King Saralegui of Small Shimaron (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
enthraller) wrote2017-09-18 03:03 am
enthraller) wrote2017-09-18 03:03 am
Entry tags:
psl - 100% just a shameless teahouse au
Once upon a time in the country of Ivore, there was a little brothel called the Teahouse.
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Arguably the finest establishment of its kind in the capital city, the Teahouse, owned by a Mr. Xanthe Atros, sits neatly at the edge of the noble's district. It offers a range of pleasures suited to any customer, upper class or common, provided they have the coin. For the right price, customers can enjoy the services of its courtesans, be it for a few hours, a night, or a more lasting arrangement. The men and women of the Teahouse are highly regarded for both their attractiveness and their "talents" even outside the city itself, or so its most dedicated patrons would have one believe.
Upon entering, customers are greeted by a lavish main hall with lovingly polished marble floors and grand, sweeping staircases leading off to a number of private rooms. A handful of servants keep the place in pristine condition, fit for even the royal family were they to ever deign to visit. A quiet and professional bouncer stands vigil unobtrusively out of the way, protection in the odd case of a violent visitor, and at any hour at least one or two of the brothel's courtesans are lounging on the main hall's plush seating in wait of potential customers. It pays to be proactive, after all -- the higher earners are granted the best ammenities and perhaps the occasional outing into the city, sweet treats for those whose lives belong to the Teahouse.
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He allowed a faint gasp to "slip" out at the sudden grip. Nothing uncomfortably painful or rougher than average, but customers liked to hear a reaction. The key was in keeping it subtle enough to be believeable. Letting Tzilan take control as he pleased, Saralegui slid his hand down over the fine fabric of the man's shirt, pausing at the bottom to toy with the hem while he pressed into the kiss, pliable but not without a total loss of initiative.
Subtly, he turned his hand so his knuckles would brush against the skin just above Tzilan's waistband. What seemed like an accidental touch as first, until he let the length of one finger trail along the cool skin at the man's hip.
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So deliciously warm and searing, and the heat of Saralegui's gasp puffed along his skin, as perfect as a second kiss. And all at once, the hollow ache of hunger wracked him, made his jaw ache, made his hands want to clench harder on the pretty man before him. Beautiful as a shaft of moonlight, as dawn touching mist--
He slipped his hand down along Saralegui's hair, loosing his grip, and leaned back from the kiss-- though not to gasp for breath.
"Tell me what you like best," he commanded, in a voice not hitched or shy but cold and certain as steel. He pressed towards the small, subtle touch near the skin of his hip, and pressed one leg a little between Saralegui's knees, using his posture to herd Saralegui, forcing the other man to take a step back. And then another, and then another, 'till the backs of Sara's thighs touched the bed.
"Tell me what makes your toes curl, what makes your blood run hot as molten metal. What makes you forget to breathe."
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Here, suddenly, he was uncertain, for once opening a book and finding the words inside in some foreign language. Gods, was that just a play at shyness before? Or was this a role being tried on with the confidence granted by knowing anything would be accepted? Was--
He nearly stumbled back, surprised to realize how far back he'd been crowded. Saralegui steadied himself, but found himself pinned between the bedframe and the leg between his. For a moment he just blinked, hips shifting almost uncertainly as if unsure whether to back off or pursue the friction.
Shit. He was hesitating too long. What did this customer want, then? Had he liked the bit of teasing, or was he seeking a chance to dominate? He swallowed, paused a moment too long for his own liking.
"I--" The word caught in his throat, and the decision felt made for him. Betting on shyness, he let his gaze drop and tried to convince himself the redness in his face was all intentional. "You embarass me, sir. I couldn't..."
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"How neatly we've reversed roles. An exceptional performance. In a different setting, I'd even believe it."
He leaned a little, his slim-fingered hands curving around the backs of Saralegui's knees. It cost nothing of his strength to give them a small upward tug, nudging the other man off his feet and onto the edge of the bed. He pressed his own body between Sara's legs, and smoothed his hands with careful cunning up Sara's thighs.
His lashes lowered over his eyes, almost coyly. His voice was just a whisper.
"But you'll answer my questions."
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"You're quite the performer yourself," he breathed, more to buy himself a moment to think than just to quip. What to say? What did he most enjoy...?
Guests who let him do as he pleased, teasing and tormenting until they were begging him with teary eyes. Guests who did the same to him, those rare few who both enjoyed playing with a partner more than racing towards a finish line and simply took what they wanted. The former seemed unlikely given the current flow of events, but the latter...his face burned, just thinking of having to ask for it.
Flushing, Saralegui turned his face against the sheets like he could potentially hide in them. "...Drag it out," he said after a painfully long moment. "It's no fun if you rush to the end. And--" Fuck. How to say it without wanting to die? He bit at his lip, turning his head a bit more despite the uncomfortable way it stretched his neck. "...Don't be too nice."
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"Unpredictable."
He smoothed along the side of the bed, watching Saralegui, not bothering to obfuscate his hunger, raw and wanting. His hand was cool, and it slipped between the fall of Saralegui's beautiful hair, and the warm back of his neck. Flexed, the pad of his thumb stroking along the edge of Sara's jaw.
"How nice I am will depend on you," he murmured, setting one knee onto the bed so that he could lean closer. It didn't so much as creak under his careful weight. He set his other hand on Sara's hip, helping turn the young man a little so that he could lean, lips brushing along his brow.
"How good you are."
His fingertips smoothed from Sara's hips towards his belt. Gave its excess length a deft jerk to work the tongue of the buckle loose. He watched Sara's face, held his eyes, while his skilled hands with just a small little push worked the belt loose, its undone ends dangling down near the tops of Sara's thighs.
His dark eyes blazed in the high-cheeked planes of his face. And he leaned to whisper in Sara's ear, breath barely stirring his fine hair,
"So don't be too good."
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"A brothel isn't the place to come in lying about what you want," he said, shifting slightly to resituate himself, trying to regain a bit of dignity. "Not everyone here handles being pushed around well."
The attempt at posturing was somewhat spoiled by his involuntary shiver, whispered words against the shell of his ear so delicate he felt the vibration of it more than any warmth or breath. As if to counter it, he caught at the back of his guest's shirt, finding the hem once more and only briefly toying with it before sliding his hand up underneath over still surprisingly cool skin. All this, and his customer still didn't seem worked up in the least. It hardly seemed fair.
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"Because otherwise I'm afraid the only impression I've gained is that you enjoy it."
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Tzilan's explorations exposed his stomach to the air, and a slight chill ran through him. He felt far too warm, and he could only attribute it to the contrast of the heatless hands on his body. He certainly wasn't that worked up yet, after all.
Letting his other hand join the first, he tried for boldness. Slid both hands up Tzilan's back, pushing his shirt up as he went, curiously running his palms over the ridge of spine and jut of shoulder blades.
"You're cold," he murmurered, frowning.
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"I am," he agreed, after a moment. He spoke more, voice very quiet, his body arching faintly to encourage the movement of the other man's hands. "I hadn't meant to indulge this, only to pay for their romp and then depart... but you were so striking to look upon, so clever when you leaned close, even that small kiss so warm..."
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"Ah, forgive me," he said after a moment, all apology and concern while his hands stilled in their sliding exploration. "You're so cold, and here I am halfway through stripping you down."
With a sweet smile touched with just an hint of slyness, he retrieved his hands, taking only enough time to tug his customer's shirt back down properly.
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"Too clever by half, aren't you?" His laughter faded into a smile that was more in his eyes than the spare curve of his mouth, and he smoothed his fingertips along a silken lock of Saralegui's hair.
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Teasing was good. A bit of shame was fine. Overt shyness was not. Or maybe it was just distaste for the obvious shift in attitude. That had been a mistake. Most customers were content to ignore anything that seemed off if the situation was to their liking, but this one seemed more observant than that and less easily mislead.
"I'm not sure there's such a thing as too clever," Saralegui answered, smiling thinly. But he left his hands where they were, half-curled against the sheets, and turned his face against Tzilan's fingers in his hair. Let his lips brush just slightly against the skin but didn't kiss it, just let his breath ghost warmly over it.
"You like my hair," he said. Not a question at that point. "Is that something you were interested in...?"
Gods, he hoped not. A guest had wanted that once before, and Saralegui wouldn't soon forget the smell of it drying before he got to go wash, or the struggle to get it all out.
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"Oh, all of you is uncommonly beautiful-- but surely you hear that many times a night. And I've never been especially good at any kind of intimacy... almost especially not physically. And your hair is so gorgeous and soft; like light spun into silk. Easy to presume I could hardly be blamed for wanting to touch it."
He made a quiet, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. "Does it ever frustrate you, the liberties people take with your body?"
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"They're just getting what they paid for," he said carefully. Speaking so bluntly about the reality of the arrangement with a customer... This whole evening felt off, almost specifically designed to trip him up. Customers didn't want to acknowledge that they were only getting what they wanted because money was being exchanged, that there could never be a no in place of any enthusiastic yes. Or that plenty of others got the sane deal each night. "Your boots don't complain about being laced up, do they? If you tried and they weren't cooperating, you'd simply toss them and get a new pair."
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He gently smoothed his fingertips down Saralegui's slim chest.
"If our situations were reversed," he inquired gently, smoothing one shoe off of Saraelgui's feet, "What would you want?"
He followed with the second, carefully set them aside. Turned a little away from Sara's face, his long-fingered hands carefully curving along the other man's elegant leg. He supported the back of the knee of the nearer leg, and used the fingers of the other hand to neatly nudge up the hems of his pants and skirts toward the knee. He cupped his hands along Sara's calf, slowly and skillfully massaging down toward his ankle-- and then further, along the heel of his foot, careful to avoid touches that might be ticklish.
"If you were the client, and here to throw yourself into a few moments' temporary pleasure."
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His frown deepened just slightly. This man had been asking him for honesty, but he couldn't give it. Honesty like that was just begging for a complaint to the owner.
"Not boots, surely," he said, evasive, adopting a hint of a smirk and lifting his leg slightly to better accomodate the touches. He tried to focus instead on the feeling of the firm grip around frequently-abused muscles, achingly pleasant. "And probably not playing the footservant and treating my host for the evening to a massage. But I won't judge how you spend your money."
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"So you can tell me what you wouldn't do, but not what you would?" He lifted his brows over at Saralegui over the slim slope of his shoulder.
His hands moved gingerly around faint bruises left by a strong grip, shadowed in the vague shape of of a far wider hand than his own. He leaned, hands lightly guiding, pressed his lips near the shape of its palm.
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This was alright. This, he could work with. He smirked and just barely managed to restrain a grimace at the first touch to the old bruising, more irritation at himself than pain. Damn, he'd forgotten about that. He should have covered it with makeup or sonething. Most guests didn't want to see evidence that others had come before them.
But the following touches were gentle as can be. The bruises were faint enough now to barely be tender anymore, but Tzilan's fingers on them were infinitely careful. A faint tremble ran through him at the press of lips to discolored skin, and his smirk shrank just slightly.
"...And what would you do?" he ventured after a moment. "If our positions were reversed. If you were the one entertaining such a strange client."
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He kissed the plane of Saralegui's knee, cradling the shape of the other man's heel in a hand, massaging slowly along the narrow shape of his foot.
"Difficult to say. What was your day like, yesterday? Did you come to this feeling frustrated? Bored? Excited? Anxious?" He glanced to Saralegui, mouth pursed. "I wouldn't qualify myself as a risk-taker... but I'm also terribly curious. I'd likely attempt to continue with courteous restraint, 'till I knew a little better where things were headed. Try to tread the lines which intersect between accommodating, congenial, and... safe."
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"And what do you consider safe, in this situation?" he asked. "What are you protecting yourself from?"
Violence was never the real danger. Roughness would only be allowed to a certain degree before a customer was banned. But a substandard perfomance might lose future patrons. Being infrequently requested might make one's position in the house shaky. Being complained about, if some comment was taken the wrong way or some guest was upset enough, could be disastrous no matter how well one typically performed.
Saralegui was beginning to feel like this one wouldn't pose such a danger, evidently more aware than most of the realities of a courtesan's position and unphased by allusions to themz But he could never be sure.
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"What I'm protecting myself from depends upon very much that's all hidden behind my smile. Why am I in this situation, a handsome young man, a kept pet, a carefully-trained courtesan? Was I sold as a youth? Forced into an arrangement by debt, poverty, or other concerns? What is my hope, for the future?"
Utterly unflappable and unperturbed, he slipped a hand underneath the arch of the foot Saralegui had nudged him with, and lightly stroked up to its slim ankle.
"Do I intend to find some regular, to take me in when I lose my contract as time erodes me? Someone doting and fond and wealthy? Do I sneak savings away? Do I lean too-far into these nights, trying to forget that the future exists? If it were me, I'd be the planning sort. Determined to eke the most out of my contract, and dependent upon good review. I'd do whatever it took. Whatever damned, distasteful, disgusting debasement it took, and protect my place tooth and nail. And I'd do it perfectly, and beautifully, and smiling."
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Eventually, he had to break the eye contact. He dropped his gaze to Tzilan's fine shirt, lifting his hands again to distract himself fussing with the lowermost button, taking far longer than needed to slip it through the buttonhole.
"You would make a good whore." Too honest. Too blunt. But he had the feeling it would be alright.
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He smoothed his hands along the lines of Saralegui's thighs, unshy, watching the other man's face while his avoidant gaze lingered on his shirt.
"Why did you become one?"
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Tzilan's gaze staring rught back at him reminded him quickly enough to mind himself, though. Saralegui schooled him expression, shifting his focus back to the closures of his guest's shirt but glancing back up at him intermittently through eyelashes far too long and dark for someone so fair.
"I think I'm far more interested in hearing those stories than recounting mine." Slipping the last button free with deft fingers, he slid his hand between the open halves across the cool, smooth skin beneath. Without any hint of heat or any of a body's tiniest movements, no breath expanding the chest that he could detect, or faint tremble in the muscles from holding a position too long, it seemed almost unnaturally still. If not for the slight give of flesh, he might have thought he was running his hands over a statue.