a dozen guests.  The boys did surprisingly
well with the small talk and thoroughly enjoyed the hors d'oeuvres, even
remembering not to "grab and gobble".  By prior agreement, they had decided
not to accept a drink before their presentation on the grounds that they
were "at work."  Frankly, both groups of guests were impressed and began to
feel quite positively about the other.  By the time dinner was served, many
seemed to be chatting animatedly.  Tom began to realize that the proposal
had been genuine, offering courtesy and promising benefits to all
concerned.

The boys' eyes did bug out a bit as they entered the sparkling dining room.
At first, they couldn't drag their eyes from EITHER the immense table set
with linens, flowers, the most exquisite Meissen china, silver, and crystal
OR the large serving staff in uniforms.  Fortunately, the Marsden' s guests
treated them much like their own sons (perhaps better, for they seemed to
care about their enjoyment) and the eight-course affair was soon underway.
Strange as it may seem, there were no horrible accidents or faux pas - in
part because the boys accepted the interest and assistance of the adults as
genuine and responded in kind.  (One must believe, however, that the host
and hostess were as relieved as they were delighted.)

The models were finally excused from the table to begin their preparation.
In inspecting the end of the music room that lay behind a heavy black
curtain, they found a door that led to the small room where they could
ready themselves.  After vigorous massages, a professional cosmetologist
aided by Morstein and boys who were free transformed the models' skin and
hair into the color of the whitest, purest Carrara marble.  Indeed, when
she was finished, they appeared to BE marble statues.  The effect was
unbelievable!  (Before arriving at the mansion, the models had thoroughly
prepared their bodies.)  Once the props were organized and laid out, they
were ready.  It had only taken forty minutes, and the guests were only then
entering the music room, making themselves comfortable at small tables, and
enjoying their dessert and coffee.

As the hour struck, their host stood and quietly reminded his guests of the
history of the tableau vivant.  In brief, the curtain would be opened in
the darkened room.  With black velvet as a backdrop, a spotlight would
shine on the picture before them and, after a brief stay, the curtain would
be closed.  Without further ado, he announced that the first tableau was
titled, "Liberty."  After the lights had been extinguished for one minute,
he curtain was opened and the spotlight illuminated the boy Liberty.  The
marble statue that had been Bernie stood facing the audience, long legs
wide apart, every muscle tensed as he held a heavy rectangular lantern with
both hands above his head.  A single candle flickered within the lantern.
Everything, save the candle's flame, was in white.  The audience burst into
spontaneous applause.  All too soon, the light was extinguished and the
curtain drawn.

The host-announcer then commented that our liberty had always had to be
defended by the young men of our Armed Forces.  In tribute to them, the
second tableau was simply titled, "Sailor."  The light that illuminated the
next tableau simply brought the house down.  More than polite, the applause
and cheers (from fewer than two dozen people) were more like one would hear
at a sporting event!  Before them, leaning sensually against a white
lamppost, a white sailor's hat cocked rakishly on his head, stood the
marble statue that had been Lars.  As the temperature seemed sharply to
rise in the room, Tom grinned to himself, thinking that "innocence" surely
had no place in that boy's name!

Dross's tableau had obviously been conceived as the "humor" of the evening.
With this audience, nothing could not have been more effective.  (Author's
Note: As monied Republicans who were constantly warring against the
Democratic Tammany Hall machine in New York City, a representation of the
fallen Tammany leader, Boss Tweed, was bound to please.  The figure was
based on one of Thomas Nast's most telling political cartoons of Tweed
titled, "The Brains.")  Everyone in the audience was chuckling as the
spotlight focused on Dross whose torso had been expanded into the shape of
a mammoth pear and whose head had been replaced by a money bag with a great
dollar sign.  The fact that "Tweed" was otherwise naked seemed to tickle
the audience even more!

Sergei's tableau took the guests back into the highly romanticized days of
the Gold Rush.  Again based on a famous image, Sergei's prospector crouched
on his haunches at the edge of a roaring mountain stream.  In his hands he
held a (white) prospector's pan in which a few flecks of gold gleamed.  His
(white) hat capped a handsome, open face as he searched for the key to his
dreams.

As two of the oldest and best developed boys, Tom (20) and Tony (18) were
chosen to recreate a vision of the classical statue, "The Wrestlers."  The
shadows played on the muscular back of the bottom lad as he struggled to
free himself from a hold that appeared to be fatal.  Youth: competitive,
lithe, and achingly beautiful...  Never had it been expressed more
effectively or with greater sensitivity.  The curtain closed to tremendous
applause.

Suspense had risen during a slightly longer than usual break between the
fifth and final tableaux.  When the curtain opened and the spotlight
illuminated the "stage," there was dead silence.  Finally, there was an
audible sob - and the audience caught its collective breath.  On a rise in
the center of the stage, a great Indian chief stood, facing the audience,
his lance with its feather held horizontally high above his head.  His
magnificent body was framed by the headdress of a great warrior that flowed
onto the ground.  Everything - Tony, lances, arrow shafts, feathers - was
in sparkling white.  Flowing outwards and downwards from the triumphant
chief were the marble bodies of Custer's troopers, pierced by arrows and
lances, naked and cold, fallen where they died.  It was a scene of
desolation - and glory - upon which one is rarely privileged to gaze.  For
long minutes there was complete silence in the room - and then only the
rustling of the guests as they retired from the room without a word, their
ultimate tribute to the art.

The relative silence of the boys, even as they scrubbed the white cosmetics
from their bodies, suggested that they, too, had been caught up in the
final tableau.  Fortunately, the makeup came off very easily.  In any case,
they did not seem to be brooding over that which was to come.  With
everyone pitching into help, it wasn't long before they were clean and
their bodies dry.  When Colonel Marsden entered the room and offered his
fervent congratulations - and handed an enormous check to Tom with a hand-
shake - they began to grin, chatter away, and somewhat shyly thank him.
"Before you return to the library," he said in a normal conversational tone
of voice, "know how much we enjoyed your presence at dinner and the
unbelievably powerful tableaux that you shared with us.  Know that we also
look forward to your joining us for a short while in the library.  In that
regard, I bring the first request from my guests.  If you are willing for
them to touch you - gently and reasonably - I am empowered to add (and he
mentioned a large and generous sum) to your salary tonight.  Is this
agreeable?"  It was, and the boys joined their host on the short trek to
the library.

As they entered the beautiful room with its banks of books, chairs, tables,
and lamps set off by polished wood and the finest Persian carpets, they
were greeted by a wave of warm applause and welcoming chatter.  At first,
it seemed strange...even obscene...to be naked in the midst of well dressed
men and women.  As they were surrounded by appreciative people who pressed
delicacies on them, however, that sensation passed quickly.  For all, save
Tom, it was also their first experience with Champagne.  (The warning was
quickly given that it was more dangerous that it tasted!)  Quickly, the
room was filled with small groups of people who chatted with the models
about their lives and the night's tableaux.  Three of the young women, for
instance, had surrounded Lars and were querying him about his love life.
Whether blushing from questions that were exceedingly "frank" for the
Victorian era - even among the small bands of "liberated" men and women -
or simply flushed from the Champagne, Lars was clearly giving as good as he
was receiving.  Nor did he seem embarrassed by the dainty hand whose
fingers were stroking his biceps.  In fact, Tom noticed that he was
actually flirting with the cutest of the trio.  "Takes something special to
do that in the nude when you're in a crowd," he laughed to himself.

Tom's observations were interrupted by his host's coming over to him and
inviting to sit with him on one of the couches in front of the fire.
Admittedly, Tom was tired, and it was a welcome break.  He even accepted
another glass of Champagne when a waiter came over.  "Do you realize that
both my wife and I think that you are one of the most handsome young men
whom we have ever seen?" the Colonel began.  "Thank you, sir," Tom replied
with unmistakable pleasure.  "I should like to see more of you, young
Thomas.  Would you possibly consider a private photo shoot where the
pictures would be for me alone?"  "It's certainly possible, sir," Thomas
replied with a smile.  "And are you 'flexible' in terms of the poses you
would allow?" pressed the Colonel.  "I think so, sir," Tom replied. "I
would surely tell you if I couldn't handle something - though I don't
anticipate that happening."  Smiling, the Colonel's hand fell, seemingly
accidently, on Tom's naked thigh.  "Come into my office, son.  I want to
give you a contract form for the personal photo shoot, and I'd like to give
you a little extra for tonight.  You and your models earned it!"

Although he already was a little woozy from the stress of the evening and
the alcohol, Tom took another Champagne from a waiter as he approached his
host's office.  Entering the office behind Tom, Colonel Marsden closed the
door firmly with a sigh of relief.  "Thank God," he said.  "Now we can hear
each other think.  Take that comfortable chair over by the fire, Tom, while
I get some paper from my desk."  As Tom sank down into the wondrously
comfortable chair, he swallowed the last of the Champagne and shook his
head to banish the cobwebs.  Within a couple of minutes, the Colonel came
over with a form and an envelope.  "This form covers the personal photo
shoot, Thomas.  If you will allow me to enjoy your beauty in one more way,
you may fill in any reasonable fee, sign it, and return it to me.  The
envelope contains a check which is my personal thanks, rather than my
business thanks, for the evening that you made possible."  Seeing the young
man shake his head, he continued, "I know...I know, Tom.  The other models
were involved.  The simple truth, however, is that without you, little
would have worked.  Morstein told me; I saw it for myself."  Tom opened the
envelope enough to see that the check was for $300.00, a princely sum.  He
felt his eyes beginning to tear up.  "Now, it is the custom among business
men to have a drink in order to seal an agreement.  May I offer you one
more Champagne?"  "Yes-s-s, sir," the boy said haltingly.  "I am so
grateful...so very grateful."  The distinguished gentleman pulled a cord
behind his desk and a waiter appeared, almost magically, with fresh drinks.

"Let me at least introduce one additional possibility, Tom," his host
murmured when they had gotten comfortable again before the fire.  "I don't
suppose you know my business?"  "No, sir," Tom answered, feeling
increasingly light-headed.  "Mr.  Morstein wouldn't even give us your name
until this evening."  "And quite properly so," the Colonel rumbled.  "Well,
my boy, I am in transportation, particularly railroads.  If ever I may be
of service to you, I trust that you will turn to me as a friend.  Yes?"
"Yes, sir," the young athlete said with some hesitation.  "But what can I
do for you?  True friendships are not one-sided."  The Colonel thought for
a moment and then whispered, "Well, I was somewhat hesitant to touch you
out there in the library.  You should be in control every minute, free to
say 'yea' or 'nay'.  If you would allow me to do so now, however, it would
give me the greatest pleasure."  "Please do, sir...please do," the twenty
year-old responded, not wanting his host to know how very much he desired
his touch.  "Capital!" the Colonel exclaimed.  "Come over and sit beside me
on the carpet near the fire."

The youth grunted softly as he sat down on the carpet rather abruptly.
"Ok?" the Colonel asked.  "Yes," Tom answered with a shy smile...somewhat
fuddled, but still in control of his faculties.  "Very well, Thomas, lie
out in front of the fire on your stomach and let me explore the most
beautiful physique I have ever seen.  And explore he did.  Eventually, he
kissed the lad softly on the back of the neck and directed him to turn
over.  Blushing, Tom confessed that there was a "problem."  "Never you
mind, Thomas," his host insisted soothingly.  "We are both men; it matters
not.  Over with you now!"

As the Colonel's fingers slid over Tom's body, pausing only to rub lightly
across his lips or to toy with a nipple, the young man felt the most
exquisite of pleasures.  While he had gloried in the year thus far, he was
weary.  No one - parents, instructors, coach - was telling him what to do.
No, the decisions were his - and on his decisions rested the welfare of
other lives - but the responsibilities had proved to be exhausting.  As his
passions began to rise, he so wanted to place his trust - and even his will
- in the hands of the good man who was giving him such pleasure...who was
taking care of him.  No, it didn't matter that they were both men, for they
were friends.  "I congratulate you, Tom, on the condition of your body,"
the powerful magnate sighed.  As he ran one pre-cum- laden finger up the
bottom of the boy's thick cock, he murmured, "Morstein has guided your
correctly in suggesting the proper shaving and trimming for one of your
size and beauty.  You must be close to eleven inches, yes?"  Tom's gleaming
cock pulsed and he swallowed convulsively before answering with some pride,
"Yes, sir, about 10 and 5/8-inches."  "Are you strong enough to pull your
thighs apart and backwards... almost to your chest...holding them securely
under the knees?"  Tom met the challenge with the quiet confidence of a
trained athlete, thereby exposing the most private parts of his glorious
body.

The boy let out a little cry and then a moan as he felt something warm and
wet move slowly over his smoothly shaved perineum.  Then, without pause,
warm flesh locked onto the lips of his anus, lubricating, sucking,
consuming.  The boy didn't know how long this continued, for he had no
interest in its stopping.  It did finally stop, but what happened was even
more exciting.  Soft, warm flesh gradually pushed through the open portal
and continued its excruciating exploration of his insides.  Eventually,
that, too, stopped, and the soft flesh was replaced by something
straighter, something harder that explored his canal even more deeply,
circling, hooking, gently stretching the muscles.  The boy gasped as a
second lubricated finger joined the first, touching a hard nut within him
that fair drove him mad.  Panting, beginning to move his head from side to
side, his breathing increasingly controlled by the probes, he almost
exploded when a third finger joined its fellows.  His passions rising
rapidly now, he tried to anticipate the movement of the fingers, fighting,
as it were, to impale his body on them.  Then the movement ceased, and he
momentarily felt the man's lips on his long scrotum and the heavy
egg-shaped balls that lay within.  To his horror, however, the fullness
within him departed...and he was left empty.  He wanted to shout out,
telling the Colonel not to leave him like this!  As that thought flickered
across his brain, he felt the man's hands on the sides of his head.  He
appeared to be speaking to him, but from such a distance.  The fog within
his brain finally parted and he understood the man to be asking him if he
could continue...if he could give him a great gift.  Tom tried to form the
word "Yes" with his mouth, but all that came out was a wet gurgle.
Thankfully, the Colonel seemed to understand.

The boy felt every thick millimeter of the man's entry into him and gloried
in every sensation.  His head thrown backwards, his mouth open, his eyes
screwed shut, his thick chest expanded until it resembled that of a
blacksmith, he struggled for air and sanity as the man lifted him up
towards the summit, paused for a second at the very top to allow him to see
the utter magnificence of the heights, and then exploded into a thousand
blazing stars that were extinguished one by one until all that was left was
darkness.

He came to in the Colonel's arms, the man's lips laving a stiff nipple
until it seemed ready to pop off his chest.  With a groan, the boy threw
his heavy arms around him and drew him close.  "I cannot lose you, Thomas;
I cannot lose you," the proud capitalist sobbed.  "This cannot be all there
is.  You will come to me again?"  "Yes," murmured the boy, raising his
torso and passionately kissing the man.

As they returned to the library and surrounding rooms, it was obvious that
everything was under control.  Oh, yes, a few liberties had been taken -
but not nearly as many, or as heavy, as those in the Colonel's office.
Essentially, the boys had enjoyed a "happening" with a small group of
bohemians...good people who were quite atypical of the time in which they
lived.  Further, they had been treated honestly, kindly, and gently by the
very rich - and, surely, that is not how the richest among us are reputed
to act!  Fortunately, they do exist...in every age.

Morstein allowed the carriage with the boys to stop near their homes.
Inasmuch as Tony had decided to spend the night with Sergei, Tom and Dross
found themselves gloriously alone.  "Oh, you've got a night ahead of you,
you jock!" Dross exclaimed.  "The evening made me hornier than hell - and
you better be ready to roll until we see light again!"  With that, he
turned to his love, unsheathed his rather long canines, and growled
fiercely.


To Be Continued