A vampiric sex worker spends the evening with an unusual client.
Tweeted this concept and it just stuck with me!
Content warnings: consent negotiation, self-stimulation (but no sex), descriptions of ingrained dirt, feather removal, and mild injury, references to touch aversion
“It was lovely to see you, Raymond,” Germain said mildly, guiding the old man with a gentle hand on his lower back to the door. “Do come again soon.”
Raymond gave him a dazzling smile, a very sweet one, really — he had such brightly red apples in his cheeks, and they were always all the redder when he left than when he arrived — and tipped his hat to Germain before he headed down the stairs.
Germain smiled to himself as he stripped off the top blanket on the bed, folding it and sliding it into one of the woven laundry bags to be tossed downstairs, and fetched another out of the airing cupboard, deftly unfolding it and throwing it out over the bed, tucking it in neatly at the corners again.
Raymond hadn’t undressed — he never did — and had only sat on the edge of the bed, but Germain’s sense of smell was keen enough that the scent of his excitement, his sweat, lingered on the fabric, and if Raymond could smell it, there was no reason to think the next client shouldn’t be able to.
It was a quiet night in the brothel, and he didn’t bother to dress himself as he took the laundry bag out to the chute — they shared their laundry service with the hotel next door, as well as sharing patrons — and once it was disposed of, he rested his elbows on the wooden balcony in the corridor, looking down at their lobby, which was very quiet.
Mr Burlac even looked bored, sitting in his armchair beside the front desk and reading his paper, and he glanced up at Germain. He glanced down at Germain’s bare feet, his silken robe still open at the waist.
“Bored?”
“Dreadfully,” said Germain. “Has everyone had as quiet a night as I have?”
“Tuesdays,” he said good-naturedly, shrugging his portly shoulders. “It will pick up a little more after eleven.”
“Promise?” Germain asked, and Avram laughed his wine-rich chuckle, leaning back in his chair. Germain liked Mr Burlac very much — he was an old vampire, six or seven hundred years old by all accounts, and he had gravitated toward sex work long ago, and it was nice to share a passion with one’s employer. Mr Burlac didn’t typically work with clients himself, of course, and those that asked for him had normally known him for a long time.
Mr Burlac did not exclusively hire vampires in his brothels — of which, Germain was informed, he owned six — but this one Germain had worked in for coming up to sixty years now, and vampires, both born and turned, had been its primary workers for almost all of that time.
They were simply reliable employees, Germain expected, as they tended to stick with their profession for some time, although Mr Burlac was good about getting the young ones into classes and what-not, if they wanted to learn to do something else, and he knew that his managers were usually ex-workers — he’d offered Germain a position, but Germain had always been far happier comfortably laid in a bed than standing behind a desk, regardless that the former was more exerting.
When the door opened, Germain loosely pulled his robe closed over his chest, and didn’t bother to put on slippers as he slowly descended the stairs, letting his hips sway as he did so.
No sense running for shoes when anyone else could snap this one up, and he was pretty.
The young man was dressed in very heavy clothes, a thick jumper and one of those very puffy coats, and he was huddled in them. He had mousy brown hair that came about his head in a sort of drab mane, but his face was very handsome — he had lovely sun-kissed skin, brown eyes, and lips that formed a perfect cupid’s bow.
“I don’t care,” he was saying to Ariadne behind the desk now that she’d taken his debit card. “Just — Anyone.”
“Alright,” Ariadne said gently — she could be terribly sweet with the nervous ones, and this one was shaking like a leaf — “Germain here can take care of you. Just see us on the way out and we’ll sort out payment.”
Germain gave the young man — though Germain suspected he wasn’t as young as he looked, because he wasn’t human, Germain could smell that, and although his coat was new, he could see that the jumper had been darned and repaired in a good many places, and looked to be almost as old as Germain was — a friendly smile.
He looked at Germain, at Ariadne, and then back at Germain, before bustling forward to follow him.
Germain walked slowly, gracefully, up the stairs with one hand sliding prettily up the surface of the bannister, but although he swayed his hips, he could tell the man wasn’t looking at his backside, and didn’t seem interested in his hands, either.
The trembling did not stop once he was inside Germain’s room, nor even when the door was shut closed behind them.
“Why don’t I help you off with your coat?” Germain suggested softly, reaching out, but the young man took a stout step back and dragged his coat roughly off his shoulders himself, as though it were some monster he had been struggling to defeat. He held it out to Germain at arm’s length, and Germain took it from him, hanging it on the back of the door.
“You are a vampire?” he asked sharply, but Germain could hear the anxiety in his voice.
“Of course,” said Germain. “There aren’t many human men walking about with skin as beautifully unblemished as mine, are there?”
The young man was staring down at the wood boards of the floor, his hands held rigidly at his sides. He wore very heavy work boots, but he seemed altogether too small to be a labourer — he wasn’t extraordinarily thin, nor particularly below average height, but he was slim, and had a fragile quality to him.
“I don’t want to have sex with you,” he blurted out.
“Alright,” Germain said pleasantly.
The young man glanced up from the floor to look cautiously at Germain instead. Even without the coat on, he huddled in his clothes, all but folded in on himself, his arms held tightly in against his chest, his shoulders hunched.
“That’s not so unusual, you know,” Germain said — he kept his voice quiet, gentle, but avoided being too gentle, lest it be perceived as patronising. “Plenty of people come to places like this, to people like me, for things other than sex. A massage, a cuddle… Even just to talk.”
He studied the young man’s face for any sort of reaction, any clue, but he didn’t light up at any of those suggestions, and Germain felt curiosity bloom in him like a flower.
“My name is Germain,” he said, walking slowly past him, registering the way he flinched even though he remained nearly two feet away from him. “What’s yours?”
“Beau,” said the young man.
“Beau,” Germain repeated. “A handsome name for a handsome man.”
Beau did not smile.
“I need, I might need, need you to bite me,” said Beau. His voice was anxious, and he was all but tearing at the hems of his jumper sleeves, tugging and pulling on the fabric with twitching fingers. “I’m very susceptible to the venom of vampires,” he added. “I’m quite likely to become almost insensible, if not unconscious.”
Germain believed that — Beau’s heart beat rather a lot faster than a human’s, and Germain could feel from the sound of it, the sound of his organs, too, that his flesh wasn’t quite so dense as a human’s, either.
He wouldn’t look at Germain, and the trembling was beginning to become quite upsetting. Germain had never enjoyed the look of fear.
“And why might I need to bite you?” he asked.
Beau moved abruptly, all but tearing off his clothes — the jumper was hauled roughly over his head, his flannel shirt rapidly unbuttoned and similarly tugged off, and an undershirt was thrown to the ground too. He did not appear to be shy about undressing, which was a surprise — he undressed in a hurry, but once undressed, he didn’t appear to be all concerned about covering his body, as Germain might have expected.
His chest was a pleasant sight, his pecs handsome, hard muscle visible on his belly and on his shoulders, too, when he turned away from Germain, but even from here, Germain could see that the muscles looked tightly knotted.
When the wings unfolded, it was as though a pop-up book had been pried open from Beau’s own shoulders: on each side, Germain watched the rapid unfolding and spread of two huge, grey-brown wings. Angels’ wings always did look so huge in comparison to the beings they were attached to, owing to having to carry them, and Germain knew of the biological differences, too — the hollow bones, the lighter flesh, all that muscle, but…
“Oh, you poor thing,” Germain said out loud before he could stop himself, and winced at the way it made Beau jump and shudder.
He couldn’t even unfold the two wings the way that he was supposed to, the muscle was so stiff, and just looking at them from a little distance away, Germain could see how they were caked in places with clumps of wing oil, ingrained dirt, even scabbed over bits of flesh where a quill had broken and not pulled free properly.
Quite a few of the angel’s feathers were bent and broken, the way that they became, when angels kept them folded inside themselves for too long — angels’ wings had to be groomed very regularly, even the little ones that some of them sprouted on their feet or from their heads, and the large ones that burst from the shoulders most of all.
“Don’t worry,” Germain said as he stood to his feet, pulling his dressing gown more tightly across his waist and rolling up his sleeves. “I’ve done this before, you’re in good hands. How long has it been since last you groomed them?”
“I don’t like being touched,” whispered Beau, in so tiny a voice Germain truly had to strain to hear it, even with his heightened hearing. “But — but they hurt.”
Germain reached out, brushing his fingers against a bent feather toward the upper edge of the right wing, a covert that oughtn’t have been nearly as sensitive as the battered and neglected primaries, but the angel let out a wounded noise and flinched violently just at that — Germain hadn’t even tried to tug it free.
His heart panged as Beau let out a wretched sob of sound.
“Turn around,” Germain instructed him, and Beau obediently turned to look at him. “This is going to take a little while, so this isn’t going to be a standard service, alright? Once I bite you, I expect you’ll be hazy for quite the while, so you’ll need to pay the charge for a night’s service and stay, as Ariadne explained to you. Understand?”
Beau, with tear-stained cheeks, nodded his head.
“The touch aversion, does that trouble you even drugged? Are you going to struggle once I have you bitten?”
This earned him a stuttered shake of the head, and after a quiet hiccough, Beau mumbled, “I get all stiff, and too sensitive. The bite makes it feel good.”
“That’s good,” Germain said softly. “And is there anything you don’t want me to do that you might ask me for, once the venom has taken hold?” Beau looked at him uncomprehendingly with his lovely, teary eyes, and Germain gave him a kind, close-lipped smile. “For example, a lot of angels can orgasm from wing stimulation alone. I know you said you didn’t want to have sex — I won’t touch you below the belt if you don’t want to me to, but I need to know if you think you might ask me once you’re high, if you want me to refuse you.”
“Oh,” Beau said, and bit his lip. “I don’t — I don’t know. My brother taught me, once, I didn’t, then, but I find it hard to do them myself, really hard, and, and I don’t know any other angels here, very well, I moved for work, and…”
“Alright,” Germain said. “Well, let’s say no sex this time, alright, and if you ask me, I’ll just tell you no. Best to negotiate these things while you’re sober, hm? If you’re comfortable, I’d like you out of these heavy clothes so that you can sleep better afterward — you don’t need to be naked, I can fetch some pyjama bottoms for you. Alright?”
Beau nodded his head, and as Germain pulled open a chest of drawers, pulling out a pair of his own pyjama bottoms, he looked to Beau as he undid his great, heavy boots and peel off his socks.
“Is there anywhere you do like to be touched?” Germain asked.
“My — My hair,” said Beau. “A little. Not hard.”
He had a pretty clit, a tiny little bud of pink that scarcely poked out from the little patch of mousy hair between his lips, and Germain briefly wondered if it would get any bigger, once he started work on his wings, wondered how wet the angel would get.
“Your hair,” Germain repeated, holding out the pyjama bottoms and watching the angel climb into them, sliding them up his thighs and tugging them around his hips, which were just a little too loose. When the angel shivered, Germain said, “Bad texture? I’m sure I have cotton ones.”
“It’s nice,” said the angel, and facing him, this time, Germain reached out again, barely ghosting his fingertips over the side of one of his wings. The angel tried to stifle his flinch, but Germain could see that it was too much, see the way his face crumpled right up.
“A bite, then,” Germain murmured. “On the neck?”
Beau nodded, leaned forward, and raised his chin.
“Just two big pin pricks,” Germain warned him. “And then you’ll barely feel anything.”
The angel nodded, without surprise, and Germain wondered how many times he’d done this before.
His blood was sweet and fresh and iron-rich, and as Germain delicately wound his hand into his hair, loosely holding it but not tugging even gently on the scalp, he drew his teeth entirely from the wound and lapped at the blood that flowed over his tongue. The angel went from stiff and tightly wound to loose and eager almost within seconds, letting out a blissful sound as he fell against Germain’s chest and pressed his neck up and against his mouth.
His hands, which had been awkwardly folded up against his own chest, slid forward, but where they worked themselves under the fabric of Germain’s robe they didn’t rove: his palms pressed against the cool, hard flesh of Germain’s chest and lingered there, feeling the cool.
“Front or back first?” Germain asked, sliding his hand under Beau’s chin and pushing him back slightly. The angel’s eyes were defocused, his mouth ajar, and although his lips moved slightly, he didn’t actually lend voice to the words, so Germain made the decision for him.
Beau allowed himself to be laid out on his belly on the bed, pillows pulled underneath his head so that he could lounge under them, and Germain kneeled to one side, starting on the right-hand wing.
Germain didn’t have incredibly strong venom, himself — it tended to become more potent the older you got, and he hadn’t yet seen his hundredth year. Mr Burlac’s bite was strong enough to put even very burly men on their backs for two days, but Germain typically only imparted a stupor that lasted a few hours. With an angel’s metabolism and delicacy, he expected it would last longer, six hours or so.
It was a pleasant thing, the bite of a vampire — one became loose-limbed and all but insensible of pain, so awash with endorphins that every sensation was translated to pleasure — except for pleasure itself, which became ecstasy.
Germain hadn’t been lying: he had indeed done this before, two dozen times or so in the span of his career, although never for an angel who seemed to be quite so ashamed of it. Most of them came to people like him for the convenience, or to fuck while they were being groomed, not because they were ashamed to ask their brothers, but he supposed it was an embarrassing thing, like being caught not having brushed your hair in some weeks, so that someone had to fix it for you.
He didn’t even know how long these wings must have gone untouched.
He began, first, with the feathers that were bent or broken or out of place, sliding his fingers into the down and taking hold of them by the base of their quills, tugging them free with a smooth, quick motion as he pressed on where they adjoined the flesh, ensuring they slid out easily. Angels had told him that ordinarily, having a bent feather removed was a relief — it was a quick, sudden pinch but it felt better after, the uncomfortable pressure released.
Germain imagined it wasn’t quite so pleasant when fifty were tugged free in succession. He dragged a bucket out of the bottom of his cupboard and tossed all the feathers into it, one by one.
Angels typically had glands at the base of their wings — he knew that birds did too, that they had glands that secreted some sort of oil to help clean their feathers, but that their glands were somewhere in the vicinity of their cloaca. It was all for the best, Germain felt, that angels’ glands were rather higher up.
Some of it was naturally secreted along the wing, but it would clump up with dirt or skin cells or blood, and in several places along the wing, Germain had to dig his nails underneath the scab-like globs of once-gold oil and drag it free, pulling it loose of the feathers it was sticking to before trying to comb the little bits of it out of the feathers left.
Beau made noises the whole time, sharp, eager little noises — he’d hissed and gasped although he’d writhed as Germain had pulled the quills free, but now that he was digging out the dirt and sticky oil, he kept sighing in relief. Germain could see the way he grinding himself down against the bed, and he reached for another pillow, pulling Beau up by the hip and pushing it between his legs so that he could straddle it.
Immediately, Beau let out a greedy, eager sound, thrusting himself down against the pillow with more rhythm, shoving his hips down hard against it.
“Good boy,” Germain said. “You’re doing very well.”
He began to comb his hands through his feathers, scratching slightly at the surface of Beau’s skin where he could find it, tugging out the little bits and pieces of clumping oil that he found, and a few last feathers as he worked through his secondary feathers, the primaries. As he worked two-handed, he regularly leaned back to press on the swollen glands at the base of the wing, coaxing out wing oil that spurted hot, wet, and shimmering over his fingers, and each time he did so, Beau whined at the release of tension.
Germain started on the other side.
By the time he had Beau turned around so that he could work on the inside curve of his wings, he was fairly certain the angel had orgasmed once already, and he was working his way toward a second peak. He had a lovely face, twisted up in that pleasure, his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes squeezed shut, whining from very low in his throat.
With clumsy hands he reached for Germain, tugged and clumsily grabbed at him, but each time Germain gently pushed his hands down and kept working, tugging free feathers, working out pieces of thickened, stubborn oil, smoothing out oil and combing it through.
His brown-grey feathers were shining in the glow of the light by the time Germain had finished, highlighted in gold, and when Germain turned him back onto his belly again, he said, “Going to express the last of this oil for you,” he said. “Get rid of that last feeling of fullness, and I’ll use the oil to massage your shoulders, work out the tension. Alright?”
Beau mumbled something incoherent.
Germain pressed down on both sides at once, and the angel howled with pleasure.
He scrabbled and scratched at the sheets, letting out such a loud, sustained sound Germain almost worried for his throat, but after he’d ridden himself through the second orgasm, he collapsed forward on the bed.
Beau was almost asleep as Germain began to press and work the muscle in his wings instead of the skin and feathers. This work wasn’t as delicate as one might suspect, with how incredibly strong the muscle was in an angel’s wings, but he still had to take care not to push too hard on any of the fragile bones, and as well as working each side of the wings, he pressed underneath to where the shoulders doubled strangely, and worked the knots from the muscle.
By the time he’d finished, really finished, his hands ached, and he rolled the angel out of the wet patch he’d made for himself, rolling the blanket around him and letting him sleep on his belly. His wings curled up about him, folding properly now, like they were supposed to, like a cowl around his body. He stepped outside of his room to see Mr Burlac stepping out of Dieter’s room, and then he gave Germain a small smile.
“He good?”
“Much better that he was,” Germain said. “My hands ache.”
“You’ve been working hard,” said Mr Burlac, and took Germain’s hands in his own big ones, pressing and massaging on the muscle there and making Germain hiss. “He asleep?”
“Will be for a few more hours,” Germain said. “You need me with another client?”
“No, not unless you want it, unless you need it,” Mr Burlac said. “He’s paying for the whole night?”
“Yes. Leave me, I’ll just read my book.”
Mr Burlac patted his cheek with affection, and Germain went back into his room.
When Beau woke, it was the early hours of the morning, and Germain could see the way he tensed as his eyes fluttered open, but then his lips parted and he relaxed, melting into the bed. His wings fluttered experimentally, shifting, and Germain reached out, very carefully touching his fingers through Beau’s hair.
Beau sighed, his eyes closing as he tipped his head into Germain’s hand.
“No pain?” Germain asked.
“Mmm mmm,” Beau hummed, and then sighed blissfully. “I need to go?”
“Not just yet,” Germain said softly, continuing to stroke through Beau’s hair, but he could see where he did it a little too hard and Beau’s face crumpled up, and so he gentled his hand again. “You don’t know any angels in town?”
Beau shook his head. “Or… I do, but I don’t… I don’t want to…”
“You don’t know them well enough to ask for this, when you’re uncomfortable with touch,” Germain supplied, and Beau nodded. “Well, you can book a regular appointment with me if you like. Shouldn’t usually take this long, and if we stay on top of it, a regular forty-five minute session should let me sort this out for you. Is it better that my hands are cold?”
Beau nodded.
“Good boy,” Germain murmured, and when Beau smiled, he smiled too. “What say you I run a bath? I can help you wash your hair, or I can keep my hands off.”
“Can I lie here a few more minutes?” Beau asked in a very small voice. “This is… nice.”
“Of course,” Germain said, and kept stroking the angel’s hair.
He wasn’t quite ready for Germain to wash his hair yet, but Germain kept it in mind for next time as he booked a recurring appointment.
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