Changeling, Part II

imovipositive:

The long-awaited!
Part one is here

Star grabs you by the hand and your feet leave the floor. Not by much– you’re only an inch or two off the ground, but it’s disconcerting all the same. You wobble a little when you walk. You never could get the hang of heels.

Star, meanwhile, slides as smoothly as if he’s on greased rails. The crowd doesn’t do anything so crass as part before him, but somehow, they’re never where he wants to be. You follow in his wake and receive a few elbows to the ribs for your pains. Still, nothing can dull the excitement hammering in your chest. Nothing except the flashing red and blue lights blaring off the stoic black facade of the club.

There are two cop cars parked out front, and at least one more around the corner– you can see the edge of its flashing bubbles. Three officers are standing in a tight knot just outside of the entrance, speaking in hushed tones to the bouncer. They look up as you step out past the velvet rope, and for a second your heart catches in your chest, but it’s not you they’re looking at.

It’s Star.

“Good evening, sir,” one of them says, stepping forward. She’s a tall, broad-shouldered woman with close-cropped black hair just visible beneath her peaked cap. She’s wearing a dark blue windbreaker over her uniform and her boots have been polished to a mirror sheen. “Are you Thousand-Silver-Stars-Falling-”

“Yes, you apprehend my personage,” Star says. He’s got the same quiet tone as always, but now he sounds slightly annoyed.

“Good evening, sir. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

“Here?” Star looks around theatrically. “Your diligence is comestible, but your timing is ill-construed. I am entertaining.”

“This won’t take a moment, sir. If you’d prefer not to, that’s your right, but we’ll be having this conversation later at the station.” The woman’s tone is firm. You stare at her with puppy-dog eyes, hoping to communicate wordlessly that she’s seriously cockblocking right now, but she doesn’t even glance in your direction.

Star is silent for a moment, and you feel your feet gently settle back to earth again. Too bad. You were starting to get used to that. “Fine,” he says, and all trace of whimsy is gone from his voice. “I will endear myself to your interrogative. Please be alacritous.”

The policewoman reaches into the pocket of her jacket. With one smooth motion, she produces a small square of plastic about the size of a postcard. A photo: a woman you don’t recognize, young and vibrant, smiles at the camera. She’s wearing a blue blazer with a pin on one lapel bearing a stylized C.

“Do you know this woman?”

You don’t, but clearly Star is expected to. He looks up without pausing. “Of course,” he says. “Lady Sophitia Chass. I was beside yourself to hear of her death. It is a loss without compersion.”

“When was the last time you saw Miss Chass in person?” the policewoman asks. You don’t like the direction these questions are taking. Does she seriously suspect Star? The idea would make you laugh, if this wasn’t all so deadly-serious.

“A week ago,” Star says. “Wait– my apologems, six days. She attended a functionary at my establishment. We talked, we drank, we laughed, and then she left and my next visage of her was on the television.”

“I expect the security tapes at the club will confirm that?” the policewoman says. There’s a hint of belligerence in her tone. It’s slight, but it’s there. The other two officers draw imperceptibly closer.

Star pauses for a long time, long enough that you start to worry, before he responds. “Of course. And you may expand them at your conviviality. Between then and her unfortunate demesne, I did not rendezvous with Miss Chass, and my associates will exemplify my veracity to you. The night of her death I was across town. Broadly, and to cut to the cheese, milady, I did not slay her. Do you have any further abstrusions?”

The policewoman’s eyes narrow. You can see the wheels turning in her head. She fingers the cuffs at her belt for a moment, then flips her hand dismissively. “No. Don’t leave town, though. We’ll call you if we want a formal statement.”

“Good evening to you, too,” he says, and takes your hand. To your mild disappointment, you don’t float this time, but your footsteps are light nonetheless. You’re not sure where he’s taking you, but your heart bubbles with excitement nonetheless. You follow him down the street and around a corner. The houses here are stately brownstones, each with a well-manicured plot of lawn behind its wrought-iron fence. You don’t even want to think about how much they must cost.

Star leads you up a short flight of stairs to a doorway made, seemingly, of metal strips. They’re all slightly different shades, giving the door a zebra-patterned look. Hanging from the lintel is a strange decoration, something like a dreamcatcher made from spun gold. Star reaches up to touch it as he unlocks the door and you think you see a spark pass between the shining filaments and his fingertip.

Then he ushers you inside and the dreamcatcher is instantly forgotten. Inside, his house is a mesmerizing whirl of color. What furniture you can see is oddly proportioned; tables seem to have all four legs of different lengths, though of course that’s impossible. There are paintings on the wall, though their shapes are irregular and blotchy and it’s impossible to tell what they’re supposed to depict. Impressionistic landscapes, is your best guess, though some of them are so vivid and alien that they must be pure imagination.

There’s no time to dwell on this. Star instructs you to remove your shoes, and you do, gratefully flexing your feet when they’re free of your teetering heels. He hands you a pair of thin cork sandals and you slip them on. They fit you perfectly, of course. He leads you up a narrow flight of stairs and waves his hand with a flourish down the hallway. The door at the end flies open as though on a string, and you feel yourself drifting down the hall towards it.

Stepping inside is like stepping into an aquarium. The light is cool blue and shifting, as though it’s passing through water. It seems to come from everywhere at once– there’s no visible lamps or bulbs. Two walls of the room are covered in curtains, and you can hear the city sounds from beyond, but they’re curiously muted, as though they’re coming from a long way away. Entranced, you pad across the room and place your hand on the curtains, but before you can twitch them aside Star lays his hand on yours. His masked face is showing a serious, brow-furrowed expression and he shakes his head chidingly.

The only item of furniture in the room is a bed, and it’s there that your eyes are drawn. It’s shaped like a massive teardrop and covered in a bright silver sheet; the aqueous light winking off its surface makes it look like a giant fish with twinkling scales. The far end is covered in pillows, no two of them the same shape or size or color.

Behind you, Star gently closes the door with a click. He turns to face you and spreads his arms. “My lady,” he says, his voice little more than a purr. “If you still wish an assignation… please, do forbear yourself to me.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. From the moment you stepped into his bedroom, your heart has been thumping, and now you feel as though it’ll burst from your chest. You’re actually going to hook up with a Sidhe? This is the holy grail, as far as your friends are concerned. You can’t believe it. And yet, there he is, standing in front of you in the flesh.

Such as it is.

Fortunately, you came prepared. Your dress is easy to get into and easy to get out of– a property you’ve made use of on more than one occasion. You reach behind your neck to undo the clasp, and the second it parts the dress practically dives to the floor. It usually doesn’t do that, but perhaps your clothing is as anxious as the rest of you to move to the next stage. The dress puddles around your feet, leaving you standing in the middle of a ring of fabric like a faerie circle. Blue light plays softly across your belly and thighs, and you shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature. You thought you looked good when you left the house, but in the pellucid blue light you look like a Goddess.

You wore a black lace-edged balconette bra tonight, and its hooks practically jump from their rings the second your fingers touch them. You slide it off your arms and let it fall to the floor. Normally, you like to tantalize guys a bit more than this, but now you’re practically in a frenzy to disrobe. You hook your thumbs around the waistband of your satin panties and, bending over at the waist, you slide them down to your ankles.

You stand exposed before him, and though the eyes on his mask are mere painted circles, you can feel them tracing up and down your body. Your breath catches in your throat. There’s a moment of unbearable tension, and then he speaks:

“My dearest, your radiance is beyond compare. Allow me to repay your kindness.” He shrugs his shoulders and his waistcoat slips off his back. Before it can reach the floor, it disappears in a puff of black smoke. Beneath it, he’s wearing what looks like a one-piece bodysuit. Or is that his body? It’s black, featureless, as smooth as silk from head to toe. One black-clad hand reaches up to his chin and clasps it between thumb and forefinger. He tugs, and the mask lifts forward and outward.

There’s nothing beneath. You blink in astonishment at first. Behind the mask is a void, a shadow darker even than the black of his garment. It seems to suck at your vision. You squint. Is there something in there? Some glimmer like a distant star? There’s something… a faint green mist, boiling up out of the recesses of his body. His arms and legs seem to shrivel. The mist gathers, thickens, pours forth like glitter-infused smoke. As his black outline disintegrates into ash, all that’s left is a vaguely human-shaped cloud of green… with the theatrical mask hovering in midair where its head should be.

“And now my bare facts are revealed to you,” says Star’s voice. It seems to come from just beside your ear, as though he’s leaning over your shoulder. “What do you think?”

“You’re… you’re…” You’re going to say “beautiful,” but the word catches in your throat. You stare, entranced, at what looks like a green nebula floating in the air before you. Embryonic stars twinkle and sparkle in its depths, vanishing whenever you try to look directly at them.

“The sidhe are dreams made flesh, my lovely,” Star says, and his voice is richer now, deeper, without a trace of its former foppishness. “What do you dream of?”

“I don’t… I can’t…” you begin, but putting a sentence together is beyond you in your current state. Gooseprickles rise on your flesh. Your nipples are as hard as diamonds, and the furrow between your legs is growing warmer and wetter by the moment. The mist flows over you, and you feel his hands everywhere: caressing your back, tracing a circle on your stomach that spirals in towards your navel, squeezing your inner thighs, your breasts, your mound. A finger flicks at the stiff and swollen bud of your clit and you gasp in delight. An electric current runs up your spine and your eyelids flutter like trapped moths.

“The… the bed…” you manage, and you feel a hand close around yours. You’re floating again, but uncontrollably, like a child’s balloon released on a summer’s day; you bob up towards the ceiling and bump gently against it, spinning in a slow clockwise circle. You try to “swim” through the air but succeed only in flailing your limbs. Only by concentrating can you make yourself drift in the right direction, but concentration is next to impossible; those hands are still everywhere, squeezing, caressing, rubbing, and something wet and flexible is licking a path up your thigh.

The two of you come to rest above the bed, and there Star materializes again. You can tell it’s him, though he looks nothing like he did before. The green mist solidifies, darkens, takes on color: the deep brown of old oak, the rich green of moss, the bright blue of a cloudless spring day. His face is taken right from the cover of a direct-to-Kindle romance novel, cleft chin and wavy blonde hair and all, except for the eyes: they’re bright robin’s egg blue, with no iris or pupil to speak of. They’re old eyes, but childlike and full of mischief. His body is a kaleidoscope of colors that shift and merge as you watch, and when he leans down to kiss you, you taste peppermint.

One thick-fingered hand reaches between your thighs, and you part your legs eagerly to receive it. You’re both still floating three feet above the bed, your bodies bumping and twisting against each other. His fingers slide between your lips, stroking your inner walls, rubbing against your most sensitive places. You twist and sigh; his hand glides across your quim, inerrantly finding all the secret spots, the spots most men couldn’t find with both hands and a map. His fingertips caress your inner lips, pink as coral, while his thumb circles your clit. He presses down once, again, each press sending a wave of ecstasy through you. At the same time, he’s kissing you, his lips soft and warm and full of flavors: mint, fruit, whiskey. His tongue is broad and supple and tangles expertly with yours. He nibbles at your lip, then leans in to pass his breath into your lungs. You inhale and taste spices, exotic and musky.

You’re not going to last much longer at this rate. His hand is working in and out of you, two fingers at a time plunging into your dripping slit. Your juices are painting your thighs. You can’t recall ever being this wet. You buck and grind your hips against his, trying to will him to work faster, harder, deeper.

Your orgasm breaks as suddenly as a summer rainstorm. One second your mind is on fire and the next it’s seared blank. Your thoughts flee and bliss flows into the empty space with the force of a tide. You cry out, you think; it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s going on inside your head. You certainly thrash in midair, but he holds you tight, and his hands don’t let up for a moment. Smaller aftershocks are wrung out of you like fireworks popping off in a line, each one an explosion of pleasure and delight that bursts forth from your needy and aching clit. It takes a long time for the echoes to die away.

When they do, you open your eyes, to see yourself staring at a creature of shadow. Gone is the handsome almost-human shape. Now, Star’s head is elongated, equine, with a broad jaw and a prominent overbite. Bony ridges protect the sunken pits of his eyes; dying stars glimmer in the depths. His body seems to be made of ropes, living ropes that twist over and snare each other, pulsing and throbbing with their own heartbeat. They’re tarry black and covered in tiny scales, like snakes. He has three legs, you think, or perhaps four. Certainly he has more than two arms; however many there are, they’re wrapped around you, each ending in a pincer that clutches you gently. It’s a nightmarish shape, but you feel no fear at all. Perhaps it’s the afterglow of your recent climax.

“Is… is this your real shape?” you ask, mostly keeping the quaver out of your voice. Star growls in response, but you understand his words perfectly all the same.

Silly girl. Weren’t you listening? I have no real shape. Some dreams are darker than others, child. Never fear– I would never hurt you. Will you walk on the dark side?

You will. God help you, you will.

He takes your nod as the assent it was meant to be, and shifts his body against you. His legs are wriggly, prehensile, and their wrap around yours and pull them apart. Something stiff pokes at the aching wetness between your legs. It feels enormous, and you’re glad you can’t see it. You might lose your nerve.

Ready, sweetling? he breathes, and when you nod again, he thrusts his hips forward. You let out a thin, high squeal as his cock slides between your folds. It is huge, and slimy, with a rough outer texture. You’ve seen toys covered in bumps or protrusions; this feels like you imagine those must, a thousand tiny points pressing against your velvety inner walls. It’s not painful, but coming so soon after your last orgasm, it’s intense, and you struggle for breath. He works his way out of you slowly, only to slam back in, this time practically hilting himself. You struggle to catch your breath. Every time he thrusts, you see stars; every time he withdraws, the breath leaves you all at once as pleasure crackles up and down your spine. Your toes curl, your fingers flutter pathetically in midair. He pays no heed to either. He’s found his rhythm now, his cock churning you up deep inside, each merciless thrust wringing a choked gasp from your lips. Your pussy is defenseless against him. The air is filled with a wet squelching sound, and with each withdrawal, more sticky wetness paints your thighs.

You surrender to him. What other choice do you have? Your hungry, greedy pussy already gave up any hint of resistance. More, she demands, more, harder, deeper! Give me more! You’d beg, if you could form the words. It doesn’t matter. He seems to sense your craving. No, not craving: your need. You haven’t been fucked like this since… well, since ever. He knows you better than you know yourself, knows every detail: the way you want him to hold your legs apart, the perfect depth at which to fuck you, the specific angle calculated to wrench the maximum pleasure from each thrust. His mouth descends on your left breast and something soft and wet with multiple parts begins to explore your nipple. Part of it is rough, like a cat’s tongue, another part smooth like butter. You cry out. You can feel something gushing forth from your nipple, and you see his alien throat work to swallow it. You’re nurturing him, you realize, feeding him as he pleasures you. The thought is so erotic it almost brings you to climax then and there.

Something in his tempo changes, and you can sense that he’s close. He begins to pull out, and you find the presence of mind to beg. “No!” you say. “Please… come… inside… I want it…”

You don’t even know if Sidhe can father half-human children, and in that moment, you don’t care. You want his seed inside you as badly as you’ve wanted anything at all. Still, he withdraws, and gently silences your frustrated moans with one finger.

I shan’t, dearest. It would be dangerous. The broth of the sidhe is a potent liqeur; most humans cannot handle it. I will dew your belly, instead– let me honor it, a beautiful belly.

You couldn’t put up an argument if you wanted to. The second his cock left you, his fingers moved in to finish the job. You arc your back and scream your joy to the heavens, the lust once more filling up your head and blowing away all traces of higher thought. Dimly, through the fog, you reach down between your legs and wrap your fingers around his member. It feels even larger than it felt inside you, a slick rod the size of your forearm, covered in a mixture of precum and your juices. You pump your hands back and forth in a daze and savor the little groans and grunts of pleasure you hear spilling from his lips.

All too soon, his member twitches and jerks, and an arc of something silver and glittery spurts from the tip. It splashes just above your navel. It’s warm, and where it touches your skin, it tingles. Another geyser pools inside your belly-button; another between your breasts. His volume is tremendous. Each volley is a teaspoon or more, and you count fifteen, twenty even, before his cock settles down. One last dollop slides out from his tip and across your fingers, and he lets out a long, deep sigh.

You’re as thoroughly basted as you’ve ever been, but when you look down at yourself, you don’t feel dirty. You’re covered in silver, delicate cobweb patterns of it; as you watch they run and merge and split and divide and reform into mystic-looking symbols and strange runes. Then they’re gone, evaporated in an instant, and so is he. You’re floating alone above the bed and somewhere above you is a cloud of green mist.

“That was lovely, my dear. Thank you.” Star’s voice comes from everywhere at once. Slowly, ever so slowly, you feel yourself lower down to the bed. You keep waiting for him to materialize again, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to. You want to ask to cuddle, but it feels foolish.  

“Rest as long as you wish, my dear,” Star says. “I hope that I will see you again at my club.” For the first time, a hint of wistfulness enters his tone. “I trust your evening was magical? I am afraid that, like all magic, the first time is the best. A repeat performance would lose its luster.”

You realize what he’s saying, but you’re too blissed-out to care. You knew this wasn’t going to be a relationship. Tomorrow, you’ll go back to your job and your friends, and all you’ll have left of Star is memories. But some memories last a lifetime.