Shapeshifter Ch. 01

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.