Impure and the Beast--A Sexy Supernatural Gay M/M Shapeshifter Novelette from Steam Books

by Bernadette Russo

“Look, I don’t understand. I don’t even know what that language is.”

  “Sorry,” she giggled. “I am Russian. Please,” she pulled him back down beside her. “Do me a favor.”

  “Lady, I’m tired,” he said. “I’ve done a full day’s shift cleaning an empty office building. I’d like to just go home.”

  But she pulled him up closer to her, “Your friend, he already paid, you understand?”

  He didn’t.

  She sighed, rolled her eyes up and muttered something in Russian before explaining. “Your friend, he has paid for the evening. One hour. I need the money. Now you understand?”

  His eyes widened in horror. She smiled, holding a finger up to her lips. She didn’t look at all stoned now.

  “You are hungry? No, I mean, stomach hungry?” she patted her belly. “There’s a cheap shawarma place near, is very good. Your secret, I keep,” she looked down meaningfully at his groin. “But you keep mine.”

  He understood, at last.

  She got up, put on a jacket, then took his arm and led him toward the exit of La Réunion. A bouncer approached, but she held up her fingers a certain way, and he nodded at whatever code she had used.

  “Enjoy your evening, monsieur,” the bouncer said with a wink.

  Tristan found out that her name was Katya, and that she did indeed know of a great shawarma place nearby.

  “Your brother does not know that you are… uh…”

  “He’s not my brother,” Tristan replied. “And no, I don’t think he does.”

  The two spent the next hour together, just wandering up and down the area as they talked. Tristan found himself amazed. After all these years, he finally came out of the closet, and to a Russian prostitute who barely understood him, of all people.

  “You must try Ivan,” she teased him as he walked her back to La Réunion. “He would be good for your first time.”

  He gaped at her, “You can tell even that much about me?”

  She shrugged and suddenly looked sad, “Good night, Tristan. You are a good man.”

  He gave her a gentlemanly kiss on her hand, and she brightened up a little, blushing like a girl at such unusual treatment. Then she put on her stoned mask and walked back into the establishment. The man guarding the door smiled at Tristan with a nod and a wink.

  Tristan didn’t bother going back inside to look for Rene. With a new bounce to his step, he walked home, whistling the entire way.

  CHAPTER 3

  Arnaud Lupin was very unhappy with the new decree, but as one of the permanent research physicians with the institute, as well as a member of its board of directors, he had no choice.

  He knew he was being unfair to Lord Alfred Blakely. The man was only the messenger, after all. Still, he had known the British aristocrat since childhood, and had to admit: he had hated him even back then. The fact that they were actually related was something Arnaud took extreme pains to hide.

  “Well?” Alfred stopped in his tracks and turned to him with an arched brow.

  “Bien, Alfi,” Arnaud replied, knowing perfectly well how much the aristocrat hated the use of his childhood nickname. “You have this institute’s unofficial cooperation.”

  “We are not asking, Arnie,” Lord Blakely replied with a sneer. “We do own this institute after all…”

  “You do not!” Arnaud snapped, uncaring of the attention he was drawing to them both. “You do not own this institute. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

  Alfred put his hands out, wary of the looks they were attracting. The Clans had put serious money into institutes like this one all over the world, and while each were semi-autonomous, all had to submit to the will of the Council when circumstances required. And currently, circumstances required it. Damn those Yanks!

  After World War II, the Pasteur Institute had been so badly run, that by the 1970s, it was literally broke. Had it not been for the Clans, one of France’s proudest institutions would have had to shut down, bringing shame upon the entire country.

  But the French have never been known for their gratitude, now, have they? Alfred thought.

  He was about to say something to placate his overly sensitive cousin, when Arnaud turned on his heel and walked off, forcing the Brit to keep up with the taller man’s long-legged stride.

  Alfred knew there was no love lost between them, but he had at least hoped that Arnaud would see reason. The Clans’ days were numbered, and without the full and willing cooperation of institutions like this one, the end could come much faster. Double damn those Yanks!

  “Arnaud…” he began again, sounding more contrite.

  “Alfi! I said you have the unofficial cooperation of this institute! That’s all you’re getting from me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have more important things to do than waste any more time with you. Au revoir!” and he stalked off

  “Well, and a hearty goodbye to you, too,” the Englishman replied with a smile, unable to resist raising his voice and adding: “cousin Arnie.”

  Were it not for his position at the institute, Arnaud would have flicked him the bird. He wisely resisted the temptation, however, and just kept on walking, instead.

  * * *

  Tristan felt both at home as well as out of his league.

  The Curie Institute was a serious facility, specializing in medical research, and was world renowned for its cancer studies and treatments.

  The Pasteur Institute, however, was in a completely different league of its own, working with the World Health Organization, as well as with the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. He could feel the sheer wealth and power of the place, and felt overwhelmed.

  The Curie had a distinct scholarly air about it. The Pasteur, however, had the feel of a global corporation. Then again, it did sell its products through Sanofi, the international pharmaceutical giant.

  Tristan felt a little guilty at leaving the Curie behind. He had lost his father to cancer, after all, and had thought to do something noble for other cancer sufferers. He was not quite sure what he wanted to specialize in just yet, and hoped that the Pasteur would help him decide.

  The money was also good, he had to admit to himself.

  During his first day on the job, he was asked to volunteer some tissue samples to the institute. Like all the other wide-eyed newbies, he was only too happy to comply, still in awe at being among the elite few chosen to work at such an august facility.

  He was assigned to the department of Genomes and Genetics, which surprised him. He had hoped that his time at the Curie would have gotten him into the field of cancer research, but trusted his superiors to know what they were doing.

  He was even more surprised, therefore, when, at the end of his third week, his superiors had asked him for a second tissue sample. Instead of the standard cotton swab in the mouth, however, they had requested something more invasive.

  “Is something wrong, madam?” he asked Mme. Beauregard, his immediate supervisor, as she extracted a little of his blood through a syringe.

  “Oh no, not at all, dear,” she replied. “It’s just that you have AB negative, and as I’m sure you know: it is an extremely rare blood type. We’re asking all AB negatives to donate a small blood sample… and there you go, all done. I’m really sorry about this, Tristan. It’s just that they’re not above using us all as needs require, ha ha. They never did this to you at the Curie?”

  “Sometimes, madam,” he admitted.

  “Well, then. There you go. You realize this won’t be the last time we’ll be asking you for a pound of flesh,” she grinned impishly. “Right, look at the time. Off you go, young man. It’s a Friday night. No doubt you have a femme fatale somewhere waiting for you. Lucky girl. Off you go, shoo!”

  As it turned out, he did have plans later that evening. He had discovered that despite its extreme conservatism, the Pasteur had an open attitude toward its gay employees, and even provided insurance benefits to their legal partners.

  Though painfully shy and generally
private, Tristan had slowly opened up to some of his more openly gay colleagues, and was surprised to find himself making friends. He had never had those before. Nor had he ever had enough money to go out for other than a cheap café or a roadside food stall. Even better, he enjoyed being among people with whom he no longer had to keep up the pretense of being straight.

  “Amazing what you can achieve when you’re not running around like a chicken with your head cut off, rushing from one job to the other, eh?” Rene had commented on his transformation. “It’s about time you started developing a social life. I was starting to get worried.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Arnaud was furious. The latest vaccine should have lasted much longer, but tests were showing that he was developing a quicker immunity to each new development. It was almost as if his own body was fighting him, and was anticipating each new vaccine he developed.

  “Nothing so far?” Alfred asked as he walked in, just as Arnaud smashed a petri dish against the wall.

  With a roar, Arnaud picked up a scalpel and threw it at his cousin.

  Alfred deftly caught its blade with his thumb and index finger, then gently placed it on a nearby table.

  “Temper, temper,” Alfred admonished. “Look, you are dealing with millions of years of evolution, Arnaud. You must accept the inevitable. We have provided funding for this pet project of yours, on the understanding that it does not interfere with the new orders. How’s that going, if I might ask? I understand that two potential candidates have been found?”

  “Well, since you seem to know everything that goes on around here, why bother asking me?”

  “Arnaud, the Council’s patience is not infinite. Instead of suppressing our true nature, why can’t you give us your willing cooperation? Why must you be so difficult?”

  “And why can’t you and the Council understand that unless we can better control our true natures, they will hunt us to near extinction, once more?”

  “Arnaud, we are who we are. By the way, that Asian callboy we got you? He didn’t get infected, unfortunately. All he got for his troubles was a… ahem, a sore throat.”

  “You have him?”

  “We had him. Since he showed no signs of infection, we let him go. Hope springs eternal, and all. Oh, where are you going? I just got here!”

  But Arnaud was no longer listening. He needed to go out for some fresh air. Since Alfred had shown up, it had gotten even staler, as far as he was concerned.

  * * *

  Tristan could not believe his luck. Despite the urging of his new friends, he could not bring himself to go up to perfect strangers and just talk to them. It had taken him two weeks to work up his courage to do so, and when he finally did, he scored!

  Ilka was a blond from Finland, and Tristan had noticed him last week as he had sat alone at the bar. Other men had approached him, but the blond usually shrugged them off. Tristan had wanted to approach him then, but felt that the man wanted to be left alone.

  “This is a gay bar, Tristan,” Blaise, a colleague, had sighed. “No one comes to a gay bar to be alone, now go talk to him!”

  But Tristan just couldn’t do it.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” Blaise continued, “I’d think you were a virgin.”

  Tristan was grateful the place was dark. He knew he was blushing and didn’t want to give himself away.

  “Nah,” said Pietrov, who worked in the institute’s accounting department. “I think he’s just one of those super picky ones. Is that it, Tristan?”

  Tristan had put on a sheepish grin, so his friends agreed that that had to be it. Still, he was blushing, and he prayed that none would notice it.

  This week, however, the blond sat alone at the bar again. When Tristan snuck a peek his way, the blond met his gaze. Panicked, Tristan looked away. Blaise noticed and jabbed him in the rib.

  Tristan took a deep breath and struggled to overcome old, ingrained habits. Honfleur was a small, conservatively Catholic commune, and everyone knew each other, if only by sight. He had heard the snickers and the jeers when people talked about gays, and had been careful to keep his closet door tightly locked.

  He looked back toward the bar, and saw that the blond was still staring his way. He looked to either side of him to make sure he was not misreading the situation. His colleagues on his right and left looked everywhere but at the blond, making it clear they weren’t available, and making Tristan look even more of a target.

  Still staring straight into his eyes, the blond smiled and raised his beer stein. Pietrov and Blaise elbowed him simultaneously, making him jump.

  “Get up and go to him, or else,” Blaise whispered under his breath, finding the table immensely fascinating for some reason.

  Legs trembling beneath him, heart thudding louder than the music blaring out of the sound system, Tristan made his way to the lone blond sitting at the bar. He found out that the blond was a 22-year-old Finnish student who had just graduated, that he stayed at a hostel nearby, and that he really liked black-haired, blue-eyed blokes like Tristan. Half an hour later, they made their way out the door.

  Tristan thought they were making their way to Ilka’s place, but the Fin was taking him across the street toward the Bois de Boulogne. This was Paris’ second largest public park, some two and a half times the size of Central Park in New York.

  “You’re taking me to the park?” he asked incredulously.

  Ilka just smiled at him as he held his hand, leading him toward a thick copse of trees ahead. Tristan wanted to pull back, but the strength and warmth of Ilka’s hand was wonderful, and the way the younger man smiled at him made him melt. Inside the bar, it was clear that Ilka had a beautiful, muscular body beneath his tight shirt, but in the brighter lights of the street, it became even more evident.

  His tight jeans highlighted his bubble butt, and Tristan found himself getting even harder at the sight. Still, he hesitated. The Bois de Boulogne was a beautiful place by day, and generally crowded. At night, however, it was frequented by prostitutes and their pimps, as well as drug dealers on the prowl for customers.

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Ilka. Why don’t we just go to your place?”

  “I share the room with two others. Where do you live? Is it near?”

  But Tristan hadn’t come out to Rene, and wasn’t sure he was ready to yet.

  What he said out loud instead, was, “It’s over on the 18th. That’s too far away.”

  Ilka chuckled and continued to pull him deeper into the tree line, till the lights of the street and the sounds of traffic began to diminish. Tristan had to admit: it was very romantic. It almost felt as if they had left the crowded city far behind.

  Ilka stopped, leaned forward, and brushed Tristan’s lips with his own. It was the Honfleurais’ first time to feel another guy’s lips against his own.

  Back in Honfleur, he had had ‘girlfriends’ with whom nothing ever happened save for chaste pecks on the cheek, and fumbling, clumsy lip-to-lip action. A few had made it clear they were willing to go ‘all the way,’ but Tristan had cited religious devotion, and had always said ‘no.’

  Ilka did not fumble, however, nor was he clumsy; his lips were soft, moist, and warm. Tristan had to put his hands on the blond’s shoulders to steady himself. He never knew that lips could be such an erogenous zone, linking itself to his chest, stomach, groin, and toes.

  The girls he’d kissed on the lips never had this effect on him. He moaned. Ilka pushed him against a tree, and pressed his entire body against him, thrusting his obviously hard groin against Tristan’s own. It felt wonderful! Tristan felt a sense of complete rightness about it, and forgot about the park’s unsavory reputation at night.

  Ilka’s tongue parted his lips and began exploring his mouth. Tristan knew that if the blond had asked him to, he would leave his job the next day and move to Finland. He did not know what he would do in Finland, but if he could spend the rest of his life with Ilka, he didn’t care if he had to sweep floors for a living
.

  He slipped his hands beneath Ilka’s shirt and began exploring the hard planes of the Fin’s back. Ilka rewarded him by pushing up against him harder, dry humping him through his jeans.

  Tristan liked the taste of beer on Ilka’s tongue, and when he stuck his own tongue out, the Fin sucked it into his own mouth. Tristan’s body was on fire. It was so different than his fantasies, so much more visceral.

  Ilka pulled back, and Tristan almost felt like crying, but the Fin pulled up his shirt, leaned forward, and took a nipple in his mouth. One hand began pinching his other nipple, while the other began rubbing the hard surface of his abs.

  “Oh God!” Tristan moaned.

  The hand continued down further, slipping past the waist of his pants, sliding down till it found his cock. Tristan began hyperventilating. No one else besides himself had ever touched him there. The feel of another hand wrapped around his cock was mind-boggling.

  Ilka began tonguing his way down, exploring the gap between the mounds of Tristan’s chest, and lower still in the valley of his abs. When the man’s tongue entered Tristan’s belly button, he gasped.

  The blond got on his knees, and despite what had happened so far, Tristan felt a sense of unreality as he felt his zipper coming undone. He had fantasized about this for years. The fact that it was really going to happen at long last, was simply unbelievable.

  He looked down, and despite the darkness, could clearly see Ilka kneeling before him. He had always been good at seeing in the dark, but his heightened sense of sexual excitement made his vision laser sharp. A part of his mind marveled that he could pick out the individual blades of grass below, almost as if he were looking at them with 3-D glasses on.

  Ilka smiled up at him impishly as he grabbed his cock. Tristan watched transfixed at the vision of his cock in another’s hand. When Ilka took that cock into his mouth, the shock of seeing it took a while to register.

  Then he felt it. His knees buckled, and he had to lean back harder against the tree as the hot, wet mouth took him in.