psl - 100% just a shameless teahouse au

[enthraller]

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.

Comments

[enthraller]

Just as he quit wasting time and moved to work open the rest of the buttons, Tzilan dropped that comment in and Saralegui's hands stilled, his gold eyes looking back up with surprise he failed at first to disguise.

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.