They left the "Philtre" in silence, his captor pressed against his back, mimicking a loving embrace while the gun stayed where it was with iron constancy. Kelaste was led on with continuous firmness. getting driections through steady pulls and shoves that went smoothly with their pace. It was a strange, nearly intimate feeling of security to be handled that way, and it left him panting with anxious nervousness and a faint prickle of lust. "Angerhammer" had stopped shrieking, so the room was more quiet than before, but people still were dancing in drunk stupor, shaking their bodies to the sound of playback music, making it hard to reach the exit straight away.
Time seemed to thin, then stop, when Mohawk pushed him out onto the streets, shadowing his movements with the slickness of a snake.
"Where's your car?" he whispered, his breath touching Kelaste's earlobe when he wound his body around him, playing the one-night-lover for nosy bystanders, and only the gun pressed against his back ruined Kelastes short daydream about getting it up the ass there and then.
Kelaste caught his breath with a low hiss, trying to make it sound nervous, and starting to fail, when he felt Mohawks crotch pressed against his arse. He felt a definite stiffness that shouldn't have been there, rubbing against hin with thoughtless intensity. Then Mohawk bit his earlobe, tugged on it sharply, and reminded him that a question had been asked, but not answered.
Kelaste shivered, gasping for air through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to rub against the hot hardness pressed against his arse with silent fury, then pointed down the road at the sign of a video surveillanced parking lot only a few buildings down the road.
"Parked there" he panted, trying to stand very still and ignore the bulge in his own pants. Behind him he heard Mohawk swear silently, then a firm tug set them in motion again.
"If you think you can be clever there, I'll shoot you. I will put up the gun now, but there are other ways to kill you. One would be to put my switchblade against your kidney, like this..." Kelaste felt the gun move away, then being replaced with another metal object, the hilt of a switchblade knife he guessed, "... and just pull the switch twice. In, out, dead, noone will see why you toppled over, they'll think I just helped your drunk ass home and had to carry you. Getting my point?"
Kelaste nodded hastily, trying to pull his jacket around himself more firmly to hide his erection, and the cold metal hilt disappeared from his back, as they entered the parking lot. A warm, muscled arm wound around his waistline, pulling him close to an equally warm body, and for the few seconds it took them to aproach Kelaste's Lotus Europa he could pretend they really were a couple, walking home from a night out. The feeling of being pressed against another man's hip bathing in his scrent and bodyheat made Kelaste's head spin with lust, and at one point he could have sworn that Mohawk had peeked down at his crotch after Kelaste had made another small, humming sound of indulgence.
Then they reached the sports car, and Mohawk whistled in appreciation, as he examined the unique painting job. The Lotus had a magnetic doublecolored 3D-paint, looking innocently with its pearl silver color when looked at from the front, getting reddish-coppered if you moved to the back.
"Damn it scrap, now I DO believe the threethousand dollars.." Mohawk rasped, then his hand grabbed Kelaste's neck, spun him around, and shoved him against the side of the car. Just a glimpse later Mohawk pressed his whole bodyline against him, moving a leg between his knees to pin his abdomen, only stopping for the lengh of a heartbeat when he felt the hardness between Kelaste's legs. Then his other arm entwined around his torso, and Kelaste could feel hot, soft lips against his neck as Mohawk bent down his head, and mimicked a kiss onto his neck, while whispering "Eww, scrap.. are you hot for me or do you hide a gun down there?"
Any other time Kelaste would have laughed at such a stupid joke, but somehow he knew that something would follow that statement.. and he was proven right.
As his neck was released, strong, manicured fingers groped his hard, pulsing cock right through his tight clad trousers, stroking him slowly and with perfectly measured pressure. His body shivered excitedly, then a slow, huffed moan escaped his full lips as he leaned more heavily against his car, closing his eyes to feast on the knowing touch. Some of the tension seeped away silently, and just for a few seconds Kelaste was able to pretend that none of the things before this moment had happened. He would be able to touch him. He HAD to touch him.
The hand disappeared from his crotch, leaving him with a distinct feeling of loneliness.
"Get going, scrap. We've got things to do." Mohawk purred, and gave him a good shove. Then he climbed into the Lotus.
Montag, 12. April 2010
Sonntag, 11. April 2010
Changeling Pt.1 - Teil 5
"Wait!" he cried with upheld hands.
"What for? You're a done deal, mate." Mohawk rasped, his mouth twitching with some private joke, while he armed the gun, taking his time. It was a Beretta, a big, powerful handgun with a chromed muzzle, and it didn't look new or fake. For a second Kelaste had to fight against the urge to throw up as his stomach clenched into a tight ball, fighting to get back his voice.
"Don't shoot damn it! I've got money, if that's what you want!" he sniveled while gasping for breath, still holding up his hands as if he could summon a bulletproof wall. The sudden fear for his life made his concience laugh silently, but at the same time it felt intoxicating to drown in this panic. Was it like this when you loved your life?
Too tense to even shiver he watched the thoughts work behind Mohawk's eyes, face empty and composed even though he too was aware of the fact that someone would be dying soon. His facial expression made Kelaste's cock twitch. What would this man do to him if he brought him into his home? Would he even consider the money instead of the kill? Surely he'd been paid to come here and get him six feet under. Noone would kill a boy just because he'd been rude, now, would they?
"What kinda money?" Mohawk drawled after an eternity, gun never wavering. His steel-blue eyes pierced into Kelaste's eyes, gaze intense.
A short pause as his cock tried to pierce through the leather of his trousers, then Kelaste estimated the content of his safe, and purred with a hopeful lilt in his voice: "Threethousand dollars."
This time he could see something in the eyes of his captor, a short flicker of interest, some small piece of human greed going online in his head. A leverage he could identify, and Kelaste jumped right for it.
"I don't got more money, but you could have my TV.. it's a flatscreen, 36 inches? And maybe, maybe some other stuff? I really don't wanna die here." he whimpered, words tumbling hastily from his lips. And security cameras, a team of roughnecks to kick you right back where you belong, and a panic room... All just a penthouse away. his concience purred, while he blinked rapidly at the black maw of the Beretta.
Again he could see Mohawk think, estimate the value against the problems, and then he put up the gun, and made three steps into the cubicle to grab for Kelaste. His hand wrought around Kelaste's elbow to pull him onto his feet. "You come with me, scrap." he rasped, smiling broadly, as he spun him around and pushed him out of the cubicle without letting go of his arm. A second later Kelaste could feel Mohawks hand wandering beneath his jacket, then the muzzle of the Beretta pressed against his kidney.
"Move it, scrap. Time's wasting."
"What for? You're a done deal, mate." Mohawk rasped, his mouth twitching with some private joke, while he armed the gun, taking his time. It was a Beretta, a big, powerful handgun with a chromed muzzle, and it didn't look new or fake. For a second Kelaste had to fight against the urge to throw up as his stomach clenched into a tight ball, fighting to get back his voice.
"Don't shoot damn it! I've got money, if that's what you want!" he sniveled while gasping for breath, still holding up his hands as if he could summon a bulletproof wall. The sudden fear for his life made his concience laugh silently, but at the same time it felt intoxicating to drown in this panic. Was it like this when you loved your life?
Too tense to even shiver he watched the thoughts work behind Mohawk's eyes, face empty and composed even though he too was aware of the fact that someone would be dying soon. His facial expression made Kelaste's cock twitch. What would this man do to him if he brought him into his home? Would he even consider the money instead of the kill? Surely he'd been paid to come here and get him six feet under. Noone would kill a boy just because he'd been rude, now, would they?
"What kinda money?" Mohawk drawled after an eternity, gun never wavering. His steel-blue eyes pierced into Kelaste's eyes, gaze intense.
A short pause as his cock tried to pierce through the leather of his trousers, then Kelaste estimated the content of his safe, and purred with a hopeful lilt in his voice: "Threethousand dollars."
This time he could see something in the eyes of his captor, a short flicker of interest, some small piece of human greed going online in his head. A leverage he could identify, and Kelaste jumped right for it.
"I don't got more money, but you could have my TV.. it's a flatscreen, 36 inches? And maybe, maybe some other stuff? I really don't wanna die here." he whimpered, words tumbling hastily from his lips. And security cameras, a team of roughnecks to kick you right back where you belong, and a panic room... All just a penthouse away. his concience purred, while he blinked rapidly at the black maw of the Beretta.
Again he could see Mohawk think, estimate the value against the problems, and then he put up the gun, and made three steps into the cubicle to grab for Kelaste. His hand wrought around Kelaste's elbow to pull him onto his feet. "You come with me, scrap." he rasped, smiling broadly, as he spun him around and pushed him out of the cubicle without letting go of his arm. A second later Kelaste could feel Mohawks hand wandering beneath his jacket, then the muzzle of the Beretta pressed against his kidney.
"Move it, scrap. Time's wasting."
Freitag, 9. April 2010
Changeling Pt. 1 - Teil 4
Kelaste picked up the satchel, and shook it a bit to inspect the grey content. Most of the time you had to be pretty careful on what you injected, some dealers tended to give one-timers unclean drugs to save money, but the powder looked pretty clean. Tasting it with one finger he took a good look around to find a solution for the other small problem that kept him from getting into subspace: Someone to inject the H.
Kelaste hated needles up to an extent where he risked a full-blown turkey before he fixed himself. Not that this had ever happened: There was always some junkie who'd do it for him for a few bucks.
Right now, two shabby, starved creatures stood near the exit of the men's room and mustered him with the dead eyes of carnivorous creatures. Was he prey? Was he not? One of them eyed the small plastic bag in his hand with intense glares. He had a green close-cut Mohawk, his clothing tangled and dirty beyond wearable, face pale like a ghost, thick black rings around his eyes. His left hand shook with small, hasty tremors, giving away his need for a fix.
Before the guy could decide on jumping him and giving him a good whack up, Kelaste waved him near, and purred "Enough for both of us, mate, what'cha say?"
They locked themselves into one of the cubicles and got the shots ready in no time. His new companion smelled of sweat and dirty human refuse, a fine thread of sickness in the stink that surrounded him. HIV positive, Kelaste concluded, while unpackaging his one-way-syringe, once again grateful over having enough money to buy such small conveniences.
When the other man injected the shot into his arm, Kelaste was surprised by the concentrated carefulness the guy applied. He must have been a good-hearted, nice fellow once, he thought to himself, and ignored the pain that thought brought to his heart. No use getting all melancholic over strangers, damn it! he chastised himself, biting his tongue to stop himself from asking questions that were none of his business.
Luckily the H started racing through his body, made him gasp softly, cleared his head to the point of burning bliss and let him sink back onto the toilet seat, while his helper injected his own shot, and stumbled out of the cubicle with a grunted "Cheers".
He watched the two junkies go with a tranced stare, pondering about the fact that he had forgot to ask his fixing partner if he wanted a blowjob. It took him nearly two minutes to realize that someone was leaning against the wall vis-a-vis his cubicle-kingdom, staring at him in amused silence. Another thirty seconds went by as he mustered his guest with crawling-slow thoughts, until he realized that it was the mohawked guy he had been all hot about before. Then his heart started to race, pumping adrenaline-drowned blood into his brain - and into his loin. Kelaste gasped, then froze as he realized what the guy held in his right hand.
Mr. Mohawk had a gun pointed at him, still smiling.
Kelaste hated needles up to an extent where he risked a full-blown turkey before he fixed himself. Not that this had ever happened: There was always some junkie who'd do it for him for a few bucks.
Right now, two shabby, starved creatures stood near the exit of the men's room and mustered him with the dead eyes of carnivorous creatures. Was he prey? Was he not? One of them eyed the small plastic bag in his hand with intense glares. He had a green close-cut Mohawk, his clothing tangled and dirty beyond wearable, face pale like a ghost, thick black rings around his eyes. His left hand shook with small, hasty tremors, giving away his need for a fix.
Before the guy could decide on jumping him and giving him a good whack up, Kelaste waved him near, and purred "Enough for both of us, mate, what'cha say?"
They locked themselves into one of the cubicles and got the shots ready in no time. His new companion smelled of sweat and dirty human refuse, a fine thread of sickness in the stink that surrounded him. HIV positive, Kelaste concluded, while unpackaging his one-way-syringe, once again grateful over having enough money to buy such small conveniences.
When the other man injected the shot into his arm, Kelaste was surprised by the concentrated carefulness the guy applied. He must have been a good-hearted, nice fellow once, he thought to himself, and ignored the pain that thought brought to his heart. No use getting all melancholic over strangers, damn it! he chastised himself, biting his tongue to stop himself from asking questions that were none of his business.
Luckily the H started racing through his body, made him gasp softly, cleared his head to the point of burning bliss and let him sink back onto the toilet seat, while his helper injected his own shot, and stumbled out of the cubicle with a grunted "Cheers".
He watched the two junkies go with a tranced stare, pondering about the fact that he had forgot to ask his fixing partner if he wanted a blowjob. It took him nearly two minutes to realize that someone was leaning against the wall vis-a-vis his cubicle-kingdom, staring at him in amused silence. Another thirty seconds went by as he mustered his guest with crawling-slow thoughts, until he realized that it was the mohawked guy he had been all hot about before. Then his heart started to race, pumping adrenaline-drowned blood into his brain - and into his loin. Kelaste gasped, then froze as he realized what the guy held in his right hand.
Mr. Mohawk had a gun pointed at him, still smiling.
Donnerstag, 8. April 2010
Changeling Pt. 1 - Teil 3
Outwardly he sauntered away like a dancing kitten, without haste or rush, smiling over some private joke his brain seemed to be telling him. Inwards he was running screaming at the mere thought of touching that guy. He couldn't have stopped, if he had started.
Kelaste wasn't gay, he was sure of this. The sight of a nude male didn't leave him dripping pre-cum and drooling brainlessly, and he didn't check out random guys in bars or pubs. Couldn't be gay, having had more girlfriends in his short life than some celebrities. He enjoyed girls, and they enjoyed him. But sometimes, occasionally, he met someone that awakened some deep, dark lust inside him, mostly because of a glance, a special scent, a gesture.. It was like a curse, living in this world of permanent temptations, and Kelaste had learned a way to deal with this: Drugs.
He left the main room and headed for the toilets, entering a hallway next to the bar. Here it was dark, cool, smelling faintly of the sharp pang Heroin gave off when heated, cigarettes and vomit. "Unclean" would have been incorrect, and dirty didn't cover the extent of refuse and dirt the floor was covered in. The furious whines of "Angerhammer" were dampened by the whirring of a ventilation system and the bubbling of the busy drainpipes, and Kelaste took a few moments for himself to enjoy the quietness of this way more rotten piece of space.
Out of this quietness the sounds of urgent, hushed copulation emerged, gave this new visitor an idea of the multiple ways to "use" a bathroom. It got pretty clear, that emptying the ol' bladder wasn't top priority in this part of the "Philtre", and the mere thought made Kelaste's stomach clench in excitement; one because he did admit to being a voyeur on every flavor of Sex, and secondly because he didn't intend to pay cash for his fix today.
With silent steps he paced through the few bystanders - some of them waiting to be able to actually pee, some of them waiting for a customer - intently looking for someone giving away the "dealer-image". They weren't hard to spot if you knew what you were looking for, and it didn't take long to find the local one, a thin, unclean looking, pale guy with stubbles on his chin and greasy hair. His steady fidgetting gave him away as a dealer/user, and made Kelaste look for an alternative for a few seconds. Users weren't into sex as payment as much as clean dealers, but the latter were way harder to find. Sure enough he didn't spot anyone else, and finally gave in with a sigh.
He approached the weasely guy with a small smile, unpackaged his "nervous, but hopeful"-expression, and started the verbal tug o' war over payment for a simple H-fix. Guys like that dealer did get some women into their claws now and then, but most of them were sick already, or thin like broomsticks, and here Kelaste was at an advantage: He was beautiful, not handsome, his features a bit girlish, definitely not masculine, and he liked to wear makeup and skintight clothing. If you went down the drug alley far enough, you didn't care for the gender anymore, as long as you could pretend.
Pretending it was not a girl sucking his dick was what Joey the dealer did a few minutes later. Leaning against the tile wall of the men's room, trousers open and tugged down enough to expose his lean cock he had a firm grip on Kelaste's hair, as if in fear of getting bitten. His crotch smelled of sweat and day old clothes, and the wetness of the stained floor slowly wetted Kelastes knees, but he ignored those incommodities. The frustrated sexual tension that had built up while dealing with Mr. Mohawk before now went into the working of his tongue. He delved into the exploration of his cock, working the tip of his tongue around the small slit on the tip of it before sucking him deeper to scan for the bulging veins on the underside of his shaft. Joey purred a coarse, hushed groan, as he put a bit of pressure behind his sucking, and pulled his head into his crotch with a sharp tug that made Kelase gasp. Feeling his own cock twitch in sweet agony against the tightness of his pants he gasped softly, and worked his tongue harder down his length. His slurping, wet sounds filled the bathroom, and even if he couldn't stop and peek, he felt the intense glares of bystanders after a few moments.
Audience, perfect! his mind purred in utter delight, and made him ram his head down until Joey's prick pushed into his throat.
The dealer uttered a low oath, his shaft twitched one time, then a second time, and then he grasped Kelaste's Head harsher and bucked into his mouth, while hot semen flooded down his gullet. It took him quite some time, giving Kelaste the feeling of suffocation before he stopped fucking his head, and let go of him. As he pulled out of his mouth, a thread of spunk dribbled out of the corner of Kelaste's mouth, making him raise his hand to pick it up with two fingers and lick them clean.
Then Joey seemed to realize they had been watched, swore under his breath and let a small plastic satchel fall onto the floor before fleeing the scene.
Kelaste wasn't gay, he was sure of this. The sight of a nude male didn't leave him dripping pre-cum and drooling brainlessly, and he didn't check out random guys in bars or pubs. Couldn't be gay, having had more girlfriends in his short life than some celebrities. He enjoyed girls, and they enjoyed him. But sometimes, occasionally, he met someone that awakened some deep, dark lust inside him, mostly because of a glance, a special scent, a gesture.. It was like a curse, living in this world of permanent temptations, and Kelaste had learned a way to deal with this: Drugs.
He left the main room and headed for the toilets, entering a hallway next to the bar. Here it was dark, cool, smelling faintly of the sharp pang Heroin gave off when heated, cigarettes and vomit. "Unclean" would have been incorrect, and dirty didn't cover the extent of refuse and dirt the floor was covered in. The furious whines of "Angerhammer" were dampened by the whirring of a ventilation system and the bubbling of the busy drainpipes, and Kelaste took a few moments for himself to enjoy the quietness of this way more rotten piece of space.
Out of this quietness the sounds of urgent, hushed copulation emerged, gave this new visitor an idea of the multiple ways to "use" a bathroom. It got pretty clear, that emptying the ol' bladder wasn't top priority in this part of the "Philtre", and the mere thought made Kelaste's stomach clench in excitement; one because he did admit to being a voyeur on every flavor of Sex, and secondly because he didn't intend to pay cash for his fix today.
With silent steps he paced through the few bystanders - some of them waiting to be able to actually pee, some of them waiting for a customer - intently looking for someone giving away the "dealer-image". They weren't hard to spot if you knew what you were looking for, and it didn't take long to find the local one, a thin, unclean looking, pale guy with stubbles on his chin and greasy hair. His steady fidgetting gave him away as a dealer/user, and made Kelaste look for an alternative for a few seconds. Users weren't into sex as payment as much as clean dealers, but the latter were way harder to find. Sure enough he didn't spot anyone else, and finally gave in with a sigh.
He approached the weasely guy with a small smile, unpackaged his "nervous, but hopeful"-expression, and started the verbal tug o' war over payment for a simple H-fix. Guys like that dealer did get some women into their claws now and then, but most of them were sick already, or thin like broomsticks, and here Kelaste was at an advantage: He was beautiful, not handsome, his features a bit girlish, definitely not masculine, and he liked to wear makeup and skintight clothing. If you went down the drug alley far enough, you didn't care for the gender anymore, as long as you could pretend.
Pretending it was not a girl sucking his dick was what Joey the dealer did a few minutes later. Leaning against the tile wall of the men's room, trousers open and tugged down enough to expose his lean cock he had a firm grip on Kelaste's hair, as if in fear of getting bitten. His crotch smelled of sweat and day old clothes, and the wetness of the stained floor slowly wetted Kelastes knees, but he ignored those incommodities. The frustrated sexual tension that had built up while dealing with Mr. Mohawk before now went into the working of his tongue. He delved into the exploration of his cock, working the tip of his tongue around the small slit on the tip of it before sucking him deeper to scan for the bulging veins on the underside of his shaft. Joey purred a coarse, hushed groan, as he put a bit of pressure behind his sucking, and pulled his head into his crotch with a sharp tug that made Kelase gasp. Feeling his own cock twitch in sweet agony against the tightness of his pants he gasped softly, and worked his tongue harder down his length. His slurping, wet sounds filled the bathroom, and even if he couldn't stop and peek, he felt the intense glares of bystanders after a few moments.
Audience, perfect! his mind purred in utter delight, and made him ram his head down until Joey's prick pushed into his throat.
The dealer uttered a low oath, his shaft twitched one time, then a second time, and then he grasped Kelaste's Head harsher and bucked into his mouth, while hot semen flooded down his gullet. It took him quite some time, giving Kelaste the feeling of suffocation before he stopped fucking his head, and let go of him. As he pulled out of his mouth, a thread of spunk dribbled out of the corner of Kelaste's mouth, making him raise his hand to pick it up with two fingers and lick them clean.
Then Joey seemed to realize they had been watched, swore under his breath and let a small plastic satchel fall onto the floor before fleeing the scene.
Dienstag, 6. April 2010
Changeling Pt.1 - Teil 2
It wasn't that this guy had THE looks, he didn't act charming or lovely at all. Just shy of 180 cm in height he loomed over Kelaste, stormblue eyes staring down at him with a mixture of good-natured humor and just a tic of volatile intent, as if undecided if he should grab him and ruff his hair, or just break his neck. He didn't even look clean, tangled clothes and grazed boots and all, smelling faintly of beer, smoke and just a tickle of Axe, and the piercings made him just a bit too archaic for Kelaste's normal tastes, but something.. something about the pure sight of that guy just got him off.
Scared with the sudden intensity of forbidden lust Kelaste shrank back emotionally, and one of the dozens of social masks slipped into his demeanor. A smile, cocky and purely kittenish crawled into his face, and with a good amount of internal horror he watched himself chirp right into the strangers face "What about you get beer for you an' me, and I'll pay?"
Fighting the urge to run away right there he watched Mohawk think, returning the solemn look with a purely charming one. He knew himself, knew this state of autopiloting through socially awkward moments, and he knew that Mohawk there wouldn't see anything that betrayed Kelaste's seemingly perfect flirt. Nothing except a young guy, a boy, getting hot over him and overdoing the friendlyness just a bit. This was his safety valve, being able to flirt and piss of his chosen one at the same time.
Finally "Mohawk" seemed to come to a decision, and gestured to the barkeeper, who started muttering low voiced complaints about giving away alcohol to minors, but was shut up fast when he saw the big banknote Kelaste handed over to his new benefactor. Money talked, and Kelaste knew he'd have gotten the beer even without the help of his pierced companion. This way it was just a bit less awkward, and he wrung out a smile when he reached for one of the bottles.
Mohawk seemed to have another way in mind though, and just before Kelaste could get the bottle, he pulled it up and out of his reach. Well, he could have leaned in and tried to snatch it from his hand while pressing himself against the front of his benefactor, but the thought alone made him shutter excitedly, so he didn't even try it. Nothing ruined the mood as fast as pressing his beginning hard-on against the knee of a straight guy.
"How old are ya'?" Mohawk drawled with a slightly husky voice that detailed the consumption of too many cigarettes and whisky, a frisky smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he wagged the upheld bottle a bit.
A low sigh escaped Kelaste, then he smiled theatrically shy and purred "Nineteen. Getting on moral high ground there, Gramps?". Teasing again, are you sure that's such a good idea? he scolded himself silently the next second, trying not to cringe under the stare of his new acquaintance, but returning it with an seemingly effortless smile.
Mohawk frowned, then he broke into a grin and offered him the bottle with a wink. "Can't blame an old man for worrying, can you."
Kelaste snorted, then grinned back, taking a sip. Old, are you kiddin' me? Can't be that much over twenty. he mused, registering the absence of crow's feet, or any signs of wrinkles. One fast lookover, and Kelaste decided on "around twentyfive". Not too old, not too young, propably already sexually established, presumably NOT interested in guys. Gay folk didn't dress like this, Kelaste assumed, and fought to keep his smile in place.
Pity, that is. Time to end this little prank. he decided, and shot one last smile at Mohawk, before stepping back and purring "You can keep the change, as a little thank you for getting me the beer." Inside, he hoped to piss of that decidedly too hot guy and get going. The tightness in his skintight trousers was killing him, and he pulled his jacket closer around himself to hide the obvious state of his libido without thinking about it.
Scared with the sudden intensity of forbidden lust Kelaste shrank back emotionally, and one of the dozens of social masks slipped into his demeanor. A smile, cocky and purely kittenish crawled into his face, and with a good amount of internal horror he watched himself chirp right into the strangers face "What about you get beer for you an' me, and I'll pay?"
Fighting the urge to run away right there he watched Mohawk think, returning the solemn look with a purely charming one. He knew himself, knew this state of autopiloting through socially awkward moments, and he knew that Mohawk there wouldn't see anything that betrayed Kelaste's seemingly perfect flirt. Nothing except a young guy, a boy, getting hot over him and overdoing the friendlyness just a bit. This was his safety valve, being able to flirt and piss of his chosen one at the same time.
Finally "Mohawk" seemed to come to a decision, and gestured to the barkeeper, who started muttering low voiced complaints about giving away alcohol to minors, but was shut up fast when he saw the big banknote Kelaste handed over to his new benefactor. Money talked, and Kelaste knew he'd have gotten the beer even without the help of his pierced companion. This way it was just a bit less awkward, and he wrung out a smile when he reached for one of the bottles.
Mohawk seemed to have another way in mind though, and just before Kelaste could get the bottle, he pulled it up and out of his reach. Well, he could have leaned in and tried to snatch it from his hand while pressing himself against the front of his benefactor, but the thought alone made him shutter excitedly, so he didn't even try it. Nothing ruined the mood as fast as pressing his beginning hard-on against the knee of a straight guy.
"How old are ya'?" Mohawk drawled with a slightly husky voice that detailed the consumption of too many cigarettes and whisky, a frisky smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he wagged the upheld bottle a bit.
A low sigh escaped Kelaste, then he smiled theatrically shy and purred "Nineteen. Getting on moral high ground there, Gramps?". Teasing again, are you sure that's such a good idea? he scolded himself silently the next second, trying not to cringe under the stare of his new acquaintance, but returning it with an seemingly effortless smile.
Mohawk frowned, then he broke into a grin and offered him the bottle with a wink. "Can't blame an old man for worrying, can you."
Kelaste snorted, then grinned back, taking a sip. Old, are you kiddin' me? Can't be that much over twenty. he mused, registering the absence of crow's feet, or any signs of wrinkles. One fast lookover, and Kelaste decided on "around twentyfive". Not too old, not too young, propably already sexually established, presumably NOT interested in guys. Gay folk didn't dress like this, Kelaste assumed, and fought to keep his smile in place.
Pity, that is. Time to end this little prank. he decided, and shot one last smile at Mohawk, before stepping back and purring "You can keep the change, as a little thank you for getting me the beer." Inside, he hoped to piss of that decidedly too hot guy and get going. The tightness in his skintight trousers was killing him, and he pulled his jacket closer around himself to hide the obvious state of his libido without thinking about it.
Montag, 5. April 2010
Changeling Pt.1 - Teil 1
Kelaste sighed, breathing in the cool spring air. It was one of those nights, the cold, windy ones, which made him restless, made him leave his safe apartment, made him strive into the Ghetto. Away, just away from the prickly clean streets of Central District and down into the abbyss of dirt, crime and poverty.
He knew he would stand out of the typical crowd as he approached the "Philtre", one of the few nightclubs near the district borders. The entrance was crammed with waiting people, most of them wearing the typical tattered clothes of Punk lifestyle, a few black clothed Gothics inbetween the mohawked folk. His violet leather jacket impressed with snake skin patterns would be the first indication that he "wasn't from around here", but if someone saw the Versace blend on his skin tight leather trousers, he'd be done for. The ghetto people hated nothing more than the "rich bastards from Central", and his clothing was screaming MONEY in capital letters.
So why was he here, Kelaste mused, watching the busy nightclub from a distance. Was it a death wish? Finally ending his existance of boredom and loneliness as he should have done many times before?
Maybe.
With flaring nostrils Kelaste started walking again, hands in the pockets of his jacket, the teased strands of pitch black hair seesawing in the spring breezes. He had just turned nineteen, a slim, elegant figure of merely male build, sweet and innocent looking as can be. Some people thought him younger, sixteen maybe, rather a boy than a young man, but didn't all teenagers look the same?
His looks had been an advantage before, sparing him a good few punches when he had hooked up with the wrong crowd, but right now he was pretty sure he'd get into trouble for "looking too young".
Approaching the bouncer, he fingered for his ID, pulling it out before the man could say anything. A ripped poster at the steel door announced the band "Angerhammer", a name fitting for the shrieking noise coming from behind the thick felt curtain covering the Doorframe.
The bouncer took his time comparing the ID to his face, and Kelaste couldn't help but smile at his guarded facial expression. How often had he seen exactly that look? Finally he got motioned inside, took his ID with a purring "Thank you", and passed the curtains.
The room smelled of sweat, beer and cigarettes, mixed with the still lingering aroma of disinfectants, an artificial, wonderful scent that buried itself deep inside Kelaste's brain. It was one of the advantages/disadvantages of being a Changeling to have this increased ability to smell and remember scents, that made his life a sweet agony of memories and nostalgia; that made it worth living a bit longer yet.
"Angerhammer" still jammed and mistreated their instruments, entertaining a crammed, but small crowd of headbanging drunks, filling the room with the angry sneer of raw emotions. Just a bit too loud, and a bit too tuneless Kelaste decided, as he weaved his way through the fixated audience, striving for the bar at the other side of the room. Flashes of blue light danced over his body as he passed the stroboscope, blinded by the intensity of the small gadget. For a second he couldn't see anything but black and white specs dancing through his sight, and when he ran into something solid, he first didn't realize it was a person rather than the counter itself.
"How about 'I'm sorry', scrap?" a slightly hoarse, but agreeable voice growled right next to his ear, while a strong hand grabbed his arm, and made him register his mistake. Slowly his eyesight turned back to normal, and suddenly he found himself in front of a slender, muscular man dressed in typical ripped black armypants and a muscle shirt with a band symbol he didn't recognize. Piercings of every known flavour adorned his nose, brows, lips and ears, perfectly fitting with the bleached blonde mohawk and the utterly amused expression on his features.
It took Kelaste nearly thirty seconds to stop staring, and mutter "Sorry", before he remembered how to breathe, and more importantly, how to blush.
He knew he would stand out of the typical crowd as he approached the "Philtre", one of the few nightclubs near the district borders. The entrance was crammed with waiting people, most of them wearing the typical tattered clothes of Punk lifestyle, a few black clothed Gothics inbetween the mohawked folk. His violet leather jacket impressed with snake skin patterns would be the first indication that he "wasn't from around here", but if someone saw the Versace blend on his skin tight leather trousers, he'd be done for. The ghetto people hated nothing more than the "rich bastards from Central", and his clothing was screaming MONEY in capital letters.
So why was he here, Kelaste mused, watching the busy nightclub from a distance. Was it a death wish? Finally ending his existance of boredom and loneliness as he should have done many times before?
Maybe.
With flaring nostrils Kelaste started walking again, hands in the pockets of his jacket, the teased strands of pitch black hair seesawing in the spring breezes. He had just turned nineteen, a slim, elegant figure of merely male build, sweet and innocent looking as can be. Some people thought him younger, sixteen maybe, rather a boy than a young man, but didn't all teenagers look the same?
His looks had been an advantage before, sparing him a good few punches when he had hooked up with the wrong crowd, but right now he was pretty sure he'd get into trouble for "looking too young".
Approaching the bouncer, he fingered for his ID, pulling it out before the man could say anything. A ripped poster at the steel door announced the band "Angerhammer", a name fitting for the shrieking noise coming from behind the thick felt curtain covering the Doorframe.
The bouncer took his time comparing the ID to his face, and Kelaste couldn't help but smile at his guarded facial expression. How often had he seen exactly that look? Finally he got motioned inside, took his ID with a purring "Thank you", and passed the curtains.
The room smelled of sweat, beer and cigarettes, mixed with the still lingering aroma of disinfectants, an artificial, wonderful scent that buried itself deep inside Kelaste's brain. It was one of the advantages/disadvantages of being a Changeling to have this increased ability to smell and remember scents, that made his life a sweet agony of memories and nostalgia; that made it worth living a bit longer yet.
"Angerhammer" still jammed and mistreated their instruments, entertaining a crammed, but small crowd of headbanging drunks, filling the room with the angry sneer of raw emotions. Just a bit too loud, and a bit too tuneless Kelaste decided, as he weaved his way through the fixated audience, striving for the bar at the other side of the room. Flashes of blue light danced over his body as he passed the stroboscope, blinded by the intensity of the small gadget. For a second he couldn't see anything but black and white specs dancing through his sight, and when he ran into something solid, he first didn't realize it was a person rather than the counter itself.
"How about 'I'm sorry', scrap?" a slightly hoarse, but agreeable voice growled right next to his ear, while a strong hand grabbed his arm, and made him register his mistake. Slowly his eyesight turned back to normal, and suddenly he found himself in front of a slender, muscular man dressed in typical ripped black armypants and a muscle shirt with a band symbol he didn't recognize. Piercings of every known flavour adorned his nose, brows, lips and ears, perfectly fitting with the bleached blonde mohawk and the utterly amused expression on his features.
It took Kelaste nearly thirty seconds to stop staring, and mutter "Sorry", before he remembered how to breathe, and more importantly, how to blush.
Abonnieren
Posts (Atom)
