Work Text:
Whores are trained not to look twice at their clients. Even if their client has an obvious deficiency the way I do. Even if their client's in a blasted wheelchair and only wants to watch. It's all part of the job, and a professional knows how to make a man feel as if he's gotten his money's worth.
I've lost track of how many I've hired over the last nine months. Some weeks are worse than others, and I end up hiring four, six, a dozen. I've hired three at a time, sat in the corner of the sofa and watched as they made all the noises I can't make anymore. I've hired both men and women, but mostly men. Men understand the need to put on a show a bit better, owing to being inherently visual creatures. And there's something painfully pleasant about watching a man jerking himself off for me. Can't do it myself anymore. I might as well watch.
The buzz at the door tells me my man of the hour's here. I press the intercom button and tell him to let himself in, and I wheel myself around to greet him.
When the door opens, I'm honestly surprised. I haven't seen a whore who looked quite this hungry in a long time, and I can't imagine what the agency was thinking sending him to me. He's too short. Too thin. His hair's too long, shaggy, too red. His eyes can't seem to make up their mind what color they are. And he's smiling too much.
Wrong. All wrong.
"Are you Eugene?" he asks.
"Yes," I tell him. "Would you like a drink?"
He shrugs. "If you're offering," he says. "Nice place."
"Thank you." I head off to the kitchen and open one of the cabinets. "What do you drink?"
"Ehrm. Whatever you have."
Too agreeable. I glance down at the bottles. "Vodka?" I ask, at the same time he suggests, "Scotch?"
Well, at least it's a preference. I tug out the Glenlivet and a pair of glasses, and he leans against the counter, looking down through his eyelashes at me. "Thanks," he says softly. I'm starting to notice he has an accent, although I somehow doubt he'll be talking enough for me to figure out where, precisely, it comes from. An accent. Christ, the agency must have decided to send me novelty this time; this man doesn't meet any of the qualifications I've asked for in the past.
I hand him his scotch and take my own -- I should be able to drink tonight, there are enough urine samples stored -- and then head back to the living room, where a soft grunt and a quick twist gets me from wheelchair to sofa. I have to tug my legs into position, and I glance up at the whore to see if this unnerves him. It doesn't seem to.
"So..." He sits down on the sofa across from me, knees spread wide apart, leanign over so his elbows are resting on his knees. He sips at the scotch, and then blinks, distracted. "This is really good," he tells me. "Thank you."
I shrug. "You're welcome. Were you going to ask something?" Perhaps we'd better get on with this. If he leaves early enough, I can still call the agency and have them send me someone else...
"Oh. Right."
He puts the scotch down and leans back into the sofa, thumbs sliding into the belt loops on his jeans. There's something else the agency got wrong. He looks so casual. So mundane. But most whores are invalids, of course. If they had the genes to make a living doing anything legitimate, why would they whore themselves?
"Where do you want to start?" he asks. Easy. Bold. No reason not to cut straight to the heart of the matter -- or perhaps it's more the crotch of the matter than the heart. I sip at my scotch and look him over, trying to be charitable. He's one of the prettier whores I've seen recently, I suppose. And I can't complain too much about the smile. Shy as it is -- and that must be an act; he can't possibly be that new at this -- it's at least different from the bored expressions I see on whores before they remember they're supposed to be showing me their pleasure.
"Why don't we start with you taking off your clothes?" I ask.
He nods and stands up, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it slide down his arms. His eyes stay on mine as he begins undressing, and there's something about the way he does it that's almost... predatory.
All right -- the agency might not have fucked up quite so badly as I thought.
"My name's Alan," he tells me. "If it matters."
I shrug. "It doesn't. Much."
He pulls the waistband of his t-shirt up and over his head, and I blink in surprise. He has characters tattooed on his chest, a straight line down the side of his left pectoral, Japanese. I can't make them out from here; too small. How long has it been since I've seen a tattoo? Discounting the girl the agency sent over who I immediately sent back, that is.
"Do you mind it?" he asks, glancing down at his chest. "I can keep the shirt on if it's going to bother you."
"No," I tell him, so quick and forceful it actually makes him double-take. I don't know that either of us expected to get a real reaction out of me tonight.
It only makes him smile more, his tongue coming out to flick over his lower lip. And oh, that's -- I like that. It looks good on him. Makes the hungry look on his face seem more real, as if it's meant for me and not just for the money he's going to be paid tonight. He slides his fingertips down over the characters and asks, "Would you like to know what it says?"
"No," I say, breathing out quietly. No, I don't want to know. I like the idea that this whore can offer me a sense of mystery.
He keeps sliding that hand down his body, turning his hand so he's running the backs of his fingernails over skin, and then his hand changes direction and slides under the waistband of his jeans. "You can tell me if you don't want me to talk," he murmurs. "I won't mind."
"It's all right," I tell him. And it is -- I think I'm growing used to his accent. I'd like to hear more of it.
"Is there anything you'd like to hear from me?" he asks. He slides his hand back out of his jeans and starts popping open the buttons, one at a time. Buttons on jeans -- how quaint. I didn't even realize those were still made.
"Let's start with getting you undressed," I tell him. "And then if I want you to sing for me or tell me a story, I'll let you know."
He laughs and kicks out of his shoes, toes out of his socks, before sliding the jeans over his hips. And it isn't graceful; it isn't seductive. He simply puts his hands into the material at his waist and slides the jeans down, one long motion that sees him bending over at the waist and skims the material off all at once. He steps out of his jeans, and he's naked. Pale skin everywhere. Freckles. The hair at the base of his cock is a slightly darker brown than the hair on his head, and it's trimmed.
He's already hard. Another surprise. I wonder if he's one of the whores who gets off on selling himself. Maybe even gets off on selling himself to poor sick fucks like me who can't get it up anymore and have to watch.
"Hey," he says, interrupting the line of my thoughts. "What's that look for?"
I close my eyes. Perceptive little whore. "Nothing," I tell him. "You seem happy to be here."
"Yeah, well..." He pauses, seeming to consider the different things he could say. "I'm new at this," he offers, "and you're not a bad-looking bloke."
New at this. Oh, now that's a dead giveaway: the instant a whore says he's "new at this", he is most definitely not "new at this".
I grin at him. "Thank you for the compliment," I tell him. "I want to watch you touch yourself for me."
He nods, smiles, licks the palm of his hand. He starts easy, stroking himself slowly, as if he has all day to do it. He doesn't rush it. He makes it look good, as though he still lies on his back sometimes on warm afternoons and enjoys a wank, not because he's frustrated and wants to get off but because he likes the feel of his hand sliding over his skin.
Beautiful.
He arches his neck a bit, lips parting, and then he licks both lips and brings his teeth together to hiss. He blinks his eyes open and looks at me, and he grins again.
He gives me a once-over. The kind I haven't had since before the accident. The kind I used to take for granted. And I find that I'm responding to it, my nipples growing hard under my shirt, the stiff cotton feeling rough and nearly abrasive. I'd like him to pinch them, twist them, scratch his fingernails over them. I'd like to have him lick at them while I twist both hands into his hair, feeling ragged red locks under my palms.
"Do you want me to come?" he asks, giving his cock a soft little twist at the head -- oh, God, I remember what that felt like. Now I'm the one who's flicking his tongue out over his lips, wanting to taste him, wanting him to come closer, straddle me, press me back into the couch and give me his cock. Let me sink my mouth over it and hear him crying out with pleasure above me.
"Not yet," I whisper. I reach for my scotch. My hands are trembling. I take another drink.
He lifts his hand to his mouth, licks his palm again. I'm envious. I can imagine the taste of his skin now, the warm musk of sex that would flavor his palm, and I would offer to wet his palm for him if I didn't think it might break the mood.
Another drink. I need another drink. My glass is nearly empty.
"Do you want to touch me?" he asks. His voice has gone breathless now. And yes, yes, I want to touch him, want to bend my head down and suck his cock down my throat, want to suck his fingers into my mouth one at a time and taste the leftover tang of his sweat on them, and how long has it been since I wanted to do anything but watch?
"I don't..." I shake my head and finish off my scotch, looking away for a moment as I replace the glass on the coffee table.
When I look up, Alan's hand is turned palm-up to me, the shine from his saliva all but gone.
"Do you want to...?"
And I do. I take his hand in both of mine and slide my tongue along his fingers, tasting every line, every fold of flesh, the creases of his fingers, the pads of his fingertips, the rise and swell of flesh in his palm. His hand is soft, not callused. His fingers taste just as I'd imagined: a hint of salt, a trace of sweat, the bitter flavor of sex. I moan softly as I lick his hand, and when it's wet from my tongue, I look back up at him, almost shaking with want for him.
"Go on," I whisper.
He wraps his hand around his cock again, and if his moans are faked, then by God, they're faked beautifully. I don't give a damn anymore. I listen to them, and let my breath come up short in my chest, my own breaths coming in rhythm with his moans.
"Can I come now?" he whispers. "Please?"
Oh, God, and that "please" undoes me, making me reach out for his hip with one hand and draw him closer. "Come," I whisper, "show me..." At this angle, at this range, he'll come on my face, and I want him to. I want the degradation from that, the slight humiliation of being willing, wanting to be marked with my whore's come.
"Oh -- oh, God," he breathes, and he threads his fingers into mine, coming up on his toes for the last few thrusts into his hand, squeezing my hand tight, "Eugene..."
The first jet surprises me, and I flinch away, but then the next comes, and the next, and I bend closer, letting my mouth come open and trying to catch the come on my tongue. It tastes like him, like warm eager mad lust, and I can't believe I've let him do this. Can't believe I wanted it.
He stands there panting when he's done, the grip on my hand not easing one bit. Eventually, I draw the back of my hand across my cheek and look up at him, wondering whether it would be safe to lick it up -- well, the agency wouldn't send over someone who hadn't been thoroughly screened, whether he's "new at this" or not. I take the come off the back of my hand in small, almost catlike motions, one fast flick at a time.
"Oh," he whispers, and he draws his thumb over my cheek, cleaning the come from it. I suck his thumb into my mouth, and he groans. I groan, too, and bite down gently at the tip. It makes him laugh.
When my face is clean, I finally try to withdraw my hand from his grip. He takes a step back and lets me go, looking a bit chagrined. "I'm sorry--"
"Don't," I tell him. "Don't be sorry for anything." I tug a handkerchief out of my vest pocket and dab off my cheeks, then glance down my chest to see if there's anything else I need to clean. I think I got off lucky this time.
This time. I am already thinking about the next time I hire him.
He stands there waiting, clearly uncertain what to do next. My God, no act's this good. He is a novice, though he's obviously got talent. I frown up at him.
"How many times have you done this?" I ask. "Alan, was it?"
He nods. "It's Alan -- and I've only been at it for a month." He smiles at me, then runs his fingertips up his chest and grazes his nails over a nipple. "This was nice."
"It was," I agree. "I want to see you again."
"Great." It slips out before he can think of the proper answer; I can see the hint of a wince as he wonders whether he said the right thing at all.
"Shall I continue to contact you through the agency, or are you only freelance for them? Do you have your own number?"
"I, ah..." He puzzles over that one for a moment. "If you want... something like this... yeah, the agency, I guess."
I nod, tucking the handkerchief away. It's going to smell like him.
"Should I dress?" he asks.
"I suppose we're done here," I tell him. "I wouldn't want to keep you."
"Oh." He nods, and starts getting back into his clothes. "No, right. I'll head out, then. Thank you for the scotch."
"Thank you for..." Eugene, what are you saying? You don't thank whores; you pay them and send them on their way. "For everything," I tell him.
"You're welcome," he says. And now his shoes are tied, and he's got his jacket slung over a shoulder. "Anything else I can do for you before I go?"
I shake my head. I need more scotch.
He finishes the glass on the coffee table, and puts it down with an audible clack. "Then I'll be going," he announces. "Have a good night, Eugene."
"And yourself, Alan."
He lets himself out, and I rest my head against the back of the couch.
Well, now.
I wonder if he's already got a client for tomorrow night.
-end-