blood

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This story is purely fictional – no shapeshifters, punks, cars or flats were hurt in the process.



If you don’t like violence, please stop reading right here – there will be weapons, drugs, manhandling and rough sex. Not all of it, not in every part of the story, put you may get hung up once you start!



Also, please excuse my English – It isn’t my first language.



This story will be continued. Have fun!


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I sighed, breathing in the cool spring air. It was one of those nights, the cold, windy ones, which made me restless, made me leave my safe apartment, made me stride into the ghetto. Away, just away from the prickly clean streets of the Central District and down into the abyss of dirt, crime and poverty.



I knew I would stand out from the typical crowd as I 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 the Punk lifestyle, a few black clothed Gothics in between the mohawked folk. My violet leather jacket embossed with snake skin patterns would be the first indication that I ‘wasn’t from around here’, but if someone saw the Versace blend on my skin tight leather trousers, I’d be done for. The ghetto people hated nothing more than the ‘rich bastards from Central’, and my attire screamed MONEY in capital letters.



So why was I here, I mused, watching the busy nightclub from a distance. Was it a death wish? Finally ending my existence of boredom and loneliness as I should have done many times before?



Maybe.



With flaring nostrils I started walking again, hands in the pockets of my jacket, the teased strands of pitch black hair bouncing in the spring breeze. I had just turned nineteen, a slim, elegant figure of barely male build, as sweet and innocent looking as can be. Some people thought me younger, sixteen maybe, rather a boy than a young man, but didn’t all teenagers look the same?



My looks had been an advantage before, sparing me from a good few punches when I had hooked up with the wrong crowd, but right now I was pretty sure I’d get into trouble for ‘looking too young’.



Approaching the bouncer, I fingered for my ID, pulling it out before the man could say anything. A ripped poster at the steel door announced the band ‘Angerhammer’, a fitting name for the shrieking noise coming from behind the thick felt curtain covering the door frame.



The bouncer took his time comparing the ID to my face, and I couldn’t help but smile at his guarded facial expression. How often had I seen exactly that look? Finally I got motioned inside, took my ID with a purring “Thank you,” and walked through 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 my brain. It was one of the advantages/disadvantages of being a shape-shifter, to have this increased ability to smell and remember scents that made my 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 head-banging drunks, filling the room with the angry sneer of raw emotions. Just a bit too loud, and a bit too tuneless I decided, as I weaved my way through the fixated audience, striving for the bar at the other side of the room. Flashes of blue light danced over my body as I passed the stroboscope, blinded by the intensity of the small gadget. For a second I couldn’t see anything but black and white specks dancing in front of my eyes, and when I ran into something solid, I didn’t realize it was a person rather than the counter itself.



“How about a ‘Sorry’, scrap?” a slightly hoarse, but agreeable voice growled right next to my ear, while a strong hand grabbed my arm, and made me register my mistake.



Slowly my eyesight returned to normal, and I found myself in front of a slender, muscular man dressed in typical ripped black army-pants and a muscle shirt with a band logo I didn’t recognize. Piercings of every known flavour adorned his nose, brows, lips and ears, fitting perfectly with the bleached blonde mohawk haircut and the utterly amused expression on his face.



It took me nearly thirty seconds to stop staring, and mutter “Sorry.” before I remembered how to breathe, and more importantly, how to blush.



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 me, storm blue eyes staring down at me with a mixture of good-natured humour and just a tic of volatile intent, as if undecided as to whether he should grab me and ruffle my hair, or just break my neck. He didn’t even look clean, with his tangled clothes and grazed boots and all, smelling faintly of beer, smoke and just a tickle of Axe. The piercings made him just a bit too archaic for my normal tastes, but there was something, something about the sight of that guy just got me off.



Scared with the sudden intensity of forbidden lust I shrank back emotionally and one of the dozens of social masks slipped into my demeanour.



A smile, cocky and purely kittenish crawled across my face, and with a good amount of internal horror I watched myself chirp right into the stranger’s face “How about you get a beer for you an’ me, and I’ll pay?”



Fighting the urge to run away I watched Mohawk think, returning the solemn look with a purely charming one. I knew myself, knew this state of auto-piloting through socially awkward moments, and I knew that Mohawk there wouldn’t see anything that betrayed my seemingly perfect flirtation. Nothing except a young guy, a boy, getting hot over him and overdoing the friendliness just a bit.



This was my safety valve, being able to flirt and piss off 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 large banknote I handed over to my new friend. Money talked, and I knew I’d have gotten the beer even without the help of my pierced companion. This way it was just a bit less awkward, and I wrung out a smile when I reached for one of the bottles.



Mohawk seemed to have another idea though, and just before I could grab the bottle, he pulled it up and out of my reach. Well, I could have leaned in and try to snatch it from his hand while pressing myself against the front of my new friend, but the thought alone made me shudder excitedly, so I didn’t even try it. Nothing ruined the mood as fast as pressing an emerging hard-on against the knee of a straight guy.



“How old are ya’?” Mohawk drawled with a slightly husky voice that gave away 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 my lips, then I smiled shyly and purred “Nineteen. Getting on your moral high ground there, Gramps?”. ‘Teasing again, are you sure that’s such a good idea?’ I scolded myself silently, trying not to cringe under the stare of my new acquaintance, but returning it with a seemingly effortless smile.



Mohawk frowned, then he broke into a grin and offered me the bottle with a wink. “Can’t blame an old man for worrying, can you.”



I snorted, then grinned back, taking a sip. ‘Old, are you kiddin’ me? Can’t be that much over twenty.’ I mused, registering the absence of crow’s feet, or any signs of wrinkles. One fast look-over, and I decided on ‘around twenty-five’. Not too old, not too young, probably already sexually established, presumably NOT interested in guys. Gay folk didn’t dress like this, I thought, and fought to keep my smile in place.



‘Such a pity. Time to end this little prank.’ I 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, I hoped to piss off that decidedly too hot guy and get going. The tightness in my skin tight trousers was killing me, and I pulled my jacket closer around myself to hide the obvious state of my libido without thinking about it.



Outwardly I sauntered away like a dancing kitten, without haste or rush, smiling over some private joke. Inside I was running screaming at the mere thought of touching that guy. I couldn’t have stopped if I had started.



I wasn’t gay, I was sure of this. The sight of a nude male didn’t leave me dripping pre-cum and drooling brainlessly, and I didn’t check out random guys in bars or pubs. Couldn’t be gay, having had more girlfriends in my short life than some celebrities. I enjoyed girls, and they enjoyed me. But sometimes, occasionally, I met someone that awakened some deep, dark lust inside me, mostly because of a glance, a special scent, a gesture. It was like a curse, living in this world of permanent temptations, and I had learned a way to deal with this – drugs.



I 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 covering the floor. The furious whines of Angerhammer were dampened by the whirring of a ventilation system and the bubbling of the busy drainpipes. I took a few moments for myself to enjoy the quietness of this way more rotten piece of space.



Out of this quietness the sounds of urgent, hushed copulation emerged, giving me 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 my stomach clench in excitement; firstly because I admitted to being a voyeur in relation to every flavour of sex, and secondly because I didn’t intend to pay cash for my fix today.



With silent steps I 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 stubble on his chin and greasy hair. His steady fidgeting gave him away as a dealer/user, and made me 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 I didn’t spot anyone else, and finally gave in with a sigh.



I approached the weasely looking guy with a small smile, unpackaged my ‘nervous, but hopeful’-expression, and started the verbal tug o’ war over payment for a simple H-fix. Guys like this dealer did get their claws into some women now and then, but most of them were sick already, or thin like broomsticks, and here I had an advantage – I was beautiful, not handsome, my features a bit girlish, definitely not masculine, and I liked to wear make-up and skin tight 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 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 my hair, as if in fear of getting bitten.



Joey’s crotch smelled of sweat and day old clothes;, and the wetness of the stained floor was slowly soaking my knees, but I ignored those incommodities. The frustrated sexual tension that had built up while dealing with Mohawk before now went into the working of my tongue. I delved into the exploration of Joey’s cock, working the tip of my tongue around the small slit on the tip of Joey’s prick before sucking him deeper to scan for the bulging veins on the underside of his shaft. Joey purred a coarse, hushed groan, as I put a bit of pressure behind my sucking, and pulled my head into his crotch with a sharp tug that made me gasp. Feeling my own cock twitch in sweet agony against the tightness of my pants I gasped softly, and worked my tongue harder down Joey’s length. Slurping, wet sounds filled the bathroom, and even though I couldn’t stop and peek, I felt the intense glares of bystanders after a few moments.



An audience, perfect! my mind purred in utter delight, and made me ram my head down until Joey’s prick pushed into the back of my throat.



The dealer uttered a low oath, his shaft twitched one time, then a second time, and then he grasped my head more harshly and bucked into my mouth, hot semen flooding down my gullet. It took him quite some time, giving me the sensation of suffocating before he stopped fucking my head, and let go of me. As he pulled out, a thread of spunk dribbled out of the corner of my mouth, making Joey raise his hand to scoop it up with two fingers and lick them clean.



Then Joey seemed to realize we had been watched, swore under his breath and let a small plastic baggie fall onto the floor before fleeing the scene.



I picked up the baggie, and shook it a bit to inspect the grey contents. 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 I took a good look around to find a solution for the other small problem that kept me from getting into subspace, someone to inject the H.



I hated needles up to an extent where I risked a full-blown turkey before I did it myself. Not that this had ever happened, there was always some junkie who’d do it for me for a few bucks.



Right now, two shabby, starved creatures stood near the exit of the men’s room and mustered me with the dead eyes of carnivorous creatures. Was I prey? Was I not? One of them eyed the small plastic bag in my hand with an intense glare. 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 me and giving me a good whack, I waved him near, and purred “Enough for both of us, mate, what’cha say?”



We locked ourselves into one of the cubicles and got the shots ready in no time. My new companion smelled of sweat and dirty human refuse, a fine thread of sickness in the stink that surrounded him. HIV positive, I concluded, while unpacking my one-way-syringe, once again grateful over having enough money to buy such small conveniences.



When the other man injected the shot into my arm, I was surprised by the concentrated carefulness the guy applied. He must have been a good-hearted, nice fellow once, I thought to myself, and ignored the pain that thought brought to my heart.



No use getting all melancholic over strangers, damn it! I chastised myself, biting my tongue to stop myself from asking questions that were none of my business.



Luckily the H started racing through my body, made me gasp softly, cleared my head to the point of burning bliss and let me sink back onto the toilet seat, while my helper injected his own shot, and stumbled out of the cubicle with a grunted “Cheers!”.



I watched the two junkies go with a trance-like stare, pondering about the fact that I had forgot to ask my fixing partner if he wanted a blowjob. It took me nearly two minutes to realize that someone was leaning against the wall opposite my cubicle-kingdom, staring at me in amused silence. Another thirty seconds went by as I reviewed my guest with crawling-slow thoughts, until I realized that it was the mohawked guy I had been all hot over before. Then my heart started to race, pumping adrenaline-drowned blood into my brain – and into my loin. I gasped, then froze as I realized what the guy held in his right hand.



Mohawk had a gun pointed at me, still smiling.



~*~



“Wait!” I cried with upheld hands.



“What for? You’re a done deal, mate.” Mohawk rasped, the corners of his mouth twitching at 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 I had to fight against the urge to throw up as my stomach clenched into a tight ball, fighting to get back my voice.



“Don’t shoot damn it! I’ve got money, if that’s what you want!” I snivelled while gasping for breath, still holding up my hands as if I could summon a bulletproof wall. The sudden fear for my life made my conscience 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 I 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 my cock twitch. What would this man do to me if I brought him into my home? Would he even consider the money instead of the kill? Surely he’d been paid to come here and kill me. No one 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 mine with an intense gaze.



A short pause as my cock tried to pierce through the leather of my trousers, then I estimated the content of my safe, and purred with a hopeful lilt in my voice: “Three thousand dollars.”



This time I could see something in the eyes of my captor, a short flicker of interest, some small piece of human greed going online in his head. A leverage I could identify, and I jumped right for it.



“I don’t got more money, but you could have my TV, it’s a flat-screen, 36 inches? And maybe, maybe some other stuff? I really don’t wanna die here.” I whimpered, words tumbling hastily from my 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’ my conscience purred, while I blinked rapidly at the black maw of the Beretta.



Again I could see Mohawk think, estimate the value against the problems, and then he put up the gun, and took three steps into the cubicle to grab for me. His hand wrapped around my elbow to pull me onto my feet.



“You come with me, scrap.” he rasped, smiling broadly, as he spun me around and pushed me out of the cubicle without letting go of my arm.



A second later I could feel Mohawk’s hand wandering beneath my jacket, then the muzzle of the Beretta pressed against my kidney.



“Move it, scrap. Time’s wasting.”



We left the ‘Philtre’ in silence, my captor pressed against my back, mimicking a loving embrace while the gun stayed where it was with iron constancy. I was led on with continuous firmness, getting directions through steady pulls and shoves that went smoothly with our pace. It was a strange, nearly intimate feeling of security to be handled that way, and it left me panting with anxious nervousness and a faint prickle of lust. Angerhammer had stopped shrieking, so the room was quieter than before, but people were still dancing in drunken stupor, shaking their bodies to the sound of the recorded music, making it hard to reach the exit straight away.



Time seemed to slow down, then stop, when Mohawk pushed me out onto the streets, shadowing my movements with the slickness of a snake.



“Where’s your car?” he whispered, his breath touching my earlobe when he wound his body around me, playing the one-night-lover for nosy bystanders, and only the gun pressed against my back ruined my short daydream about getting it up the ass there and then.



I caught my breath with a low hiss, trying to make it sound nervous, and failing when I felt Mohawk’s crotch pressed against my backside. I felt a definite stiffness that shouldn’t have been there, rubbing against me with thoughtless intensity. Then Mohawk bit my earlobe, tugged on it sharply, and reminded me that a question had been asked, but not answered.

I shivered, gasping for air through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to rub against the hot hardness pressed against my ass 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.” I panted, trying to stand very still and ignore the bulge in my own pants. Behind me I heard Mohawk swear silently, then a firm tug set us 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,” I felt the gun move away, then being replaced with another metal object, the hilt of a switchblade knife I guessed, “and just pull the switch twice. In, out, dead, no one will see why you toppled over, they’ll think I just helped your drunk arse home and had to carry you. Getting my point?”



I nodded hastily, trying to pull my jacket around myself more firmly to hide my erection, and the cold metal hilt disappeared from my back, as we entered the parking lot. A warm, muscled arm wound around my waist, pulling me close to an equally warm body, and for the few seconds it took us to approach my Lotus Europa I could pretend we really were a couple, walking home from a night out. The feeling of being pressed against another man’s hip bathing in his scent and body heat made my head spin with lust, and at one point I could have sworn that Mohawk peeked down at my crotch after I made another small, humming sound of indulgence.



Then we reached the sport’s car, and Mohawk whistled in appreciation, as he examined the unique paint job. The Lotus had a magnetic doublecolored 3D-paint, with its pearl silver colour when examined from the front, getting reddish-coppered if you moved to the back.



“Damn it scrap, now I DO believe you about the three thousand dollars.” Mohawk rasped, then his hand grabbed my neck, spun me around, and shoved me against the side of the car. Just a second later Mohawk pressed his whole bodyline against me, moving a leg between my knees to pin my abdomen against the car, only stopping for the length of a heartbeat when he felt the hard bulge in my crotch.



Then his other arm twined around my torso, and I could feel hot, soft lips against my neck as Mohawk bent down his head, and mimicked a kiss, while whispering “Aww, scrap, are you hot for me or do you hide a gun down there?”



Any other time I would have laughed at such a stupid joke, but somehow I knew that something would follow that statement and I was proven right.



As my neck was released, strong, manicured fingers groped my hard, pulsing cock right through my tight trousers, stroking me slowly and with perfectly measured pressure. My body shivered excitedly, then a slow, huffed moan escaped my lips as I leaned more heavily against my car, closing my eyes to concentrate on the knowing touch. Some of the tension seeped away silently, and just for a few seconds I was able to pretend that none of the things before this moment had happened. I would be able to touch him. I HAD to touch him.



The hand disappeared from my crotch, leaving me with a distinct feeling of loneliness.



“Get going, scrap. We’ve got things to do.” Mohawk purred, and gave me a good shove. Then he climbed into the Lotus.



~*~



Central District lay in dead silence when I pulled into the parking garage beneath the building I was living in. The street lights shone artificially white over perfectly clean streets, the only sound the distant humming of the highway.



My captor rode shotgun, gun at the ready, watching my profile and simply ignoring the view outside the window for most of the ride. When we pulled into an empty parking spot, he held out his free hand, and I dropped the car keys into his palm without saying a word. I would not escape this, at least not alive. The realisation had been seeping into my mind for the whole drive, paralysing my thoughts, unable to find a way out of the mess I’d stumbled into. What use would it do anyway? A few hours back I’d thought about dying out of boredom, die to flee the cage my complicated life had built around me, and now I was afraid of getting shot?



Slowly I climbed out of the car and watched Mohawk walk around it with empty hands. Where had the gun gone? Again he lay his arm around my waist, pulled me close, and started walking towards the elevator as if he knew where we’d be going. His calculating, steel-blue eyes took in every detail of our surroundings, scanning for security cameras, exit routes or audiences, as he ushered me into the elevator, and followed me in.



Head held low, I waited for the doors to close, then pushed the button labelled ’20′, and pressed my finger against the scan pad. Desperately I tried to ignore the looming presence of my ‘guest’, but again, Mohawk seemed to have other things in mind than being ignored.



The elevator started to move, and Mohawk looked up at its ceiling, again searching for security cameras. Then his gaze found me, and some kind of dark humour sparkled in his pale blue eyes, bringing them to life.



“Any live-in sweeties I should know about? I’d hate to shoot anyone just because you forgot to mention them.” His voice sounded hollow in the confined space of the elevator, its usual rough purr flat and without echo.



He moved against my back, again cradling me in his arms to press himself against my arse and put his lips against my neck, like a giant octopuss entwining boneless tentacles around its victim. I felt small and very, very helpless against the strength of his arms and the sweet seduction his body promised, always keeping in mind that this guy was armed and would presumably shoot him after robbing me. But then again, there was a thread of loneliness in the way Mohawk kept me near, touching me whenever possible, that made me see a spark of hope for survival. Maybe the fact that I was not struggling made Mohawk get closer to me naturally, but there was also a chance that my captor just felt the same attraction that I myself fought against.



“No, I’m alone. No one will come looking for me. No one will miss me. No one will intervene.” I whispered, trying hard not to react to the warm, soft lips what rubbed against my sensitive neck.



I hadn’t tried to move away, I hadn’t even tensed, but instead leaned into the embrace that would mean death for me later on, and I could feel Mohawk get irritated about my passive, almost friendly demeanour. Irritated, he grabbed my hair at the back of my head to pull it sideways and get better access to my neck. He was very excited as he pressed his hard-on against my backside to let me feel his own erection.



“Good.” he purred quietly against the side of my neck, and pushed me through the opening elevator doors, again leaving me with a sudden craving for human touch.



The suite was situated right next to the big, luscious Central Park, a vast space of precisely cut grass and trees that stretched around the Main Plaza like a crescent. The view was great at daytime, but at night it was spectacular – at least for those people who liked their surroundings dark and luminous. The lights of the street lamps looked like little fallen stars, huddling around the park borders as if ready to attack the natural darkness within it.



Two of the four surrounding walls inside the suite were made of polished glass, dampening the sunlight at days and protecting the privacy of its inhabitant at night. The entrance lead directly into a vast living room, walls covered in shiny white and black wood casing. Two pitch black leather couches huddled around a chrome and glass coffee table, decorated with petite white cushions. The whole room was illuminated by numerous halogen spot lights, setting highlights and darkened places like someone had calculated how they had to fall to look right.



A raised area right behind the couches contained the kitchen, complete with a counter to sit and drink flanked the living room like a built-in landscape, chrome kitchen utilities gleaming in the harsh halogen light.



A hallway surrounded by opaque glass led away from the living room, leading to an equally vast bedroom with a four post cast iron bed, blood-red bedding covering black satin sheets. The other side of the hallway led into a chrome and white bathroom, big enough to contain another person’s whole flat.



It looked expensive, perfect, and very artificial.



I moved into the suite without looking around, the surroundings all too familiar to spare a glance.



Mohawk instead gawked around with a slightly alienated expression, and walked into the centre of the living room to take a good look around.



“Damn it, scrap, who paid for all this shit?” he laughed, then dropped onto one of the couches and swang his boots onto it.



I took off my jacket and pushed my hand against one of the wall covers. It sprang open with a clicking sound, revealing the wardrobe behind the white lacquered wood. I put the jacket inside, kicked off the boots, and closed it. I turned around and stepped closer, carefully keeping my suddenly darkened mood out of my face. How I hated talking about my family, or my life.



“My father paid for it.” I murmured, hoping no further questions would be asked.



“So, your father’s a rich bastard?” Mohawk went on, simply ignoring the implication in my voice, while he started picking his nails with the switchblade. He didn’t even look up.



“My father is head of Flatlands Inc.” I answered again, hands balled into fists, awaiting the reaction that was inevitable.



Mohawk stood up like a puppet pulled up by the strings. One second he lay there leisurely, the next second he walked to me, switchblade in hand. His face was astounded, dark, harsh, the piercing gaze of his steel-blue eyes made me shiver in fearful anticipation.



“You are DeLargo’s brat? THE DeLargo’s offspring?” he hissed, and grabbed my hair with his free hand to pull my head back, and press the blade against my throat. All the humour was gone from his face, replaced by something very dark and dangerous, cautioning me to be very careful about what I was going to say next.



“I’m his neglected bastard son.” I whispered, as I started to shiver under the pressure of the deadly weapon against my throat. I tried very hard not to move at all, not daring to provoke my captor, but at the same time I had to fight against the urge to delve into memories that concerned my father. Memories of pain, of captivity, glimpses of dark cellars, chains and my father’s ever present deep and angry voice.



I heard Mohawk growl wordlessly, then I was pulled and pushed to the leather couches, and wrestled down onto my knees, while Mohawk sat down, knife still pressed against my throat. The leather protested softly under the weight of his angry, tense body.



“You listen now, scrap. Your da’ did a shitload of things I’d really love to kill him for. But right now I just got you, so it will be your bloody responsibility to show me, that you’re not deserving to be killed instead of him.” His grip tightened in my hair, then he moved the weapon away, and pressed the tip against my temple.



“You are going to suck me off like you never sucked dick before. Or you die.”



My hands fumbled with the trouser button, fighting against the soft shaking in my fingers as well as against the fluttering anxiety in my stomach. Cautiously I pulled open the fly of Mohawk’s trousers and grabbed inside to pull out his cock, shocked by the level of arousal I was presented with. The fingers in my hair tightened again, pulling me between Mohawk’s spread knees, then bent me over, pushing my face down.



I took a deep breath, steadying myself by putting my hands on Mohawk’s thighs, and gulped down the nausea caused by the simmering fear roaring through my head. I could do this. I had done it right when Mohawk had found me. This was not worse. I had to do this right.



Mohawk’s crotch had not a single hair to be found there, which made the whole situation a bit less disturbing.



A tug on my hair made me gasp, open my lips, and at the same second I got pushed down farther. The tip of his cock tasted of salty pre-cum and soap, reminding me that this man was not one of the dirty old bastards I got my fixes from. Holding my breath I closed my lips around the bell-end, setting my tongue to work.



It was as it had always been – as soon as I tasted the flavour of aroused cock, I got fascinated with the structure, the taste, the reactions of the tool to my searching, caressing tongue. It took only three seconds for me to settle into the moment, then, the need took over.



With a low, guttural moan I let my tongue glide over the glans, tracing the small slit with the tip, then working circles and caressing the retracted foreskin. I could feel the blood flowing into Mohawk’s cock, rewarding my attentiveness in the most honest way I could think of – arousal.



As I pushed my head deeper, sucking softly at the hot, silken shaft, I could hear Mohawk’s breath speeding up. I didn’t look up into the face of my captor, but kept my eyes closed as I nodded my head up and down, slowly working more and more of his thick, hard member into my mouth, sucking and savouring the salty taste of lusty arousal his bell-end gave off from time to time. The knife tip shuddered against my temple, leaving scratches, then blood-filled cuts in my skin, before Mohawk seemed to realize he was hurting me, and pushed it against my neck.



The seeping pain of fresh cuts made me open my eyes wide, then push my head down further and harder, until my nose touched his crotch, the thick length buried in my gullet. Shivering violently I started swallowing around the hard rod blocking my throat, silencing me except for the hissing, bubbling sounds my breath made while I tried to gasp for air. Blood dripped from my temple onto Mohawk’s thigh, and for a moment our gazes locked into each other, my fearful, dark eyes against the fiercely triumphant steel blue ones of my captor.



Then I tried to pull back, gagging and gasping, and Mohawk did the only thing I feared, he held me down, pressed my face into his crotch, and pushed the knife tip a little bit into the side of my neck, sending flickers of roaring pain through my head, making me struggle, gurgle and cry against the pulsing hard-on in my throat.



Panicking, I started to swallow harshly against the meat in my throat, feeling the twitching that promised Mohawk’s release in just a matter of seconds, before my captor moaned harshly and filled my gullet with hot, salty semen. Bucking violently he released his lust, and only then let go of me, shoving me backwards with a brutal push that sent me flying. Droplets of cum bubbled out of my mouth and nose as I started coughing spasmodically, rolling onto my side. It took me nearly a minute of continued rasping and swallowing before I could take a clear breath again, leaving the floor covered with flecks of saliva and sperm. There was a peculiar silence that filled the room for a few heartbeats, than Mohawk’s voice cut through my roaring thoughts.



“Lick it up, then lick me clean, little bastard.”



The sound itself nearly made me cum in my pants.



Slowly I came to my knees, bending forward, keeping balance with my hands, while my eyes rolled up and sideways to keep Mohawk in eyesight. My tongue stretched, breaking through my lips to lap up the mixed spunk with unhurried strokes. The cool, wet taste made my cock twitch angrily against the tightness of my trousers. Mohawk stared at me, his breath quickening as his eyes seemed to drink in the abasing situation I found himself in. Desire, hard, breathtaking and dark made his expression twitch, and made my body tighten even more.



As the last drop of spent lust disappeared into my mouth, I crawled over to my captor, letting him admire the play of muscles on my lean back, letting him feast on the submissiveness his victim presented him with. Slowly I raised my head enough to reach his spent, softening cock, and started licking him clean with long, sure strokes. I did not leave out his wet testicles, nor did I miss out on sucking his shaft again for a few heartbeats of sheer pleasure.



Mohawk groaned softly with the intensity of the cleaning job, letting me have my way until he deemed the job finished. Then he grabbed my hair again, pulled me onto my knees, and growled “If you think I’m finished already, think again.”



~*~



We ended up in the bedroom with me sitting on the edge of the red and black bed while Mohawk stared around in awe. Each and every room of the suite seemed to hold new wonders for the tattered punk, and since his hostage – me – seemed to be behaving perfectly, he now dared to drift into sightseeing now and then.



I kept staring at my keeper, feeling a strange but pleasant contentment in his presence. Shouldn’t I have been scared shitless? Maybe, but even with the switchblade still present I couldn’t bring myself to really fear him. Frowning slightly I brushed my fingers over the burning cut the knife had left on my neck, feeling the crusts of blood and the already closing wound. Yes, it had hurt as hell when the knife had broken skin, but I did heal three times as quick as any other human being, and it hadn’t been anywhere near fatal.



“What’s your name?” Mohawk’s rasp broke the silence, and I realized that I had been watched for at least thirty seconds while I had been so deep in thought.



Again I blushed, fidgeting a bit before I croaked “Kelaste. What do you care?”. Instantly I regretted the snapping tone, remembering the position I was in. Blushing even harder I tore his gaze away from ‘Mohawk’ and glanced down at my own hands.



“Well, Kel it is then. Take off your clothes, we don’t want them to get shredded, do we?” the rasping purr went on, sending shivers down my spine.



I was heavily aroused in spite of my fear, and shook off my clothes without hesitation. My young, silken cock popped out of my underwear like a happy puppy, teetering a bit as if begging for attention. When I shifted around to drop my pants onto the floor kneeling near the edge of the bed, I heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced at Mohawks face cautiously.



The slightly older man stared at my lean, milky white body with soft wonderment, drinking in the shape of my sleek thighs, the flatness of my abdomen, the slight goose bumps on my 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.



A hushed sigh rippled through his body, then he snapped “Turn around, wrists crossed behind your back! And stop trying to resemble a kicked puppy!”. His anger tasted a tad artificial this time.



I turned on my knees, silently obeying while I kept a perfectly neutral expression. The cool satin sheets felt like frozen water beneath my knees, the gleam caught the small lances of light, reflecting it onto my skin. Staring down at the bedding worth two hundred dollar I put my arms behind my back, crossed my wrists dutifully and waited for the inevitable.



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



With a leering grin Mohawk slapped my upheld ass, making me 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 my buttocks with both hands, letting his fingers wander ever so often while he waited for the response.

This is my first fanfic (that I’ve posted) so yea it might be over/under detailed, flawed, not that good, yadda yadda. So yea hit me with your constructive criticism and enjoy :D



…………………………



This had to be the worst idea ever, and yet Nick couldn’t help himself. He needed the heart of a Succubus to fulfill the ritual he was planning. He had everything else he needed, which was a relief, but he needed the heart of the devilish wench he sat across from. The heart of a Succubus was dark and dangerous, it could never love and it could never be happy. All it really knew was pleasure, and destruction.



Nick sat on the ground of the vast mansion he owned in Hell. It was one of those classic horror movie homes, dim lights and a fire place included. The rug was freshly cleaned, and its coffee brown color complimented the tone of the room. Its white walls painted with the dancing shadows of the two young demons by the fireplace, and the windows completely covered. He didn’t want anyone to see what he was about to do, even though he knew she deserved it.



Running his fingers through his short auburn locks, he took a sip of his wine and placed the glass to the side. His black blazer fitted to his slender form was ready to basically jump off his skin but he had to resist the woman’s power. He knew if he lost control of his own body, the mission would be failed and it would all be for nothing. Though what he didn’t know was the woman across from him, her jet black hair and shimmering green eyes had a task of her own to complete.



Grabbing the bottle of Dom. Romane Conti 1997, he poured the dark liquid into her glass and smirked. Using his charm to work his own magic, this was easier done than said. He was an Incubus himself, but he was not as experienced as Veronica. She had been alive for 1,000 years longer than him, and she could use that to her advantage. This was something they both, subconsciously, knew.



Veronica’s short red dress was as tight as her skin and her full breast hung out the top. Her beautiful cleavage staining the regions of his mind and cause him to look away. They both had taken a drink in that instance and she rubbed her toe against his groin. He looked up into her beautiful green irises and that was when he lost himself.



Grabbing Veronicas soft foot, Nick kissed her toes and slowly, but surely, made his way up her long smooth leg. With each kiss he planted, her breathing picked up and she let out quiet moans of pleasure. He licked her calf slowly and gentle like he had learned and caused her legs to tighten up. She was opening her legs now to reveal her white lace thong. Its surface darkened by the secretions she was releasing. Showing how much she desired him, or how good she was at her job.



Moving his soft, gentle kisses to her thigh, Veronica moaned out loud and ran her fingers through his soft, straight hair. She was controlling his head now, pulling it between her legs and rubbing his lips on her panties. Her chest was moving faster now, her desire for him growing stronger by the second and his bulge growing thicker. He moved his hand up her thigh, causing her dress to shift up her figure, and exposing the swell of her plump bottom.



Using his teeth, Nick gripped the top of her thong and slowly removed them from her curvy figure. She was squirming now, her hips up in the air begging for what he was about to give her; But she would have to wait. He would tease her, and take in her whole form before he penetrated her. Moving his head back into her sweet smelling vagina, he extended his tongue and licked her clit tenderly. She gasped at the sensation and moved her hips quicker, causing him to pull away and smirk. He would make her beg for it, he would make her his sex slave. And then he would take her heart, her dark tainted heart and use it for his own twisted desires.



“Please, don’t make me beg,”



Veronica moaned as she felt his head go back between her legs and lick the inside of her twat. She clenched her legs around his head, as he sucked on her clitoris and moaned. Sending vibrations in between her legs and causing her breathing to stop for a split second.



“Don’t …. Stop, please… don’t.”



Veronica cried out as she felt her body becoming warm on the inside. Her toes curled in pleasure, and right before she could climax he pulled away. She trembled in pleasure as he licked his way slowly up her body, moving her dress out the way as he traveled. She giggled as his tongue found its way to her belly button and wiggled inside the small hole. Veronica looked down, and her full lips, stained with red lipstick, parted into a smile. As Nick moved his way to her full supple breast she gasped before throwing her head back and allowing him to move her dress over her head.



Nick sucked on her small, erect nipples as she moaned loudly. He knew that this wasn’t going the way it was supposed to, he wasn’t in control of himself. She was taking control, and he had to control himself, but… He didn’t want to. Nick wanted her to take control of him, make him her slave, take control of her and have her way with him. This gave Veronica her power and allowed her to take advantage of the opportunity.



Flipping Nick onto his back, Veronica looked into his bluish green eyes and kissed him passionately; her tongue massaging his deeply, and their lips locking. While she kissed him, she opened his blazer to reveal his bare chest and clawed it sensually. She moved her tongue from his mouth, to his long smooth neck and bite down softly. Causing her fangs to break his skin, and leak dark red liquid pleasure onto her lips. He moaned in pleasure as Veronica dragged her tongue down his neck, to his chest, and sucked his tender pink nipples. He leaned his chest upward and could feel her smiling as she sucked gingerly and giggled into his chest.



Unzipping his dark blue jeans, she reached into his green boxers and rubbed the outline of his cock. Feeling his auburn hairs tickle her fingers, and his penis growing with every stroke. She moved her tongue down his abs and kissed his pelvis, causing Nick to jerk his hips forward. He felt her remove his pants and boxers quickly and grab his bulging erection. Kissing the tip, she began to work her magic and tease his pounding sex organ. She licked up and down his shaft before taking his quivering member into her mouth, touching the base with her lips. He grabbed her hair as she began to tongue the head of his cock and pulled away.



Sucking the head of his cock, she moved her tongue to his testes and sucked gently. Sending his body and mind into a frenzy, he sat up and kissed Veronica. She leaned her body up to reach his, and he lifted her swiftly into the air. Tugging his hair, she showed her fangs and hissed sexually causing him to groan aloud. Nick slammed Veronicas back into the wall and rubbed his growth on her clit, causing her to jerk her own hips forward. Slowly he inserted himself into her and she moaned in pleasure taking him all the way into her very being.



With every thrust, the wind was knocked from her body and she felt extreme pleasure enveloping herself. She felt him bite down onto her neck and she scrapped his back, causing six claw marks to show on his fine toned skin. Her sweet smell filled his nostrils and he went deeper inside her. Feeling her pussy tighten on the head of his dick, he groaned in pleasure and she did the same. He needed to be deeper inside her, he craved her body.



Whipping Veronica through the air both of them slammed into the kitchen counter and cracked the marble counter top. Nick slashed his arm into the pots and plates covering the surface and made room for Veronica’s beautiful body. Lying on top of her, he pumped his tool into her tight vagina and made her scream with pleasure.



Looking over to the knife rack, Nick became blank. He knew he was here for something, but this was all he wanted, she was all he desired. She was perfect and she was his only need, he didn’t want to eat or sleep or even breathe. He just wanted to fuck her heartless body. Heartless, why was that the word that popped into his head? There was something about that word that just stuck out, heartless. Less, Was it less? Did he need more of her? Yes that was it, he needed more of her.



Driving his cock deeper into her she moaned in pleasure and placed her palm against his throat. He could hear her breathing becoming rigid due to pleasure, and she could feel the air trying to enter his body. She tightened her grip as she looked into his and smiled as his eyes began to close. He didn’t stop thrusting though, he needed to do this, and he needed her body. That was when his vision began to blur, and everything flashed from dark to light and back again.



That was when he thought about the word heartless again. This time he felt there was something he was missing. Was it less? No, it was heart! That was it; he had forgotten he needed her heart.



Veronica could feel herself begin to climax and tightened her grip, taking what little air he had left. He had to do this fast, he had to kill her. Pulling her body up to his, he touched her chest to his and grabbed the knife as his vision slowly began to go dark again. He could feel her heart beating against his, its pace erratic and she screamed aloud as she came. That was when he struck; he tightened his hold on the tilt of the blade and pushed her body down removing her hand from his neck. As air rushed into his lungs, he jabbed the blade down; her chest being the target and missed. He missed!



Veronica had reacted to the motion and arched her body to the side, barely dodging the knife. His eyes bulged as she looked to him, her eyes becoming deathly serious and her tone cold.



“That’s the problem with men, always trying to take a woman’s heart.”



Veronica suddenly swung her fist into the side of Nicks head and knocked him back toward the fire place. Landing on his back, he struggled to have air reenter his lungs and she swooped down on him like a hawk. Her naked form falling on top of him and her hand equipped with the same knife. Gasping as he was suddenly filled with air, she looked down to him and smirked devilishly. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Nick reached his hand through her chest and punctured her rib cage. She gasped violently and he grabbed for her heart but… he felt nothing.



“I’ve had my heart stolen before,”



Veronica said as she held nicks wrist into her chest and he struggled to escape. She held the knife up into the air and his eyes filled with horror, this was what she loved. She loved to see the look in a man’s eyes when his heart was taken. She had taken so many before, but this time had to be her favorite. Because he actually thought she had a heart, it was adorable.



“Now I need yours.”



And with that, Veronica brought the knife down into his chest and blood splattered over the blinds. Did he really think it was that easy to find the heart of a Succubus in hell? They were always being stolen. But this time, she would take his corrupt heart, and use it for herself. He was clearly corrupt, and she needed a heart as wicked as hers to live for the rest of eternity.

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