Story Publications on Literotica.com

Hello there, Friends of violationblog!

After much consideration and stage fright I finally decided to publish two storylines of mine at my favorite erotic story website: www.literotica.com

You can find me under the same name there as here: "metajinx"

After finishing the first Part of "Changeling" - it has been renamed to "Shapeshifter", since Changelings are a whole other species - I started a second story in German, called "Elf und Einer". Eventually I will translate it to English since the English readers seem much more openminded about fantasy stories than the Germans (shame on you, German speakers!).
Here are the direct links:

Shapeshifter - Pt. 1
Elf und Einer - Teil 1
Elf und Einer - Teil 2

Another link shall reveal the muse I used for my german Story. This is a fantastic song by ASP, closely tied to the fable of "Krabat", a young warlock. The song is a bit hard to translate, it has a very lyric, ancient form of german phrasing. Or to say it bluntly: It sucks in English, because i don't know the important phrases. Be assured that it's great in German, the meaning is very strong. I recommend you to watch the Movie "Krabat" (2008) to get the full force of awesomeness :D

Elf und Einer - Translated Lyrics

Eleven and another shall be from ancient times

there mustn't be too many or to little

Eleven and another and their master withal

wreak the dark arts in candlelight at night

Eleven and another, noone is likely to be spared

Eleven and another, and their master to rule

Eleven and another listen to his reading out

Cawing the raven choir repeats

Eleven and another, watch out and listen closely

Eleven are ravens but the one you are

Be patient, friend, it won't take any longer

until the master calls: Shoo! To your posts!

Refrain:

At night the raven's feathers black as coal,

at days white from flour like white snow

and every year the godfather takes another

yes, every year one of the friends must go.

The master needs another life

and one of us must give it

and the millwheel rotates slower and then stops.

Eleven and another already wait in the candle's smoke

infront of skull and book as it is tradition

chained it lies on the cold rock

Eleven and another time the clock rings as it must.

Eleven and another without wings are ready

but in a trice just you sprouse a plumage

looking down at your body and you're worried to death

when the master calls: Shoo! To your post!

Eleven and another and you are into the count

Listening to the litany in the dead of night

Eleven and another, soon it will be done

eleven and another soon will know how it is done

How to get a well to run dry

how to creep into the mind of another

how to make weather and to stop time

he who controls the black arts rules the world

Eleven and another the change their shape,

All the same what it was it will soon be

if as a horse, a cock, an ox or a snake

until the master calls: shoo! to your posts!

Eleven and another and one more are too many

says the master

eleven and another are the goal

it always hits one, he falls through the sieve

the one too many dies, twelve is the principle

Here are the original lyrics:

Elf und Einer solln es sein von Alters hier,
keiner darf zu wenig sein und keiner mehr
Elf und Einer und der Meister obendrein,
Üben Nachts die schwarze Kunst im Kerzenschein

Elf und Einer,es wird keiner gern entbehrt
Elf und Einer und der Meister der sie lehrt
Elf und Einer hören zu und er liest vor
Mit Gekrächze wiederholt der Rabenchor

Elf und Einer,pass gut auf und hör gut zu
Es sind Raben und der eine das bist du
Nur Geduld mein Freund es dauert nicht mehr lange
und der Meister ruft:Husch,auf die Stange!

In den Nächten Rabenfedern Schwarz wie Kohle,
An den Tagen weiß von Mehl wie weißer Schnee
und jedes Jahr kommt der Gevatter einen holen
Ja jedes Jahr muss von den Freunden einer gehn.
Der Meister braucht ein neues Leben
und einer von uns muss es geben
und das Mühlenrad wird langsam und bleibt stehn

Elf und Einer,ja so war es immer schon
So wirds bleiben so verlangts die Tradition
Elf und Einer tragen bald das schwarze Mal
Elf und Einer und der Meister ist die Zahl

Elf und Einer warten schon im Kerzenrauch
vor dem Schädel und dem Buch so ist es Brauch
Angekettet liegt es auf dem kalten Stein
Elf und Einmal schlägt die Uhr so muss es sein

Elf und Einer ohne Flügel sind bereit
Doch im Nu wächst nur noch dir ein Federkleid
Schaust an dir herab und dir wird Angst und Bange
als der Meister ruft:Husch,auf die Stange

In den Nächten Rabenfedern Schwarz wie Kohle,
An den Tagen weiß von Mehl wie weißer Schnee
und jedes Jahr kommt der Gevatter einen holen
Ja jedes Jahr muss von den Freunden einer gehn.
Der Meister braucht ein neues Leben
und einer von uns muss es geben
und das Mühlenrad wird langsam und bleibt stehn

Elf und Einer und auch du bist nun dabei
Lauschst in tiefer Nacht der schwarzen
Elf und Einer und nun ist es bald vollbracht
Elf und Einer wissen bald wie man es macht

Wie man Brunnen einfach zum versiegeln bringt
Wie man in den Geist von einem andren dringt
wie man Wetter macht und wie die Zeit anhält
Wer die Schwarzen Künste kennt regiert die Welt

Elf und Einer sie verändern die Gestalt,
Einerlei was es auch sei es ist schon bald
Ob als Pferd als Hahn als Ochse oder Schlange
Bis der Meister ruft:Husch,auf die Stange!


In den Nächten Rabenfedern Schwarz wie Kohle,
An den Tagen weiß von Mehl wie weißer Schnee
und jedes Jahr kommt der Gevatter einen holen
Ja jedes Jahr muss von den Freunden einer gehn.
Der Meister braucht ein neues Leben
und einer von uns muss es geben
und das Mühlenrad wird langsam und bleibt stehn

Elf und Einer und noch einer sind zuviel
spricht der Meister
Elf und Einer ist das Ziel
Immer trifft es einen der fällt durch das Sieb
Der zuviel ist stirbt denn zwölf ist mein Prinzip

Moodsong: Matthew Good - Weapon

(Link to Youtube)

Here by my side; an angel,
Here by my side; the devil.
Never turn your back on me,
Never turn your back on me, again.
Here by my side, it's heaven.

Here by my side, you are, destruction.
Here by my side, a new color to paint the world
Never turn your back on it,
Never turn your back on it, again.
Here by my side, its heaven.

Be careful,
Be careful,
Be careful,
Be careful.
This is where the world drops off,
This is where the world drops off.
Be careful,
Be careful.

And you breathe in,
And you breathe out, for it.
Ain't it so weird,
How it makes you a weapon.
And you give in,
And you give out, for it.
Ain't it so weird,
How it makes you a weapon.
Never turn your back on it,
Never turn your back on it,
Again...

Be careful,
Be careful.

Here by my side, its heaven,
Here by my side, its heaven.
Here by my side...

Changeling - Pt. 1, Teil 11

He heard the jingling chime of the belt buckle, felt the bed move right next to his naked feet, felt the puff of air as Mohawk moved onto the bed behind him. He couldn't suppress a shudder when the heavy woven linen of his army-style belt wound around his wrists, binding them so tight it made his fingers swell... but not too tight, he discovered, wiggling his fingers a bit. His hands would hurt afterwards, but it was a pain he could live with.

With a leering grin Mohawk slapped his upstretched ass, making him yelp in surprise.

"You have the sweetest ass I've ever seen, scrap. Bet'cha show it around like a prized whore, don't you?" he snickered, kneading his buttocks with both hands, letting his fingers wander ever so often while he waited for the response.

Kelaste had heard his share of dirty talk in his short life, but being complimented in this sort of situation was new even to him. Furiously blushing he stammered "I... I don't show off! That's queer, and I'm not gay!"

The burst of laughter behind him made him blush to an even deeper red. "I'm not gay! I like women - LOVE women! I just blow for hits, nothing more! Why waste money if you can get it for free?"

A fingertip pressed against his anus, drawing slow, sensual circles. Gasping he jerked forward, trying to escape the odd sensation, but the only thing he got for his bravery was a hard, biting slap on the ass. "Hold still, you little in-the-closet-faggot! Next time you move, I'll make you not able to sit for a week, you hear me?" his captor snarled, then resumed massaging his most private orifice.

The slap shocked him into total stillness, dazed to a point where he forgot to keep breathing. It wasn't so much the pain itself that astounded him, but the casualty of the gesture, and his own response. Shouldn't he scream bloody murder? The slap had left a nasty sting on his ass, and it hurt as hell, why didn't he jump up, kick, scream?

Still the finger rotated, stroked, coaxed his sphincter, brought him back into reality, and made him wiggle just a bit, but he was careful not to move away. He didn't want to risk another slap, and... it did feel good, in a very disturbing way.

"I don't believe you." Mohawk rasped, then pushed his finger up to the first digit into him, and made him whimper breathlessly. "I think you simply like cock. And I think you like it into every orifice you got. I think you suck off dealers because it's a win-win situation for you.. isn't it?"

Mortified Kelaste jerked at the belt that bound his arms, desperately trying to free himself. "Don't!" he wailed, while he tried to still his growing arousal with pure willpower. He felt his sphincter twitch in euphoria around the intruder, trying to suck him deeper, reminding him of the pure joy of being touched after the long denial. It had been years since he had last played the submissive role, or even hit the bed with another guy, and while his mind screamed with disapproval on his own lewd behavior, his body had very different views.

"Your body also doesn't believe you..." Mohawk purred, und slowly started to move his finger. The delicate touch, the sensual movement stood in stark contrast to his voice and the soft, dry burning it caused in his backside, and made him shudder breathlessly. His spinning mind wouldn't form a cohesive response, but he did gasp a harsh "Oh!" when a second finger joined the game, stretching his hole to a point of real unease. He tightened up and again wiggled forward, but another hard slap stopped his flight immediately. This time he didn't stop at the first slap, another row of five smacking, loud blows on his backside made him gasp, then yelp, and finally scream breathlessly. The fingers in his ass never once stopped moving, and suddenly he not only loosened up, but also found himself with a raging hard-on.

"That's a good boy.." the rasping voice coaxed, accompanied by soft, pacifying strokes of his other hand over his burning ass, "just let go.. You're mine already, anyway. Give in, show me what kind of kinky whore you are, and I'll be more tender with you, I promise."

Burning shame ripped through Kelaste, but the more he tried to resist, the more he seemed to lose the battle. When Mohawk's fingers found his prostate, the electrifying rush of arousal made him groan helplessly and surprised... And that was the breaking point.

With a hungry moan he pushed backwards, closing his eyes to the inevitability of the situation, wiped away by sheer lust. What good would resistance do anyways? This way he could at least enjoy his last fuck on earth, and oh, the steady push of fingers felt so good...

With each shove of his ass, Mohawk snickered louder, pushed his fingers faster into him, and finally grabbed Kelaste's cock with a hand around his hips. His fingers tightened behind the tip of his swollen member, moving his foreskin back and forth with small, playful gestures, until his bell-head was thick, red and wet with pleasure. Never in his life anyone had touched his dick in such a lustful, skilled way, it had always been him who had given the pleasure, and pleasured himself afterward. The small touches alone almost drove him wild, but when Mohawk dipped his fingers into the wetness that pearled out of his slit and rubbed his moistened thumb over it, he nearly yelled with surprised pleasure.

And then he came. He couldn't have warned his captor even if he had wanted to, the orgasm was that sudden and intense it made his eyes roll back. His body shuddered violently while he shot load after load, gasping for air, heaving and whining in lust, barely able to not topple over.

"There you have it. You're gay after all. Just a little slap and tickle, and you're good to go..." Mohawk purred, his hand covered with juice. He pulled his fingers out slowly, and opened his pants onehanded, and smeared the shameful evidence onto his own pulsing shaft, savouring the feeling. However, Kelaste didn't get a moment to regain his senses. Right when he thought his twitching, hungering body had stilled, he felt the push of the big, slimy cock head at his sphincter. There was a split second of hesitation, as if Mohawk would wait for his protest, but none came. Then suddenly there was just the initial burning pain of his asshole getting stretched beyond comfort, and the feeling of a hard, throbbing dick intruding his body. His next moan was of pain, a low, harsh groan he bellowed into the bedding, clenching his hands into fists as he tried to swallow down the humiliation. Being captivated, bound and simply taken... But some dark part of Kelaste's mind made it impossible to withstand.

Moodsong: Nick Cave and the bad Seeds - We call upon the author

What we once thought we had we didn't, and what we have now will never be that way again
So we call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop)

Our myxomatoid kids spraddle the streets, we've shunned them from the greasy-grind
The poor little things, they look so sad and old as they mount us from behind
I ask them to desist and to refrain
And then we call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop)

Rosary clutched in his hand, he died with tubes up his nose
And a cabal of angels with finger cymbals chanted his name in code
We shook our fists at the punishing rain
And we call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop)

He said everything is messed up around here, everything is banal and jejune
There is a planetary conspiracy against the likes of you and me in this idiot constituency of the moon
Well, he knew exactly who to blame
And we call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop)

Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!
Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!

(Doop doop doop doop dooop)

Well, I go guruing down the street, young people gather round my feet
Ask me things, but I don'r know where to start
They ignite the power-trail ssstraight to my father's heart
And once again I call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop ...)

We call upon the author to explain
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com

Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing that mediocres my every thought?
I feel like a vacuum cleaner, a complete sucker, it's fucked up and he is a fucker
But what an enormous and encyclopaedic brain
I call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop ...)

Oh rampant discrimination, mass poverty, third world debt, infectious diseease
Global inequality and deepening socio-economic divisions
Well, it does in your brain
And we call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop ...)

Now hang on, my friend Doug is tapping on the window (Hey Doug, how you been?)
Brings me back a book on holocaust poetry complete with pictures
Then tells me to get ready for the rain
And we call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop ...)

I say prolix! Prolix! Something a pair of scissors can fix

Bukowski was a jerk! Berryman was best!
He wrote like wet papier mache, went the Heming-way weirdly on wings and with maximum pain
We call upon the author to explain

(Doop doop doop doop dooop ...)

Down in my bolthole I see they've published another volume of unreconstructed rubbish
"The waves, the waves were soldiers moving". Well, thank you, thank you, thank you
And again I call upon the author to explain
Yeah, we call upon the author to explain

Prolix! Prolix! There's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!

Moodsong: Bush - Out of this world

When we die we go into the arms of those that remember us
We are home now
out of our heads
out of our minds
our of this world
out of our time

Are you drowning or waving
I just want you to save me
Should we try to get along
Just try to got along
So we move
we change by the speed of the choices
that we make
and the barriers are all self-made
That's so retrograde
Are you drowning or waving
I just need you to save me
Should we try to get along
Try to get along

I am alive
I am awake to the trials and confusion we create
There are times when I feel we're about to break
When there's too much to say
We are home now out of our heads our of our minds
Out of this world out of this time
Out of this time
Out of this time

A One-Time Attachment Ch.1 - Pt. 2

Deeply exhaling he entered the Bodega, corralling the very first waiter he could lay hand on. The handsome young woman instantly glowed with delight, chirping a cheerful greeting. She nearly crawled over her rostrum to beat Gwynn to any question he could ask, reciting the special dishes of the week, offering to take his jacket for him, asking him way too personal questions about the occasion of his visit, age...
The little blonde seemed so desperate it got creepy. Finally he simply told her that he wanted to meet his MALE date, which seemed to slow her down enough to let him ask his one and only question: Had she seen a gentleman deposit a red rose on his table?
Obviously she had, and measuring her pained sigh, he wasn't the only one who had turned her down that night. Still smiling (but not glowing anymore) she pointed further into the customer area. Along the left wall half a dozen booths held small, intimate bistro tables separated by beautiful wooden dividers decorated with ornamental plants.
"The one you're looking for is the fourth one on the left. You'll be able to see the rose about halfway." she said, again sighing deeply and smiling.
Winking Gwynn thanked her and went on. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him he already was late - again! -, but somehow he didn't feel like rushing anymore. Suddenly he felt giddy and nervous, knowing his target was only a few steps ahead. The drive to check himself in one of the decorative mirrors once again was like an itch in his head, so he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and strode ahead stubbornly. His first wife would have tumbled over laughing if she had seen him at that moment. The great Gwynn, Wildwalker, Lord of Misrule, Mother Nature's naughty little stepson, afraid like a little girl on her first Ceilidh.
With bated breath he passed the first tables, ignoring the passing faces of other customers, reducing them to decorative extras to his great entrée. Cold, panicky sweat trickled down his spine, and then he took the last step...

The man sitting in the destined booth was a dream come true. His face was beautiful in a way that almost was bizarre, inhuman, unearthly. Gwynn even had to stop to catch his breath and blink away the numb feeling he had fallen into right there. The stranger's graceful, delicate features were framed by long hair so black it had blueish-white highlights where the warm lights brushed his head. Kissable lips sat in his striking face, matching his calm demeanor, and eyes dark like storm clouds inspected the surroundings with highly visible attention. He seemed tall, taller than Gwynn, lean and refined like an artist.
Gwynn let out a low moan and hurried on, taking the last three steps to the table before anyone could get the idea he felt unwell. The red rose lay on the white tablecloth like a splatter of blood. The stranger looked up and into Gwynns face, and there was nothing but polite interest in his gaze. Of course, it was hard to compete with his level of beauty, so the lack of reaction was something Gwynn had reckoned. That man simply had to be a Narcissist, seeing himself in the mirror day after day. Still, somehow it hurt having his pride scratched that thoroughly. Inwardly recoiling Gwynn brought a quivering smile to his face. Better get this over with soon, and crawl back into his cave.

"Good evening. I guess you are my date?" he inquired, expecting a yes, or at least polite rejection.
"I..." the adressed frowned - his demeanor suddenly implying something was out of order. His gaze brushed the red rose on the table, then met Gwynn again. "I have an appointment with a lady. With..." those beautiful lips curved into a small smile, "...'Homo homini lupus'."
Gwynn's personal codeword. For a few seconds the demigod mused about fading on the spot. So that god made into flesh had no interest in men. Or maybe something had gone wrong? There still was a very slim chance that a woman had chosen the same code phrase and by coincidence waited in the same restaurant, slim, so slim... He had to make sure.
"You are not 'Chi fa da sé, fa per tre' then?" Gwynn croaked, fearfully smiling at the glimpse of hope.
"That's me." the cultivated voice purred, adding "We must have become victims of technology, then - or victims of fate." He seemed unfazed by the prospect of participating in the mismatched blind date. His voice hurt Gwynns ears, sounding like angel's trumpets to his love-sick mind. The words made him cringe, desperately trying to hide his disappointment with a mask-like smile. But instead of letting him - the wooed ninny - off the hook, the voice went on. "Don't be appalled, please. Would you like to have a drink with me?"

A One-Time Attachment Ch.1 - Pt. 1

The restaurant had a shiny, new, polished plate right next to its intrance, proclaiming "Bodega La Ina" in big, arched letters. It sat on a subdued rock protuding into Bracket River, its big wooden terrace highlighted by dozens of red and white lampions, providing an ambience of welcomeness and familiarity. It shone like the proverbial beacon into the night. The suppressed murmur of indulging customers was carried over by breezes of wind, changing volume ever so often.

Gwynn labeled the whole thing as "decidedly creepy".

A people's person he was not. He didn't like crowded places, and he didn't like socializing. He'd never been 'a part of society' as far as he remembered, but life had got bloody lonely over the last few decades. Which, he reminded himself, was the reason for him being where he was. Standing in front of a mediterranean restaurant, spooked like a teenager.

Somewhere in there a man was waiting for him, a blind date he'd coordinated with the help of a dating agency. One of his regular customers had recommended that agency, an elderly lady that loved the written works of Stephen King, and despised single men for their indecisiveness. One evening she'd said "Mister Whelan, if you don't want to die lonely and cold, you need to find a lady to warm your bed."

Gwynn definitely didn't want to die 'lonely and cold', but he also didn't want to watch another 'lady' die from old age, while he stayed eternally young. As a Tuatha de Danann, a demigod of goddess Danu, he was one of the very, very few creatures unable to die from age or sickness. Of course it was possible for him to get killed, and if one day he decided to fade, he would wither and die like all the other demigods that already had left Assam, the living world. But the urge to fade had yet to come, leaving him stranded in a modernized world that wasn't his anymore.

Once again Gwynn corrected his outfit, revising the light suede jacket he had chosen for the first meeting. The black turtleneck shirt underneath it fit like a glove, matching the grey linnen pair of trousers. It had taken him about two hours to decide if he should wear something tight and form fitting, or a more casual outfit - he knew his ass was great enough to catch a glimpse or two. But in the end he had chosen the casual clothing, recalling his intention to find not a bedwarmer, but a companion that would pay more attention to his mind than to his body; this alone was a quest to be reckoned with, as his body often was described as "eerily perfect".

At 6 feet and 4 inches he was of reasonably moderate height, shoulders beautifully proportioned. His waist was slim, stomach flat and muscled, hands and fingers gracefully built. 'Musician's fingers' they were called, matching his delicately chiseled features and his long, black hair that reached over his shoulders. Strangers would have described Gwynn's looks as 'womanizer-ish', giving off an atmosphere of rascally congeniality, but word had made round quickly that he seemed oblivious to the glamour of Babylon City's female population.

At that moment his lovely storm-grey eyes held mild disquiet as he stared through the picture windows of the restaurant, trying to imagine which of the customers he soon would meet, silently cursing the date agent for her persistence on blind dating.