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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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.