EROTIC STORIES :

THE CHANGELING - Part 1
© remittance girl, 2006

One day, quite suddenly, you realize you are changing.

For me, it began in the middle of a cappuccino, sitting at my regular cafe, in the morning, just before the day became too hot. I sat silently, peaceably at the same table as a stranger. He was staring out over the courtyard, to where the gardener's efforts had ceased and the busy street began. I smoked and looked at him looking.

He was middle-aged, balding, and somewhat overweight. A plain man. A quiet man. Thoroughly unremarkable. Some might even say he was ugly.

The more I looked, the more I saw. The eyes behind the steel framed lenses were grey-blue, with a darker ring around the outside of the iris. I had never noticed his mouth before, but now I saw it was rather odd: the lips were plumpish and cherubic. It was the mouth of a glutton. A consumer of things. The lips pursed.

"Thank god the rainy season's over. I'd had enough of it." The sound of his voice startled me into awareness. I withdrew from my scrutiny, vaguely ashamed of the intrusion.

"You'd regret that remark by February. It'll get stinking hot and you'll dream of rain."

"True." He nodded his head, eyes still fixed on the distance.

I took a sip of coffee, lit a cigarette, and resumed my guilty exploration. I had no idea why I felt so compelled to examine him, but he seemed oblivious to it.

He was wearing dark worsted trousers, and the jacket that completed his suit was neatly hung on the back of his chair. Highly polished black oxfords enclosed neat, small feet. Even with his legs crossed, his black socks reached high enough to cover his calves. A careful man. A man of habits.

Unexplainably, the crisp neatness of his white shirt disappointed me. The front was smooth and uncreased, but there were sharp, clean lines down each arm. Perhaps I extrapolated. Someone ironed his shirts. He was married or attached in some way. Well, of course he would be. After all, he had to be close to sixty, and living in Saigon, no white male ever stayed single for long

"Do you ever dream of the rain?"

The question startled me. It wasn't a casual question at all. Not the kind you ask a stranger. And that is what we were. We worked in the same building, we nodded politely, affording each other recognition in the elevator, or outside, in the smoking area. We'd never talked before.

"I..." My immediate reaction was to brush the question off as a joke, but something stopped me. "Yes, sometimes I do. Do you?"

"Yes. Frequently."

Still he hadn't turned his head. He recrossed his legs and laced his fingers together over the modest paunch of his belly. His hands were just like his feet - small and tidy. He wore no rings and his nails had recently been manicured. They were buffed to a high polish. The backs of his hands were browned from the sun and there was a light dusting of dark hair on the first joint of each finger. His lips pursed again.

"Does it arouse you?"

My gaze snapped to his face and I felt mine colour. "I...I beg your pardon?"

"Does it arouse you when you dream about the rain?" He turned slowly towards me. The expression he wore was impassive, as if he was still talking about the weather.

"N-no!" I said, gathering my cigarettes off the glass tabletop and stuffing them blindly into my handbag. I stood up and turned to go back inside the building.

"Liar." I heard him say.

I walked quickly through the cool of the marble-lobbied building and pushed the button for the elevator.

I stood waiting impatiently, my heart hammering in my chest. Only when the steel doors whispered open and I stepped inside did I let out my breath, astonished by my overreaction to the whole episode. What in the world was wrong with me? It had just been one of those normal conversations that turn weird. They happened all the time. I usually just laughed and brushed them off. But this one had spooked me; he'd spooked me. And that was the moment I realized I'd changed.

* * *

I saw him again, a week later. I called the elevator to go down for a coffee and a cigarette and, when the doors opened, he was there, alone. I hesitated before I stepped in next to him and gave him my usual nod, but this time it took an effort. As the car began to descend, I caught the smell him: soap, as if he'd just shaved, and something muskier beneath it.

"Coffee time?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Me too."

When the doors opened, I made an effort to get out quickly. I thought of walking around the corner to the coffee place on the street, but the day was hot already, and I didn't have the time. The patio was bustling with people and I found the only empty table and sat down.

"All the tables are taken. Mind if I join you?" It was the voice I was dreading.

"It depends on what you're going to talk about," I said, finding the assertiveness I had managed to misplace before.

He didn't respond. He simply pulled out the chair opposite mine, shrugged off his neat, dark jacket, and hung it on the back of the chair. The waiter arrived.

"Two cappuccinos," he said, and sat down.

His face held the same deadpan expression. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Not the weather."

A small smile curled around the corner of his lips. "Not the weather, then."

Our coffees came, I lit my cigarette, and for a while we sat in silence. My earlier compulsion to examine him returned, but I didn't give in.

"What do you do here?"

"I teach."

"What do you teach?"

"I'm teaching a corporate seminar on web usability."

"It sounds very dull."

"It is."

"Is that what you do all the time?"

"No, usually I teach at the University, but they're on a break."

He fired neat, pointed questions at me. I answered pleasantly and sipped my coffee. I didn't ask any in return, vaguely worried that any interest shown on my part might encourage him to veer onto less suitable subjects. Slowly, we lapsed back into silence.

I'd made a point of not looking at him at all, but just at the corner of my eye, I could see his hand on the table resting lightly and possessively on a slim gold lighter with chased engraving. The tip of his index finger slid slowly back and forth over the textured surface. The manicured nail shone and flashed in the sunlight.

"It's alright not to answer a question, you know, but you shouldn't answer it with a lie."

"If you want the truth, you should try keeping your questions appropriate."

Even as I answered, I could feel myself beginning to blush again. What had happened to my detachment, my ability to control a situation?

"I spend half my life being appropriate. It bores me," he said, softly. "Doesn't it bore you?"

"Sometimes. But I try not to offend total strangers by asking them intimate questions."

"Why?"

I swivelled in my chair to face him. Behind the mask of calm there was an annoying hint of amusement. "Because it's not polite, that's why!"

"Well, we wouldn't want to be impolite, would we?" He teased.

I couldn't help myself. I grinned back at him. "No. We wouldn't."

"So... It would be an absolute faux pas to ask what you're wearing under that skirt, would it?"

I blushed again. "It would."

"Then I guess I'll have to save that question until we know each other better."

I shook my head and gathered up my things to leave. "Yes, I guess so."

As I walked back into the building, I could feel his eyes on me. It took every bit of willpower I had to stop myself from smoothing the back of my skirt. I had the distinct feeling that he'd had his question answered for him.

* * *

Another week went by before I saw him again at our usual meeting place.

"May I?"

"Sure."

Again he took time to hang his jacket, this time a grey one, on the back of the chair, before sitting down. And again, for a while, we sat in silence. He held the same chased lighter as he smoked, stroking it pensively with his finger. Then he spoke.

"It's a strange little game we're playing, isn't it?'

I sipped my coffee and took a deep drag off my cigarette, determined not to let him rattle me again. "Is it?"

"Yes, it is. Not that I don't like games, I do. But I'd like to play another."

"Oh, really? Which one?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

"I don't actually have a name for it yet. I've only just devised it."

"I'm surprised. Usually you seem to arrive pretty well prepared."

His face suddenly changed. All the levity bled away. "I have a proposition."

I laughed nervously and started to get up, but his hand encircled my wrist before I could move away. "Just listen, then you can go."

"Okay...what it is?" I snapped. The trespass on my physical space had angered me.

"I'd like to buy some of your time."

I looked down at him, almost speechless. I jerked my arm to shake off his grip. "You what?"

"I'd like to purchase some of your time."

"I'm not a prostitute!" I said, far too loud. Around us, on the patio, other people's conversations suddenly died. I bent down and hissed, "There are $20 hookers all over Saigon. I'm sure you already know half of them - so let go of my wrist before I scream."

His fingers eased their grip, and he nodded. "Fair enough. But give it some thought. If you change your mind, I'll be in the bar of the Caravelle at eight pm."

My face was burning and my heart was pounding when I reached the elevators. I couldn't understand why I wasn't doubling over in a fit of giggles and why I wasn't taking this for the comedy it so clearly was. My own puzzling reactions added immeasurably to my discomfort. The man was creepy and predatory and, somehow, very manipulative.

* * *

I finished work at four, and took a taxi home through the insanity of the rush hour. The house was cool and dark and Fred, my cat, came to meet me at the door.

From five until six, I churned through the day's personal emails and thought about what to eat for dinner. I leafed through the order-in menus feeling uninspired and not very hungry. In fact, I'd had a horrible restless feeling in the pit of my stomach all afternoon. Instead of dinner, I opted for a bowl of fruit and sat down to watch CNN.

Whatever tragedies had transpired in the world that day, I remained ignorant of them. Unable to concentrate enough to watch, I got up and paced, sat down again, stood up. I had an inexplicable urge to go on a five mile run.

Finally, bored with my own restlessness, I undressed and took a shower. I hoped that a nice long, cool soak would settle me down. But as I stood beneath the spray and closed my eyes, I understood what was making me restless; it was just past seven thirty.

All day, somewhere in my subconscious, I'd kept the time he'd told me, toying with it in my head, like a ball of string. The realization shocked me. It made me face up to the fact that I'd been considering the possibility of keeping the appointment.

* * *

I checked my face in the mirror of the elevator. My lipstick was too bright; my hair, pulled up in a twist, seemed over-groomed. My black cocktail dress was too tight, too sleek. The doors slid open at the top floor, offering a view of the bar and the city's dark, twinkling skyline beyond. For one adamantine moment, I imagined what it would be like to let the doors slide shut again, and take a taxi home. I would be the same; nothing would have happened; I would not have changed.

It was my feet that took me out across the expanse of expensive carpet and into the bar. Above the soft, insipid music, I heard my heels click on the tiles as I reached one of the high, chrome stools and sat down.

I'd been there countless times before with colleagues and girlfriends on raucous nights out. We'd sat at the low tables, making bitchy comments about the well-turned out working girls who plied their trade with visiting westerners. Now the place felt different. The lights were too bright, the bar top was too hard, the music too low. It seemed like everyone else was sleepwalking. I'd hoped the shooter of vodka would calm me down, but it didn't. I stared past the bar and terrace, at the sprawling, garishly lit city.

I twitched at the sound as someone moved the bar stool next to mine. A slender Vietnamese woman dressed in a sheath-like silk sam wriggled into the seat. She spoke to the bartender in Vietnamese and then looked me up and down without bothering to hide her contempt.

"You Russia?"

"Sorry?"

"You from Russia?"

"No..." I said, confused. Why Russian? Then it hit me. The only white prostitutes working in Saigon were Russians, or from the ex-satellites.

"No, I'm not Russian... I'm not..."

I felt a hand slide up the middle of my bare back and settle possessively around my neck. "May I?"

I looked over my shoulder. It was him. "Yes, please," I said, a wave of relief washing over me.

He sat on the stool to my left and ordered a scotch. It wasn't until it had arrived and he'd had a sip that he spoke.

"I must say I'm surprised. Delighted, but surprised."

"Why?"

"I wasn't altogether sure you'd accept my offer."

"Neither was I."

He took the familiar gold lighter and a matching case from his pocket and offered me a cigarette. I took one, and watched his perfectly steady hand as he lit my cigarette. "You understand that the offer is somewhat unorthodox?"

"Yes. I rather thought it would be."

He inhaled and blew a thin stream of smoke across the bar. "Good, good. I want to make sure you understand the nature of the thing."

A swarm of dizzy butterflies swarmed up from the pit of my stomach. It was fear. Fear, and something else. "I... I think I do."

"I'd like to buy your time for the night. If the night is satisfactory, I'd like to prolong the arrangement: two nights a week, for an indefinite period of time."

"What if..."

"I am willing to pay a thousand per night, if that is acceptable to you."

My jaw dropped. I was speechless. I shook my head in disbelief.

"I'd be willing to go as high as a thousand five, at a push."

"Ah... no. A thousand is fine."

"Excellent, then." Beneath the bar, I felt his hand settle on my thigh and give it a squeeze. "Of course, it can be nullified by either party, at any time, should the arrangement prove...unworkable." His fingers traced small circles over the nylon of my stocking. I sat in silence for a moment, feeling them edge incrementally up my thigh to where my stockings ended.

"I understand," I muttered, distractedly.

"Excellent." He cocked his head, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

Behind the metal frames, I watched the dark parts of his iris open out. He didn't blink or relieve the tension in any way. I swallowed hard against a dry throat. I could smell him again: soap and something darker. Warm fingers played over naked skin beneath the hem of my dress, edging upwards until I felt one brush the inside leg of my panties.

"I guess I have the answer to my second question."

I thought for a moment, then I laughed. "I think you had the answer the day you asked it."

"There's a world of difference between guessing and knowing."

Below, a single fingertip edged its way between my thighs. That's when I realized I was wet.

"Shall we go? I have a room downstairs," he said, withdrawing his hand. He signed the bill and stood up. Surreptitiously, I tried to catch a glimpse of the name he'd signed, but it was just a scrawl.

"That's one of the aspects of the agreement I'd like to clarify," he said, helping me down from the stool.

"What's that?"

"No names. No names ever."

He led me towards the exit, his hand, politely on the small of my back, like a man leading a woman onto a dance floor. The better part of my nature was hovering just above us, watching a neat, middle-aged man and an anonymous prostitute leaving a bar.

I left her behind as I stepped into the elevator.

* * *
The suite was on the 14th floor and looked out towards the river. There were books on tables and other items that suggested he hadn't hired the room for the night. He lived there.

"Would you like another drink?"

I shook my head, suddenly feeling terribly nervous again. I wasn't at all sure how this was supposed to go. My only experience with sex in hotel rooms had been stumbling into one, in the throws of passion, with someone I fancied. This was cold and remote and emotionless, and if I was attracted to this man, I couldn't even figure out why.

"Are you okay?" It seemed he'd sensed my unease.

"Yeah... I'm just..."

"Nervous?"

"Yes."

"I understand. You've never done this before."

"No. I'm not sure...what..."

He nodded sympathetically. "Don't worry. I'll tell you what to do."

I took a deep breath. "What should I do?"

"Take off your panties and step out onto the balcony."

I stopped for a beat and then nodded. I could feel him watch me as I reached up under my dress and pulled my panties down, and stepped out of them.

"Okay," I whispered. "And..."

"Balcony."

"Right."

I turned, pulled the sliding door open, and stepped out onto the balcony. The air held no freshness. The heat of the day was still rising up off the pavement, bleeding into the night. I stood at the railing and gripped it with both hands. Beneath me, the chaos of the traffic was sending up a cacophony of noise, but the click of his footsteps behind me made me glance over my shoulder.

"Don't turn around."

"Alright." My fingers dug into the cool metal of the railing, the darkness of the city pulled at me hypnotically.

I flinched as his hands flattened on the sides of my dress, pushing it up and exposing my legs.

"S-sh...Easy."

Standing behind me, the heat of his body pressed into me. He reached around, his hands circling my bare thighs and pulling them apart. I let him, widening my stance.

"Good girl." His breath was hot against the back of my neck.

The fingers of each hand made their parallel ways up my legs and met at my crotch, bunching up the skirt of my dress as they went. Then, one curved around, cupping my pussy as the other reached up and covered my clothed breast. He squeezed. Softly at first.

The fingers of his other hand grazed my bare pussy, and I felt him slip a finger into my cleft. It slid easily between the wet folds.

"Oh, my...I wasn't expecting that at all," he growled into my ear.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I not sure..." This wasn't how men treated prostitutes, I was sure of it. I was equally sure this wasn't how prostitutes behaved.

"S-sh. Silly girl. What are you sorry for?" His fingers were sliding tantalisingly between my pussy lips, grazing my clit as they went. I felt my juices running down my thigh. With each stroke, the fingertips dipped shallowly into my hole, teasing but not penetrating. I moaned and spread my legs wider in response.

"You want it, don't you?" The hand at my breast found my nipple beneath the fabric and pinched. "You want my cock...say it."

"I want it."

"Good Girl..." he whispered. "You'll get it. When you need it."

Two fingers eased inside, teasing the edge of my opening, making my legs shudder with tension. I arched my back, pushing my hips back, pressing my ass against him. He was hard, I could feel his cock tenting his trousers, pressing between the globes of my ass as I rubbed him.

"That's it. Show me how much you need it." His grip on my nipple was cruel, twisting it roughly though the dress. "Mmm... pull your skirt up and show me."

I released my hold on the railings and pulled the hem of my dress up over my hips. The warm air felt cool against my skin, cold where my juices had trailed down my legs.

He let go of my nipple and removed his hand from my crotch. I whimpered.

"Such a greedy little whore, " he muttered. I heard him unbuckle his belt and unzip himself. I heard the crinkle of packaging and his grunt as he put the condom on. He stepped up behind me again, pushing his sheathed cock between my thighs. He teased the head of it through my cleft.

"Is this what you want?" One hand slipped down the front of my dress and closed over my breast, cupping it, kneading it. "Is this what you need?"

"Yes!"

"Why?'

The question brought me up short. My brain was so lust-addled, I didn't know how to answer. "I...I don't know."

"Yes you do," he hissed, teasing his cock slowly back and forth through my slit. "You want it because you're a whore, aren't you?"

"Yes," I whimpered.

The sweet relief of his cock pushing into me made me cry out. Almost as soon as he was seated, I started coming.

"Mmm... good girl. That's right." He panted out the words as he began to fuck me hard, grabbing onto the railing and pinning me against it. He stroked through my spasming muscles, embedding himself over and over, faster and faster.

Even as my first orgasm was ebbing, the second began. I ground my ass backwards, meeting him for every stroke.

"More...you want more."

"Yes, don't stop. God, don't stop. More."

He made a strange noise, like a sob. It was the only time I'd heard him lose his reserve. He wrapped his arm around my waist and push me down onto his cock as he bucked. "Fuck, I've found you. My little whore."

It was the words. Like after years of wandering the world nameless, someone had finally given me a name. I groaned and came again, shuddering in his arms. If it hadn't been for the railing, I would have collapsed.

I felt him shudder back. He grunted and buried his face in my neck, sinking himself deep, up against my cervix. Even through the latex, I felt him explode.

Moments later, he pulled out of me and stood up. I heard him remove the condom and zip himself back up.

My legs felt horribly shaky as I straightened up and pulled my dress down. When I turned to speak to him, he was already inside the suite. I followed him in.

"Thank you," he said, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. He counted ten crisp hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the coffee table.

"You... you don't want me to spend the night?" I tried not to let the bewilderment show on my face. I'd just had sex with this man, and now he acting like I'd cleaned his windows.

"No. That won't be necessary."

"So...I guess that the 'arrangement' is...unworkable?"

He smiled a little and shook his head. "No, the arrangement is very workable. Is it workable for you?"

"Um... yes. Yes it is."

"Then I'll see you on Thursday at eight pm? Is that good for you?"

I walked toward the door, still shell shocked. "Thursday, eight, sure."

The knob of the door was dead and cold in my hand. Prostitutes didn't feel this way, I thought. If I wanted to keep playing this game, I'd better get used to it. "Well... bye."

I stepped into the hotel hallway and pulled the door closed behind me, but it stopped.

"You forgot something," he said.

I turned around to look at him.

He held out the crisp stack of bills. "Your money."

"Thanks," I muttered, stuffing the wad of cash into my clutch purse.

He gave me a quizzical look that lasted only a moment. "Good night. See you Thursday."

I turned and walked towards the elevator. Only then did I realize I'd left my panties on his floor.

(Go to Part 2)