Erotic short. A young sex worker is employed by a local lord.
4k, rated E, cis M/trans M. Utterly self-indulgent. A young sex worker is employed by a local lord, who wants to do only one thing to him — and then give him something else. Lots of oral sex in this one, age difference, some power differential, a nervous sex worker.
CWs for referencing to past trafficking / coerced sex work and past dubious / coerced consent.
It was raining outside, and when Kyn was ushered in through the gatehouse at the stone keep, an attendant made him strip off his cloak and set it aside, and take off his boots, too, exchanging them for slippers instead. She clucked her tongue at his clothes, slightly damp, but then made a dismissive wave of her hand and had him follow her.
The stairs up to the lord’s chambers were steep and winding, and she sent him up them alone, until he came into the main chamber.
Lord Marold was washing blood off his hands, and Kyn felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at him, arrested in the doorway, but then he saw the meat on the table, neatly butchered and arranged in wide dishes, four or five skins hanging over the table.
“Ring that bell, would you?” the old man asked briskly, and Kyn moved reflexively, taking the rope on the bell and rattling it within the bell body, making it chime.
The attendant was far quicker coming up the stairs with two serving boys following her than he had been trudging up them alone, and Kyn watched her come in and stand aside, giving the young men instructions to pile up the dishes of meat and a bucket of blood as she took the rabbit skins down from their hooks.
As the serving boys went downstairs, each balancing everything in their arms to descend, the attendant swiped a cloth over the table, wiping off the tiniest specks of butchery left behind.
“Will that be all, milord?”
“Yes,” said Marold, drying his now-clean hands.
The attendant left, closing the door behind her, and Kyn was alone with him.
“How many men have you served, young man?”
Kyn was silent, not understanding immediately that the question was directed at him, and then he blinked several times, trying to speed his brain up, trying to make it answer. Lord Marold turned to look at him, arching one eyebrow.
He was a tall man, stripped down to his breeches and shirt with no waistcoat, no jerkin, no jacket. Kyn was painfully aware of how thin the shirt was, rendered slightly transparent by sweat, and Kyn could see the muscle on his chest, his abdomen. He didn’t know that he’d ever seen such visible muscle on a man before — he needed to eat more, it seemed to Kyn, or drink more, or both. There was a similar severity to his features, his chin hard and with a point to it, his jaw at a stark angle, his nose very defined, his eyes deepset in their sockets and dark.
“I reiterate my question,” Marold said, setting aside the cloth on its hook and turning around. “How many men have you served?”
“I don’t know,” said Kyn. “I don’t… I don’t understand the question.”
Marold stepped forward, closer, and Kyn was aware of how tall he was compared to Kyn, how Marold was looking down at him. Kyn relaxed slightly as Marold began to unlace his shirt, then drew it over Kyn’s shoulders. Kyn reached for Marold’s belt after his own shirt was off, but Marold caught his wrists in a strong grip and suddenly pushed him up against the wall.
Kyn shivered, staring up at him.
Marold looked him over, considering, his expression thoughtful, distant, keeping Kyn’s hands pinned above his head. “You’re a handsome young man, aren’t you?”
It sounded like a rhetorical question, but you never knew with a man like this, the sort of noblemen and posh lads who wanted a whore for the light. Some people wanted you to agree, say that you were handsome — some didn’t want you to say anything, because if you said anything, it implied you thought this was a two-way conversation, that you thought the two of you were equals, and you weren’t.
Some of them wanted you to disagree. Some of you wanted to say you were ugly, disgusting, filthy, that you didn’t deserve the hands that were on you.
Kyn knew a lot of people who could figure these things out as soon as they saw a mark, could just tell by looking at them, but he’d never been that good at it. He needed time, and conversation, if not a dossier in advance — the attendant hadn’t told him anything, had just told him that he was wanted for the night, that he would be paid double his usual rate, that he was expected to maintain discretion in the aftermath.
“You’re a handsome young man,” Marold repeated. His eyes were actually blue, but so dark that they seemed black from further away. It was a nice colour, Kyn thought, seen up close. “What do we say, young man, when given a compliment?”
“Thank you,” Kyn whispered.
Marold smiled faintly at him, and Kyn’s stomach flipped, his heart skipping a beat. “Do you know why I have you here?”
“The usual,” said Kyn, “I’m guessing.”
“The usual,” Marold repeated. “How crass. Let me rephrase my initial question — how many men have fucked you?”
Kyn looked up at Marold’s face, aware of the warmth of his hand around his wrists, the thumb against one of his pulse points.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Is that an honest answer?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sir,” Marold corrected him.
“Yes, milord?” Kyn asked, and Marold’s chuckle was quiet and surprisingly warm from such a cool, collected man.
“Sir will suffice,” he said, and then stepped away. “The rest of it off, please. I want you naked of every thread.”
Kyn pushed his breeches down, stepping out of them and the slippers at the same time, and then pulled off his socks, put them in a pile on top of his shirt.
“Could you give me an estimate?” Marold asked.
Kyn hesitated.
“How long have you been providing sexual services for coin?”
“Five years.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
Marold clucked his tongue. “The truth, please.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Good man. What brought you to the work?”
Kyn didn’t say anything, not knowing if that was a trick question too. He hated the men that wanted more intellectual connection, more emotional connection, the ones with real awareness of psychology. He didn’t have those things and still hadn’t developed them, probably wouldn’t by now, and he found himself frustrated, uselessly, with the inappropriateness of his selection for this job.
They should have sent someone else, someone who knew how to deal with it.
“You think it’s a trick question, perhaps,” mused Lord Marold out loud, and Kyn stood there, naked, watching him as he lit a candle with a splint from the fire. He’d had sex with nobles and rich men before, and some of them would have servants and attendants buzzing around the two of you, acting like you were meant to think of them as invisible, because that’s what nobles wanted of them.
Like this, the room big and luxurious and very quiet, Lord Marold lighting the candles, Marold having just finished skinning rabbits, it felt strangely empty, and he felt very isolated with him, at the top of a tower as they were.
He should have been looking around the room, trying to build a sort of profile in his mind of who this man was, what he wanted, what he craved and desired, but his gaze was drawn to the red wax candles Marold was lighting, at the tops of them where the wax was glistening as it melted, small droplets sliding down the shaft of each candle.
Was Marold going to drip it on him, that hot wax?
He’d had that before. It hurt.
“Do you enjoy it?” asked Marold.
“Of course,” said Kyn reflexively. “It’s a lot of pleasure, in my line of work.”
Marold huffed out a low noise, and it was difficult to tell if it was a scoff or a laugh — if it was truly amused, or just derisive.
“Do you reach completion easily?” Marold asked.
Kyn wasn’t sure what the correct answer to that question was, looking back at him. “Yes,” he said finally, gambling that it was the better answer. It was what most people wanted to hear from a whore, whether they liked them or not — and some of them wanted you to say yes, but not mean it, so they could be the only person to really pleasure you, out of all the clients you had today.
Sometimes when he was with other whores, they talked about it, talked about all the things they saw in people, the ways men looked and talked and moved and thought, how you’d know, all the little clues — but mostly they didn’t even talk about the clues. They’d just talk about the men themselves, and say things like, “You know the type,” or “The sort of man who — ” and you were just expected to follow.
He had no instincts for this line of work. All he had was that he was handsome, and that wouldn’t last. He knew that.
“On the bed,” Marold instructed him, and Kyn climbed on top of the dark red bed spread, felt the softness of the velvet beneath him. He gripped loosely at the top of the blanket, looking askance at Marold, who shook his head. “On top. No need to get underneath the sheets just yet. You’re not cold, are you?”
“No,” Kyn said, and laid slowly down on his back, his head against the pillows. Marold approached with the candles, and he felt himself stiffen, his head pressing back into them, but Marold just set them on the bedside tables, then took up a candle-snuffer on a pole and neatly began to snuff out each of the candles in the chandelier.
The room became darker and darker, until the only candles lit were those either side of the bed.
“How many men fuck you, in an average week?” asked Marold.
“I don’t know,” said Kyn.
“Give me an estimate.”
Kyn was quiet.
“How many in a day?”
Kyn swallowed.
“How many today?”
“None today.”
“Yesterday?”
“…”
“Answer me, young man. Truthfully.”
“Four.”
“Together, or separately?”
“Separately.”
“Do you prefer to have them together?”
Kyn nodded before he could stop himself, and Marold smiled as he began to unlace his own blouse. Kyn stared at his chest as he drew it off over his chest — the old man had very little natural hair, it seemed, a little grey curling hair over the centre of his chest, but almost none on his belly, very little on his arms and legs.
“It must take some of the pressure off your shoulders, hm?” Marold asked. “When there are three or four men in front of you instead of one, you’re not expected to foster complex conversation — you’re busy. You hardly have the time.”
Kyn looked back at him, and then said, his voice coming out quieter than he intended, “They focus on each other.”
“They wouldn’t admit to it, of course,” Marold said in a tone of agreement. “But yes, fucking a whore together is the sort of pastime some men pursue as a matter of posturing — bonding over a shared activity as they might a hunt or a drink at a tavern, and at the same time, showing each other how virile and masculine they are. You become an instrument for that display, rather than a participant.”
Kyn looked down at the red velvet of the bedspread, stroking his fingers back and forth on it. There was a churning deep in his belly, a sort of anxiety — he wondered for a moment if Marold had been a whore himself, once upon a time, to know so much about it, but that was stupid. Of course he hadn’t.
Marold didn’t remove his trousers as he got onto the bed on his hands and knees — he was already without shoes. Kyn leaned forward, his elbows back on the bed, but Marold didn’t come to frame Kyn’s body with his own, just moved closer on his elbows, between his legs.
“You don’t have to,” said Kyn as Marold tipped his head between his legs, and Marold chuckled.
“Much as I might pretend this is some act of charity on my part, young man, everything I do to you this evening will be entirely for my own satisfaction.”
He nudged Kyn’s legs apart, and Kyn spread his thighs wider, feeling himself stiffen as Marold leaned in and settled his slim, handsome fingers against the fatty tissue either side of his cunt and spread him open. Kyn shivered, a hot flush of blood blooming up to his cheeks and warming his chest, because Marold was just looking between his legs, examining him, studying him.
“Do you enjoy being observed?” asked Marold.
“I don’t know,” said Kyn.
Marold chuckled, and then blew a stream of cool air over Kyn’s cock, his lips curving into an O, and Kyn jumped, shivering. He was getting wet, he knew, and as he stared down at his prick, he could see it getting slightly bigger, standing up higher, nearly as big around as his thumb.
“I didn’t need you to speak to have your answer for that one,” said Marold, and wrapped his lips around Kyn’s cock.
Kyn heaved in a gasp, grasping at the bedspread beneath him and gripping it with his fingers, his thighs spreading wider apart as Marold kept his lips wrapped around him, sucking on him gently as he bobbed his head. Kyn had never had someone suck at him like this, bobbing their head down the short shaft of his prick, and he found himself breathing heavily, many of his muscles twitching as he tried his best not to fidget.
He was growing wetter as Marold kept up the treatment, and then drew back, flicking the tip of his tongue over the left of his cock and then over the right, the latter making his thigh jump.
“Most people are slightly more sensitive on one side than the other,” Marold said mildly, and then tilted his head, swiping his tongue up the inside of his lips and the right side of his prick, sending electric shocks of pleasure throbbing through him and making Kyn arch off the bed as a ragged noise eked out of his throat. “By which entrance do you prefer penetration?”
“I don’t know,” Kyn said breathlessly, pressing his head further back into the pillows. It was hard to concentrate, because as soon as he’d finished asking the question he was dipping his head again, nibbling at the side of his prick and making his head spin, a kind of dizziness in his head and a rush in his ears.
“Do you like to be fucked?” Marold asked, and this time did the same nibbling motion on the other side of his prick, and Gods, fuck, but Kyn didn’t know that teeth could feel quite so good, odd, but good, even before Marold slickly ran back over the nibbles with his tongue.
“Y — Yeah, yeah, I think, I think so — ”
“In your arse or your cunt?”
“Yeah, yeah — ”
Marold slid his hands around Kyn’s thighs to steady him, and then slipped his tongue into Kyn’s cunt. Kyn shouted, unable to restrain himself at the heat and strange movement, the flexibility, of his tongue, so different to fingers or to someone’s cock — Marold slid his tongue around the inner ring of his cunt, and he could feel every part of the movement, feel how warm his tongue was. His whole cunt was throbbing as Marold leisurely tonguefucked him and drew circles around his insides, his heels pressing hard into the bed spread.
He drew back and slid his tongue up between his lips and then up and around his cock again, sucking on it, then back down. Pushing Kyn’s cunt apart with his fingers again, he nibbled up and down the slick space between his inner and outer lips, and he whined, heaving in a sharp gasp he couldn’t hold back.
“You’re not used to this,” Marold remarked before sucking two of his fingers into his mouth.
“Sorry,” Kyn whimpered.
“I wasn’t asking for an apology,” Marold told him, and then slid the two fingers glistening with his own saliva into Kyn’s cunt. Kyn heaved in such a strong gasp it made his lungs ache, and Marold studied his face as he slid his fingers inside him, pressing down and making him feel strangely full, then moved them within him, tugging around the edge of his cunt as he had with his tongue, tugging gently on the muscle.
When he got to the roof of Kyn’s cunt, he slowly slid the pads of his fingers back and forth over the wet flesh, and Kyn whined sharply at the dull but overwhelming pleasure that coursed through him — dull not in the sense that it was weak, but dull like a thudding blow, imprecise.
“You’re very responsive,” said Marold.
Kyn stared at him, breathing heavily. There was sweat on his cheeks, he knew, and across his naked body — he was suddenly painfully glad that he hadn’t gotten underneath the sheets. “Th — Thank you?”
Marold’s smile was faint, but made something shudder in him — made his cunt clench around Marold’s fingers, too.
Some men, when they fucked him with their fingers, would just jab them in as hard and fast as they could, shoving into him roughly, hard — Marold moved with a sort of precision, wasn’t so rough with it. He didn’t know that anyone had ever fingered him with such skill, and such ease of it, too, such —
Marold was sucking on his cock again, and Kyn clenched his eyes shut as tightly as they would go, whining and making incoherent, breathless noises as Marold tongued and sucked and nibbled at his prick at the same time as he slid his fingers inside him, alternating around his techniques for a while — swiping around his insides, tugging on the muscle, fucking his fingers slowly and deeply into him, pressing on the roof of his cunt; sucking on his cock, flicking his tongue over it, circling it, nibbling at the sides, breathing over it with his mouth open so it was warm and with his lips in an O so it was cold.
He wasn’t alternating randomly between it all, but would stay at one for a few minutes before shifting his techniques to the next, and before long Kyn was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, his breathing heavy. He could feel the orgasm coiling in him like a spring soon to be released, could feel the tension building up in his body, his chest tightening, his whole body tightening.
Then, Marold stuck to sucking on his cock at the same time as he fucked his fingers into him, kept sucking, bobbing his head, pressing the tip of his tongue to the head of his prick. Kyn didn’t come easily, as a matter of fact.
He often didn’t, was decent at faking it, not that most of the people he saw really cared for a particularly complex performance — if they wanted that, they went for someone more proficient. He still couldn’t fully understand why Lord Marold’s attendant would pick him out and not someone else.
“I ca — ” He whimpered. “I, please, milord, I’m going to, sir, I’m going to — ”
Marold sucked so hard his cheeks hollowed, his gaze falling on Kyn’s face and the dark blue of his eyes showing clearly, and Kyn felt his orgasm come over him in a hard rush, letting out a series of howling whimpers that he did his best to muffle into the pillow as Marold kept sucking on him, kept finger-fucking him.
He slowly eased off, and Kyn let his body go loose on the bed as Marold finally pulled back all the way, sliding one of his palms back and forth over the meat of Kyn’s thigh.
“My sources inform me,” said Marold, “that you entered your profession at twenty. You were in a relationship with Mr Yeoman, yes? He introduced you to new aspects of the world — new cultures, new foods, new wines. Silk sheets. Other men.”
Kyn stared down at the old man, his tongue still in his mouth, feeling heavy, clumsy.
“Did you even realise you were whoring at first?” Marold asked quietly.
Kyn dumbly shook his head. He felt as though perhaps he should be upset, or that he should cry, that he should try to defend Alef, or that aside, perhaps defend himself. Sometimes people asked him why he didn’t just walk away, why he didn’t go and do something else.
“I ask you again, young man: do you enjoy your work?”
“I enjoyed that,” said Kyn honestly, gesturing to the space between them.
“Yes,” Marold said, neatly wiping his mouth with his hand. “Your services were paid for in advance, young man. At double your ordinary rate.”
“Yes,” said Kyn.
“So when I send you home in the morning with one thousand gold coins in your pocket, you are not going to take them home to your room at Mr Yeoman’s brothel. You’re going to take them to the Royal Bank, and you’re going to open an account under a pseudonym. You’re not going to let on to your employers or your coworkers and certainly not to Mr Yeoman that this account exists. Do you understand?”
Kyn dumbly shook his head once again.
“I am putting enough money in your pocket, young man, that if you so desire, you might leave this city and never come back. Or, you can leave, and retain a fund of far more money than you know what to do with. Take other employment, other lodgings. Whatever you feel like.”
Kyn swallowed, fear churning in him all of a sudden. “What for?”
“A good question,” said Marold. “A sensible question. I’m going to keep doing what I have been doing until I grow tired. I warn you: that won’t be for some time.”
“You’re going to fuck me?”
“Only with my fingers.”
“My arse too?”
“Perhaps. This cunt of yours,” he ghosted a palm over it, and Kyn shivered, “is really quite delectable. I see no reason to branch out just yet.”
Kyn tried to understand, wondered if perhaps he was somehow dreaming, and just hadn’t yet realised. “You’re not going to fuck me?” he asked, but it came out more like a petulant demand, and Marold chuckled.
“No, I’m afraid not,” he said, with a tone of some apology. “I’m going to lick at you, and suckle at you, and slide my fingers through this beautiful wet mess between your legs, and I’m going to wring more orgasms out of you this evening than you could ever imagine.”
Kyn’s head was spinning.
“And you’re going to pay me…?”
“One thousand gold coins. A dragon of them.”
“Why?”
Marold shrugged his shoulders. “I was a whore like you once upon a time,” he said mildly. “I got lucky — married a rich woman who grew tired of paying for my services: a lady. I loved her very much, and in life, she gave me all that I could desire, and more — in death, she’s left me bereft of almost everything, except power, money, and a title.” He flicked his thumb over Kyn’s cock, and Kyn jolted, whimpering at the overstimulating pleasure of it. “And the pleasure of reducing a handsome young thing to whimpers and sweat, of course.”
He gestured to the side table, where for the first time, Kyn noticed the bulging red velvet bag of coins, the shape of them visible under the fabric, the same as the bedspread he was lying on. Slowly, he looked back to Marold.
“Is this real?” Kyn asked.
“It does seem unlikely, doesn’t it?” Marold asked, smiling again, and dipped his head.
It wasn’t really in him to even think about the money again until light was breaking outside.
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