Table of Contents
Impure and the Beast Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
Epilogue
About Bernadette Russo
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IMPURE AND
THE BEAST
Part of the DUSK NATION world
Bernadette Russo
Copyright © 2013 Steam Books Erotica & Romance
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
CHAPTER 1
Arnaud Lupin sighed as he leaned back in his seat, spreading his legs wider as the Japanese guy with the spiky hair crouched before him. Although he knew that Fuwad, his Moroccan driver, could not see what he was doing through the plate-glass that separated them, he still felt a little self-conscious. Nevertheless, he had needs, and as the Change approached, the old-fashioned way was still the best way of dealing with it.
He forgot what the man’s name was, not that it mattered. His mouth was absolutely awesome. Arnaud couldn’t have prepared himself for the slippery, wet skills of his companion. The kneeling one knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly what effect it had on men.
Nearly two-thirds of the way down his shaft, the Asian slid his mouth back slowly, until he could wrap his tongue around the head of Arnaud’s rod. Pre-cum oozed out of his cock and onto the warm tongue, which sucked it up eagerly.
Arnaud began thrusting up, desperate for more, as the coming Change coursed through his blood. It was difficult, however, considering the fact that his pants were bunched up around his lower legs. Small, warm hands gently grasped the base of his cock, pressed against the soft hairs of his groin, keeping him from thrusting too hard. Still, Arnaud was rewarded as the mouth opened wider and took more of his shaft in.
Eyes closed, Arnaud grabbed the kneeling man’s head and began trying to move deeper into his mouth.
Then he yelped.
The Japanese guy wanted him to know who was boss. Teeth began rubbing against Arnaud’s corona, and he understood.
Arnaud gritted his teeth and tried to sit still. It had been so long since he had cum, what with the recent demands on his time.
The kneeling one’s name was Daisuke Fukuoka, and he was no mere callboy who plied his trade on the streets of Paris. Not only did he service the rich and powerful exclusively, he was also a Familiar: one of the few humans who knew of the Others, and who willingly served them in the hopes of getting infected. The chances were slim, of course, but hope sprang eternal among this group.
As far as Daisuke was concerned, however, he would have done this client for free, regardless of whether he was an Other or not. Arnaud’s age, typical of his kind, was hard to determine – he looked anywhere between his early thirties to his early forties. He looked absolutely hot with his stunningly hawkish features; perfectly trimmed eight o’clock shadow which ended in a short, pointy, dark brown beard; and hooded eye-lids over bright green eyes.
Daisuke’s hand crept up beneath the formal shirt and undershirt beneath, reveling in the hard abs of the man he sucked. It was deliciously covered by a pelt of soft, thick hair. He loved them hairy; the hairier the better – so unlike most of the men back home.
The amount he was being paid to service this beautiful one was obscene, but he wasn’t being paid for his skill. He was being paid for his silence, as well as reimbursed for the potential risk involved. He could tell that his client was nearing his Change, a fact made evident by the slightly nutty, slightly cookie dough-like smell of his sweat.
He was in grave danger, he knew, but he also understood that the exchange of bodily fluids during this time increased the likelihood of infection—a type of ‘infection’ he voraciously desired. Close to either death or transformation, Daisuke couldn’t remember ever being this horny.
It was like eating fugue fish, only with more painful consequences and far greater rewards – if one survived, that is. Taking his client’s shaft as deep into his mouth as he could manage, he unzipped his own pants and began jacking himself off.
Arnaud began moaning louder as he slid deeper into Daisuke’s mouth, arching his back when he came up against Daisuke’s throat. He also enjoyed the way the Asian’s hands had explored his torso, so he unbuttoned his top shirt and lifted his undershirt to give the Familiar unimpeded access to his body.
Daisuke did not disappoint him. Squeezing his own cock between his legs, one of his hands grabbed Arnaud’s balls, while the other began exploring his torso, once more. As the Asian slowly fucked his own thighs, a fingernail began tweaking the hairy one’s left nipple, and Arnaud hissed, enjoying it so much.
Realizing this, the Japanese man squeezed harder, careful to use only the pads of his fingertips. Arnaud hissed even louder, baring his fangs as he thrashed on his seat. He grabbed Daisuke’s head once more, uncaring of the teeth this time, and began to thrust.
The Asian barely had time to wrap his fist around the base of Arnaud’s cock, when it pushed up against the back of his throat. Daisuke was about to choke, but the cock pulled back, giving him time to suck in some air. As he was doing so, Arnaud’s tool pushed in once more.
Remembering what he was taught, the Asian relaxed his throat and tried to let Arnaud move past, but his throat just couldn’t take it. The client was so thick. Faced with possible suffocation, Daisuke grabbed the base of Arnaud’s cock in both his fists, and not a moment too soon.
The client was now making growling sounds most humans were incapable of. Grabbing Daisuke’s head tighter, he thrust deeper and harder into the Asian’s mouth. It was all Daisuke could do to keep from choking as the cock pushed against the back of his throat once more.
He realized that he was no longer in control, and held onto Arnaud’s tool as best he could. No way was he letting the huge rod past his throat.
But the client was no longer himself. His torso began to elongate, his human face became more canine, and his hands had turned into claws, while his growls became more bestial.
Daisuke was finally afraid. He slammed a fist on the red panic button beside him, put there for precisely that purpose.
The car screeched to a halt, and Daisuke was thrust backward. Despite his growing terror, he still held tightly onto Arnaud’s thrusting cock. No way was he giving up his chance at a successful infection.
He heard the front door slam open. The client was still holding his head tightly as he fucked his face, refusing to pull all the way back out. Daisuke’s eyes widened further at what he saw: Arnaud’s eyes had changed from green to purple. The Change!
The Familiar began jacking his client off harder as he tasted pre-cum, sucking on the massive rod as if his life depended on it – as it very well did, in a way.
He knew the Others healed fast. He could stand being wounded so long as he got infected. If he did, those scars would heal, and Daisuke would be transformed into a god.
The backseat opened. It was Fuwad. Arnaud ignored the driver. His entire focus was on the hot, wet mouth that wrapped itself around his dick, at the fist that gripped his length at its base.
He was so close to an orgasm! All he cared about was that mouth! He needed to fuck that
mouth!
He did not feel the syringe that jabbed into his arm, which Fuwad inserted in a quick, practiced motion. Fuwad leaned forward and pushed the plunger, praying to god he wasn’t too late. The stupid Asian had waited too long. These Familiars always did, pathetic fools.
Arnaud’s fangs had grown longer, and his growls were becoming more lower pitched. Fuwad jumped into the back seat beside his employer, slamming the door behind him. He fumbled in his breast pocket for another syringe.
With a final thrust, Arnaud howled and stiffened. He came into Daisuke’s mouth, his face was no longer human.
This was the moment Daisuke had been waiting for all his life. As the hot cum poured into his mouth, he began sucking at it desperately, drinking the thick wads of spunk that shot into him. He jacked the massive rod harder, eager to get every last drop into his mouth.
The excitement of being this close to either death or transformation was too much for him. His cock still tightly squeezed between his legs, he came!
Daisuke’s jizz oozed into his pants, onto the carpet below him, and still Arnaud shot into his mouth. As less spunk came out, Arnaud grew a little less stiff.
At last, Daisuke expelled his breath, pushed, and got the tip past his throat. Pushing forward and wiggling his face a bit, he slid it deeper into himself, till he was able to nuzzle his face against the soft pubes of his gorgeous client.
He couldn’t keep it up, however. Needing air, he pulled out, then plunged forward once more.
Arnaud sank back with a sigh, gritting his teeth as the hungry mouth slid up and down his length, as the fist continued to jerk it up and down. As his humanity slowly returned, he realized that Daisuke was starting to hurt him in his own excitement. Arnaud reached down and gently tried to push the Asian away, but the spiky-haired one was in the midst of his own frenzy.
“Enough!” barked Fuwad, roughly trying to push Daisuke away.
“Ow!” Arnaud yelled, sounding more human again.
Daisuke refused to let go of Arnaud’s cock, either with his mouth or with his fists. Fuwad’s attempt to push him away from his employer only served to hurt him.
“I said let go!” the chauffeur insisted.
“Wait,” Arnaud gasped. “It actually feels really good when you aren’t forcing him to tear it off.”
“As you wish,” Fuwad replied, putting the other unused syringe back in his breast pocket.
The Moroccan opened the door, got out, and returned to his seat at the front, sighing a bit as he reached for the keys.
Thank god I wasn’t too late, Fuwad thought to himself, gratefully. I wonder how much longer his luck will last, though… and mine.
Fuwad started the car back up and drove himself and his two passengers off into the evening.
CHAPTER 2
Tristan Beauchene knew that going out with Rene Girard was a mistake, since it wasn’t the first time he had done so, nor was it the first time he had regretted it.
As a room-mate, Rene was the perfect companion: his social life was such a whirlwind, that he was rarely ever around. The few times that he was, he was usually asleep till very late in the afternoon.
Still, the two of them had known each other since around Kindergarten. And since both were natives of the tiny port commune of Honfleur in northwestern France, they were considered to be de facto relatives.
Then again, most of the eight thousand plus residents of Honfleur (who called themselves the Honfleurais) could probably trace their family histories to each other if they looked back far enough. Or so the local joke went. This was often accompanied by hilarious laughter, much to the puzzlement of outsiders and passing tourists.
Tristan and Rene were not friends in the strictest sense of the word – more like they just got used to each other, as the old French saying goes. As such, each tolerated the others’ quirks.
To be more precise, Rene mostly ignored Tristan, while the latter put up with Rene as best he could. Theirs was not a relationship of equals, after all; though to his credit, Rene never did anything to remind Tristan of this fact.
The Girard family was very well-to-do, and owned an apartment in Paris’ 18th arrondissement, near the Basilica de Sacre Coeur. So when the two found themselves accepted by premier colleges in France’s capital, the Girard family had insisted that Tristan move into their apartment with Rene. For free.
“To keep an eye on him,” they had insisted generously.
They were being kind, of course. The fact was that Tristan’s widowed mother barely managed to make ends meet for herself and her only child. Were it not for his government grant, as well as for his scholarship, Tristan would never have been able to study at the Université Paris Diderot – a premier medical college.
That scholarship and grant only went toward tuition, however. It did not cover food and transportation; and since the university had no student housing, could not provide that, either. It did, at least, cover some of his required expenses for books and school supplies. If he was careful, he had enough for food.
While Tristan and his mother were a proud lot, they realized that the Girard family’s offer was a lifeline. Were it not for that, Tristan would probably have been stuck in Honfleur for the rest of his life, condemned to a life of lower-class mediocrity with no prospects whatsoever.
In France, it is not what grades you graduate with, after all, but where you graduate from, that determines your future. This explained why Rene, who barely graduated from the Paris-Sorbonne University with a degree in Philosophy and Sociology, was set up for life.
So Tristan had worked himself to the bone, and it showed. In France, people can enter medical school immediately after high school if they qualify for it. While the average age of medical school graduates was between 24 to 25 years of age, Tristan had graduated at the unusual age of 23. Not only that, he had managed to place himself at the top tier of the national ranking exam.
All of Honfleur had celebrated his success, and there was even some talk of naming a street after him. Everyone was so proud of him, even the Girard family, who took credit for his success.
“We gave him the best accommodation, even took care of everything, eh?” they would tell anyone in Honfleur who would listen.
Tristan and his mother were both wise and eternally grateful enough to keep their mouths shut.
For Tristan, at last, it was the start of something good; not just for himself, but for his mother, as well. In his fourth and fifth years, he had done his internship at the Curie Institute. While the pay wasn’t anything to write home about, it was about as much as what he got from the various part-time jobs he took whenever he could find them. Nevertheless, it had all paid off. Tristan had done so well, the Institute had offered him residency.
“Is that it?” Rene had asked, leaning over Tristan’s shoulder as the latter stared wide-eyed at the letter he had just received.
It was not from the Curie, however, but from the Pasteur Institute. Tristan was speechless as he read and re-read the letter. It formally invited him to take up his residency with them. Since he had managed to skip an entire year, they offered to pay him an actual salary, not the slightly-above-minimum-wage that the Curie was offering.
“Well, this requires a celebration, then!” Rene exclaimed. “Come on, Tristan. I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And don’t you worry about the tab. You can pay me back when you’re a famous celebrity doctor and I need help with my back or something.”
Tristan hated this part. Even back in Honfleur, he did not go out much because he couldn’t afford to. It seemed obscene to do so when his mother worked so hard to put food on the table. And over the last several years, he could afford it even less, both in terms of costs and time.
“Come on, Tristan! You never go out. You’ll enjoy yourself, I swear. And dress up. You can borrow some of my stuff. God only knows where you do your shopping.”
It wasn’t just the fact that he felt humiliated each time he accepted something from Rene. It was also the
fact that he really didn’t like the places that Rene went to.
Living as they did in the 18th arrondissement, they were near the Place Pigalle. This was Paris’ notorious red light district, famous for the Moulin Rouge, or Red Mill, with its neon-lit windmill on the roof.
Having lived in Paris for years, however, neither would be caught dead in that tourist trap. No, Rene’s tastes were less restrained, and as such, they were at the La Réunion (The Meeting).
Tristan tried to look like he was enjoying himself, but was failing miserably. Rene had called over some topless red head, and she was trying to earn her tip by rubbing her bare tits against his arm.
The woman was obviously stoned and had forgotten where she was. She was speaking to him in some Eastern European language; Russian probably, from the sound of it. Or she probably thought it sounded exotic enough to turn him on.
All around him, more topless women were doing the same with the other patrons. As for Rene, he was nowhere to be seen: probably porking a hostess somewhere nearby.
Tristan sighed. It almost always ended up like this: Rene dragging him out, then leaving him alone to fend for himself. Mindful of what he owed the Girard family, Tristan always found it hard to say ‘no’ to Rene.
Without warning, his hostess grabbed his crotch and began rubbing it. Tristan pushed her hand away, and she started laughing.
“Itak! Shto te gay, ha ha!”
“What?” Tristan said in panic as he fought to get away.
“I said: so you’re gay,” she switched to back to her badly accented French. “You’re not even hard,” she chuckled.
Tristan panicked and tried to get up.
“No, wait. No. I’m sorry. Stop,” she pleaded, her eyes suddenly taking on a more alert look.
Tristan had gotten up, but the woman looked genuinely apologetic, and she held onto his hand, “Budte dobry,” she insisted.
Impure and the Beast--A Sexy Supernatural Gay M/M Shapeshifter Novelette from Steam Books Page 1
