Shapeshifter

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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.