Changeling Pt. 1 - Teil 10

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They ended up in Kelaste's bedroom with him sitting on the edge of the red and black bed, while Mohawk stared around in awe. Each and every room of Kelaste's suite seemed to hold new wonders for the tattered punk, and since Kelaste seemed to keep behaving perfectly, he now dared to drift into sightseeing now and then.
Kelaste kept staring at "Mohawk", feeling a strange, but pleasant contentment in his presence. Shouldn't he have been scared shitless? Maybe, but even with the switchblade still omnipresent he couldn't bring himself to really fear him. With a small frown he brushed his fingers over the burning cut the knife had left on his neck, feeling the crusts of blood, the already closing wound. Yes, it had hurt as hell when the knife had broken skin, but he did heal three times as quick as any other human being, and it hadn't been the least fatal. Mohawk had said he would kill him, why wasn't he afraid? Why did he try so hard to like that thug?
This was crazy. Crazy and propably deadly.
With a low sigh he decided to end it there and then.
"What's your name?" Mohawk's rasp broke the silence, and Kelaste realized that he had been watched for at least thirty seconds while he had been so deep in thought. Again he blushed, fidgetting a bit before he croaked "Kelaste DeLargo. What do you care?" The next second he regretted the snapping tone, remembering the position he was in. Blushing even harder he tore his gaze away from "Mohawk", staring down at his own hands. Why was it so embarassing to talk after he had been mouthraped by that guy?
"Well, Kel it is then. Take off your clothes, we don't want them to get shedded, do we?" the rasping purr went on, sending shivers down his spine. Instantly Kelaste forgot every decision of breaking free, watching himself with dazed wonderment as he shook off his clothes without hesitation. His young, silken cock popped out of his underwear like a happy puppy, teetering a bit as if begging for attention. Kneeling on the bed he dared a glance into Mohawks face. The slightly older man stared at his lean, milky white body with soft wonderment, drinking in the shape of his sleek thighs, the flatness of his abdomen, the slight goose bumps on his upper arms. He looked like someone had hit him right between the eyes with a hammer, and for those few seconds the dark hate in his eyes seemed to diminish.