I shifted around restlessly and finally sought refuge in my own cup of coffee, blinking at the milky-brown surface intently just to be able to avoid his relentless staring. "That's a pretty exclusive name I'd guess." I mumbled just to break my own stupor, trying to make conversation. A million questions raced through my head, but for the life of me I wasn't able to voice any of them, let alone form a coherent sentence without being pushed first.
"Tell me why the Mafia want you dead." he demanded amiably, pursing his lips to take another sip of his coffee. He sounded relaxed and conversational, as if he weren't talking about a plot on my premediated murder, and it made his question even creepier. My surprise must have shown on my face, because he fired another charismatic, toothbaring grin at me that made my dick throb in interest.
"You thought I wanted to kill you? Do I look like a sociopath that runs around killing jailbait for fun?" he purred, and I quenched the impulse to answer 'yes you do' with another mouthful of coffee, then started to look for my faculty of speech. I remembered his impatience for unanswered questions way too well, and a small part of me was outraged at the thought that maybe he already deemed me stupid or slow in the head.
"I don't know. Maybe they want to weaken my father by killing his offspring?" I offered, keeping my face straight and neutral.
"No, they would have threatened him first, and they would have left some kind of message for him if that was the case." he answered. His glare never wavered, demanding more information.
"Hey, don't look at me like that," I answered back, "the only illicit thing I ever did was buying drugs and paying with sexual favors. The Mafia don't do drugs." Well, at least that was what I always read and heard. Somwhere through our verbal exchange I had stopped fidgetting, but now I clung to my cup instead as if life itself depended on it.
The thought of being wanted by the Babylon Mafia scared me shitless. They had first shown up about 50 years ago, a strange and exotic mix of Indian and Asian culture with a very particular interest for human trafficking, smuggling and black annealing. In the last few years there had been rumors about Mafia members joining the ranks of police and taking over political functions. A dozen people had turned up dead, officials had proudly announced the forming of an anti-corruption squad, and then everything had gotten quiet. Quiet was not good. Quiet meant they had gotten so influential on the cities highest ranks, that noone dared talk about them anymore.
They could make people disappear. They could make me disappear. I just didn't know why they would have any interest in me.
Noom assessed me quietly for a few moments. I practically felt his gaze travel from my face to my neck, then to my naked, slim chest and further down, before his eyes snapped back to my face, staring at me over the brim of his cup when he took another sip. "I want to keep you around for a few days, but I don't want to end where you are now, having a bounty on your head and all that. They said 'kill him where he stands', and that's what I'd do under normal circumstances." He seemed to want to add something to that, but he didn't, and he stopped staring. It caught my attention.
"So why don't you? If you're a contract killer you shouldn't mind who you kill." I griped, unable to contain my grief on the thought of someone - anyone - wanting to kill me. I was used to being hated and rejected, even to recieving threats of violence and of course being subject to corporal punishment, but nobody had ever tried to kill me, or talked about killing me before.
The bell sounded, indicating the end of the second break. It felt like the announcement of impending doom for me, but before I could find some kind of lame excuse to stay in the hall Doug already pulled me to the entrance, giggling excitedly. He was in heaven, whereas I was in hell. Even though I had never heard of Mr. Schoenberg before Doug seemed to be in nerdvana, jabbering about oh-so-exciting historical facts and anecdotes from his life. I suddenly got wary about the whole Schoenberg thing, since he hadn't talked that much about any of the other compositions, but I had to admit that I tended to be paranoid after his last escapades.
We took our seats, the lights went down, and then...
Noise. Another aeon of despair and torture unfolded before me, this time intensified by the heartbreaking abuse of one of Lord Byron's poems that a burly, grey haired man stammered between a cacophony of violated violins and pianos. My stomach clenched, followed by a wave of nausea and a jabbing pain in my gut. This was not good at all, and for once I didn't blame it on the music, or the sparkling wine.
Leaning over to Doug I mumbled, "I think that last oyster was spoiled, I need to go. Can you take me home?"
Doug didn't react, his gaze transfixed at the stage, a drunk smile on his face.
"Doug, I'm dying here. Take me home!" I repeated, hissing when my guts tried to crawl up my gullet.
"He's fabulous, isn't he?"
This time I followed his glassy eyes, and for a second I forgot my rebellious intestines. In the first row of the orchestra sat John the shags-my-boyfriend-violinist, brows knitted together in concentration, flaxen hair flying wildly every time he swung his violin bow, and damn him, he did look gorgeous! The top buttons of his white suit shirt were undone, the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up just enough to show his lean wrists, his lithe body moving sensously to the sweet purr of his instrument...
The world spun, and the combined pain of cramping innards and a broken heart stole my breath. "Doug..." I began, then gritted my teeth and left my seat, wishing I would have had the guts to just vomit into the face of my boyfriend. He would have deserved it.
I stumbled into the empty hall, one arm wound around my raging stomach, sweating like a pig. My steps gave off an eerie echo when I ran for the restrooms, sounding like a scene from 'The Shining', not unlike the music I had been treated to minutes before. I was glad that everyone else seemed to be enthralled by the concert since my retching and heaving must have been heard throughout the entrance hall.
I was bored out of my mind. I was literally dying amidst the buzzing of twohundred people blabbering about atonal noise they dared call "compositions of the Second Viennese School". Death by cultural overload, or by fatal dose of canapés. The taste of my last culinaric adventure into French cuisine still stuck to my molars like salty, squishy gum. The oyster had resisted every attempt to flush it down with sparkling wine, giving off a slightly rotten flavour every time I stopped drinking for a few minutes. It was the reason why I sipped at my fifth glass of booze, and since I didn't drink alcohol normally, I was nearly at a point where I ceased caring about what people might think of me if I voiced my opinion about "dodecaphony", French appetisers and people who ooh-ed and aaah-ed at crap like that.
"Oh my god!" Doug exclaimed behind me, making me jump just a little. "They're gonna do 'Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte' by Arnold Schoenberg next, you'll love that one!"
I must have looked pretty unimpressed, because he linked arms with me and gave me his damned-to-hell puppy eyes. "You'll like it, I promise! It's a setting based on the poem by Lord Byron, very emotional. You love his poems, don't you?"
I gritted my teeth and felt the chunk of dead oyster squish and flood my taste buds with another wave of nauseating lukewarm saltwater flavor. My stomach churned disapprovingly, but I had the decency to nod at his question. Yes I did like Lord Byron, but I could have done without the music.
The only reason I tortured myself with a whole evening of classical music was Doug, my boyfriend. He was a musicology major in the middle of writing his M.A. paper, and I hated him as much as I loved him.
Two weeks ago I had come home to the moans and groans of two rutting males, none of them being me. They hadn't heard the loud bang of the door. They hadn't even heard me calling angrily "Honey, I'm home!". It had been the third time I had surprised my alleged boyfriend with John, and all I had felt had been intense distaste.
I had broken up with him when he finally had noticed my presence.
Yesterday he had knocked on my door, apologising over and over. He had even brought roses, and two tickets to a classical concert. Damn his puppy eyes. We had had great make up sex, and now I was here, surrounded by people I didn't know, having the poor dead oyster form a tight knot in my stomach, and feeling totally out of place.
Gulping down a mouthful of sticky saliva I slowly rose, holding up my hands to keep him from putting a bullet into my head. "Sorry, I was distracted." I muttered when the cold pressure of the gun disappeared. How was I supposed to explain the intriguing allure of scent to someone who couldn't even smell the tracks mice had left next to his wardrobes? Then again, how could I have missed the strong aroma of fresh hot coffee right behind me? As soon as I didn't fear for my life anymore it hit me like a sledgehammer. He hadn't snuck up on me, he actually had brought two cups of coffee, placed them on the coffee table behind me, and THEN pulled a gun without me noticing him. Jesus, did I feel stupid!
Pushing the Gun between his Belt and the waistband he grabbed my wrist, snickered at my sheepish look and pulled me back to the couch resolutely. "Now don't look so sullen. Your naive fascination was kinda cute. But it's just a trunk, and it won't kill you if it gets angry, I will. Now sit and drink your coffee like a well-mannered guest is supposed to."
Too baffled to resist I let him push me down onto the couch and automatically grabbed one of the mugs, already dreading the possibility of unsweetened hot beverage. I was positively surprised when i tasted a good amount of sugar in the first sip I tentatively took - he did seem to get me quite fast. Nearly purring I closed my eyes, savoring the taste as I sipped and swallowed, feeling more alive with every second.
"You're strange, ya know that?"
I twitched in shock and nearly coughed out the good coffee when he spoke. Had I spaced out again? "I think I have a concussion." I mumbled swallowing hastily, and set the cup down cautiously, eyes cast down as I blushed. "And I'm not strange, I just like coffee." And scenting, but I didn't say that out loud. He already thought I was nuts anyways.
"You do realise that you are naked and partially hard?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his kissable, pale lips. He surprised me once again by saving both coffee mugs just in time when I bumped the coffee table as I jumped up. Grabbing the unicorn to hide my crotch I scampered around looking for my clothes, and my face got hot from embarassment. Jeans, trousers, there had to be something I could put on before I died of shame!
I heard a clicking sound when the coffeecups were put back on the table, then a piece of black and white colored cloth hit my face. "You won't be able to wear that for long, but since I plan to finish my coffee before I jump you, you can put that on - for now." he said.
My breath hitched, but I didn't respond to his infuriating calmness. Eyes cast down I simply put down the unicorn and put on the pair of... what in the name of god? The piece of clothing he had given me was some kind of rough cloth shaped like leggings from the knees down. The upper part resembled very tight clad jeans that sat low on my hipbones and hugged my ass with a loving grip. Either it was at least one size too small for me, or it was meant to show off my body in a way even I found slutty. At least it covered my more intimate parts, but the bulge of my cock showed quite nicely through the material. Nevertheless I didn't dare object to his choice of garment, so I picked up the poor unicorn, put it back on the couch and sat down next to it.
Now that I had at least some piece of clothing on my skin I immediately started to feel better, calmer, ready to do the one thing I subconciously hadn't dared to do yet. I let my shoulders sag with forced relaxation and in return a pleasant tingle marched through my stomach, rewarding me for my bravery. Then I inhaled deeply and raised my eyes to meet his steely gaze.
Arctic blue. The color of glacial ice. A hint of clouds cought in a tempest. His irises had an unearthly draw to them, never wavering, pupils dilating ever so often in time with his heartbeat. While his body seemed to be totally at ease, the twitching in his eyes gave his nervousness away, and I felt my own pulse speed up in joy over my discovery. I caught myself leaning forward when I tried to decipher the emotions in his eyes, totally engrossed with their hypnotic qualities.
"Noom."
His voice startled me once more, and I quickly averted my eyes. "Excuse me?" I mumbled, picked up my cup and took another sip. Everything he said seemed to get me off-balance, and I started to feel pretty stupid. At least my vocabulary hadn't decreased to grunting yet, but if he kept confusing me like this it would happen sooner or later.
"That's my name. Noom." he repeated, while his eyes took the grand tour over my body again. His ogling wiped out my relaxation within seconds.
I woke up sneezing, trying to get the heavy scent of patchouli out of my nostrils. My head was throbbing somewhat fierce, the right side of my face felt bloodshot and swollen where Mohawks fist had met skin and bones, but at least it did seem like nothing was broken.
I didn't know where I was, but the smells surrounding me weren't familiar, so I assumed we had left my apartment. Music was playing somewhere behind me, a pretty good recording of The Cramps' 'Faster Pussycat'. I found it to be enormously irritating, but it made me carefully raise my head from the cushion I had been cuddling unconsciously.
I found myself lying on a couch right next to a spartanic, battered and old desk that looked like it had been timbered out of fruit crates and pilings, then diligently coated in black and white zebra stripes. The couch itself was covered with a dark grey spreadsheet made of cotton, and the alleged cushion I had cuddled proved to be a pretty big pink plush unicorn with the silliest grin I had ever seen on a stuffed animal. It made me sit up with a quick jerk that brought stars to my eyes and made me gasp softly. No fast motions with a concussion, I reminded myself as I slowly peeled my eyes open again.
To my left there was a big twin bed with crumpled bedding and a canopy of small bats cut out of foamed rubber and suspended on black yarn. I must have stared about thirty seconds before I remembered I had to breathe, the sight was just too tacky to be real. But sure enough, even after blinking and rubbing my eyes the flock of black batman signs still hovered above the sheets.
Dark hardwood floor stretched between bed, couch and something that looked like a wooden bannister separating this living room from a staircase leading down, and a set of five shabby wardrobes covered the opposite wall. Another door to the other side of the desk led from the bedroom into another room, but I didn't dare stand up to have a look yet.
Between the Wardrobe and the bannister I spotted a huge metal trunk with a digital combination lock, and it made me pause for a second. Nothing in this room seemed to be of any value other than an emotional or nostalgic one, except for that little security vault. I practically itched to go over there and open it, and before I even realized that I was stark naked, I already had crossed half of the room.
My sense of scenting helped a lot as I crouched down in front of the trunk, leaning forward to suck in the air above it. Gun oil, black powder, the sharp pang of smoothed metal blades and something harsh and chemical I had never smelled before and couldn't identify. A weapons chest I assumed, while my fingers scratched and tapped against the display of the combination lock. I leaned down, pressing my ear against the mechanism, listened intently to the soft clicking and humming it made when I pressed some of the buttons. I must have been totally consumed by my inspection, because when I suddenly felt something hard and cold pressed against my neck, I nearly jumped head first into the wall behind the trunk.
"You better not play around with that, scrap. Those things tend to explode." Mohawk rasped amused, tapping the gun against the back of my head. Again he had sneaked up and pulled a weapon on me, and I felt like a bloody fool.
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:
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
