Graceful degradation : part two
Title : Graceful degradation
Author : Gereiheimer
Paring : John/George
Rating : NC-17 (although this chapter is only R)
Disclaimer : I own none of the people mentioned in this story, and meant no harm whatsoever to their memory when I wrote this. I made no money from it. Also, this is not meant to sound like prostitution is any fun. Really.
Warnings : erm, smut ? Role play and prostitution. Only mildly kinky, though. Also, unbeta’ed because I’m too lazy to look for one. Feel free to point out any horrid typo/mistake. If you feel like having a look at the other chapters before I post them, drop me a line, I’d be delighted to have them edited ^^
Time and place: around 1965, in London.
Author note : full introductory ramblings and part I can be found here : community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/1056376.html#cutid1
I am not late. Actually, I am rather early. George gave me two hours between the moment we had that chat and the moment we’re supposed to have our little rendezvous.
I snort, drumming my fingers on the driving wheel. I wonder if he did it on purpose, just to drive me crazy, and I realize it’s a possibility. George knows me far too well not to know that this waiting around will make me nervous and edgy.
I parked my car at a reasonable distance from the infamous alley and watch people come and go, vulgar women, men hiding their faces in their scarves, junkies and prostitutes. I put on my square glasses, for they make me less recognisable, and ruffled my mop top. I shouldn’t be here and the yellow press will never let me live it down if I’m caught.
It sorts of add to the thrill, I s’pose.
Anyway, the chances that any of our cute teenage fan could stumble upon us while wandering in such a place are very small indeed.
Two o’clock ring in a nearby Minster and I grin to myself in the rear mirror, getting out of the car and closing it carefully, sauntering towards the alley, hands stuffed into my pockets.
The passage is bleak, damp and reeks of piss and some other things I don’t even want to think about. And it’s crowded. Whores and their clients mix there, talking loudly, discussing their prices, a few of them actually getting fucked in the darkest corners.
Male and female prostitutes blend in here, and I do believe that you could find anything that strikes your fancy, no matter how perverted you can get. Pretty girls crudely made up, pretty boys with sad eyes and bold smiles, and others, somewhere in the middle, unfathomable, leaning against the brick walls with an enigmatic grin.
I walk carefully amid the garrulous crowd, smiling and nodding negatively to the risqué overtures the whores make to me as I pass by. I look for George. It’s not easy, for the street is rather dark and there is too many people wandering there, but also because I don’t know what to expect.
George must have made an effort to blend in, and although I don’t really manage to picture it, the mere thought is enough to make my mouth go stone dry with arousal.
I am almost at the end of the street, wondering whether I should try again or whether George decided not to come after all, when someone steps out of the shadows and a voice, thick with an exaggerated Liverpuldian accent, drawls in my ear, “d’you ‘ave some fire, Sir?”
I take my best disdainful smirk and fish for my lighter, my gaze catching his. Something’s up with George’s eyes and it takes me a few seconds to realize what it is. George made his eyes up. It’s rather faint, just a bit of black pencil at the outer corner, but it gives them a new depth, a mix of perverse innocence and of dainty coquetry as his lashes brush against his cheek when he lowers his eyes and leans in to light his fag.
I raise a scornful brow and let my eyes run down his body slowly. He does not protest and just stands there, knowing that he is merely a merchandise tonight and does not have any right to get offended by my appraising eyes.
I take in the simple white shirt he wears, framing his narrow chest, and the leather pants he dared to put on, the ones that were probably at the back of his clothes cupboard since Hamburg. I reach his face, made up eyes and ruffled hair and he raises a brow, his pretty mouth wrapping around a very lucky cigarette. My lips part at the instant flare of arousal the glint in his eyes triggers and as he smirks, I wonder if he can sense it.
I shoot him a dispassionate glance and pat my pockets for a cigarette, too. “How much?” I ask casually. George’s eyes widen briefly, although he hides it quite well, and I knew he has no idea of how much this kind of thing coasts.
“Depends,” he answers. He’s fishing for time but I bite anyway.
“Of what?”
George seems to be more confident now, but while he blows the smoke of his cigarette toward the slimy sky above the alley, I am pretty sure that he is making this up as he speaks. “Of what you want to do.”
I nod; sounds logical.
“I want an hour.”
He cocks his head to the side, inviting me to be more precise.
“I want to do whatever I want with you for an hour.” I raise a brow as his breath hitches. Clear enough, Georgie?
He looks at me from the corner of his darkening eyes. “That’d cost a lot.” I smile confidently. “I can pay.” He nods. “There’d be some rules.” I sigh, feigning to be bored already. “Such as?”
He throws his fag to the ground and crushes it under the heel of his shoe, thus reminding me that I completely forgot my earlier look for one, mesmerized as I am.
“No kissing.”
I snort, my smile mocking. As if I’d want to kiss you
George’s eyes drop to the ground as he tries to conceal the hurt my reaction caused him. I make a note to kiss him soundly as soon as we’re finished playing and to tell him how much I like it.
“No permanent damage.”
I frown. “Who do you think I am? It is not in my habits to give what I borrowed back broken.”
He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. “Alright, then.”
I grip my wallet in my pocket with shaky hands, extracting a few notes from it and flaunting them in his face. He takes them, pretends to count, takes one more for good measure and stuffs them into his trousers pocket.
“Deal.”
I sneer, knowing that he barely left me enough money to pay for the hotel and grab his arm, marching him towards the crude light of one of them. He hisses as my fingers dig into his skin harshly but follows without protesting.
I bought him, after all. He is mine for the hour.
I throw a few bills at the man sat behind the greasy counter and he plucks a key from the wall behind him, pushing it in front of me without raising his eyes from the pornographic comic he is reading.
“Have fun.”
Author : Gereiheimer
Paring : John/George
Rating : NC-17 (although this chapter is only R)
Disclaimer : I own none of the people mentioned in this story, and meant no harm whatsoever to their memory when I wrote this. I made no money from it. Also, this is not meant to sound like prostitution is any fun. Really.
Warnings : erm, smut ? Role play and prostitution. Only mildly kinky, though. Also, unbeta’ed because I’m too lazy to look for one. Feel free to point out any horrid typo/mistake. If you feel like having a look at the other chapters before I post them, drop me a line, I’d be delighted to have them edited ^^
Time and place: around 1965, in London.
Author note : full introductory ramblings and part I can be found here : community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/1056376.html#cutid1
I am not late. Actually, I am rather early. George gave me two hours between the moment we had that chat and the moment we’re supposed to have our little rendezvous.
I snort, drumming my fingers on the driving wheel. I wonder if he did it on purpose, just to drive me crazy, and I realize it’s a possibility. George knows me far too well not to know that this waiting around will make me nervous and edgy.
I parked my car at a reasonable distance from the infamous alley and watch people come and go, vulgar women, men hiding their faces in their scarves, junkies and prostitutes. I put on my square glasses, for they make me less recognisable, and ruffled my mop top. I shouldn’t be here and the yellow press will never let me live it down if I’m caught.
It sorts of add to the thrill, I s’pose.
Anyway, the chances that any of our cute teenage fan could stumble upon us while wandering in such a place are very small indeed.
Two o’clock ring in a nearby Minster and I grin to myself in the rear mirror, getting out of the car and closing it carefully, sauntering towards the alley, hands stuffed into my pockets.
The passage is bleak, damp and reeks of piss and some other things I don’t even want to think about. And it’s crowded. Whores and their clients mix there, talking loudly, discussing their prices, a few of them actually getting fucked in the darkest corners.
Male and female prostitutes blend in here, and I do believe that you could find anything that strikes your fancy, no matter how perverted you can get. Pretty girls crudely made up, pretty boys with sad eyes and bold smiles, and others, somewhere in the middle, unfathomable, leaning against the brick walls with an enigmatic grin.
I walk carefully amid the garrulous crowd, smiling and nodding negatively to the risqué overtures the whores make to me as I pass by. I look for George. It’s not easy, for the street is rather dark and there is too many people wandering there, but also because I don’t know what to expect.
George must have made an effort to blend in, and although I don’t really manage to picture it, the mere thought is enough to make my mouth go stone dry with arousal.
I am almost at the end of the street, wondering whether I should try again or whether George decided not to come after all, when someone steps out of the shadows and a voice, thick with an exaggerated Liverpuldian accent, drawls in my ear, “d’you ‘ave some fire, Sir?”
I take my best disdainful smirk and fish for my lighter, my gaze catching his. Something’s up with George’s eyes and it takes me a few seconds to realize what it is. George made his eyes up. It’s rather faint, just a bit of black pencil at the outer corner, but it gives them a new depth, a mix of perverse innocence and of dainty coquetry as his lashes brush against his cheek when he lowers his eyes and leans in to light his fag.
I raise a scornful brow and let my eyes run down his body slowly. He does not protest and just stands there, knowing that he is merely a merchandise tonight and does not have any right to get offended by my appraising eyes.
I take in the simple white shirt he wears, framing his narrow chest, and the leather pants he dared to put on, the ones that were probably at the back of his clothes cupboard since Hamburg. I reach his face, made up eyes and ruffled hair and he raises a brow, his pretty mouth wrapping around a very lucky cigarette. My lips part at the instant flare of arousal the glint in his eyes triggers and as he smirks, I wonder if he can sense it.
I shoot him a dispassionate glance and pat my pockets for a cigarette, too. “How much?” I ask casually. George’s eyes widen briefly, although he hides it quite well, and I knew he has no idea of how much this kind of thing coasts.
“Depends,” he answers. He’s fishing for time but I bite anyway.
“Of what?”
George seems to be more confident now, but while he blows the smoke of his cigarette toward the slimy sky above the alley, I am pretty sure that he is making this up as he speaks. “Of what you want to do.”
I nod; sounds logical.
“I want an hour.”
He cocks his head to the side, inviting me to be more precise.
“I want to do whatever I want with you for an hour.” I raise a brow as his breath hitches. Clear enough, Georgie?
He looks at me from the corner of his darkening eyes. “That’d cost a lot.” I smile confidently. “I can pay.” He nods. “There’d be some rules.” I sigh, feigning to be bored already. “Such as?”
He throws his fag to the ground and crushes it under the heel of his shoe, thus reminding me that I completely forgot my earlier look for one, mesmerized as I am.
“No kissing.”
I snort, my smile mocking. As if I’d want to kiss you
George’s eyes drop to the ground as he tries to conceal the hurt my reaction caused him. I make a note to kiss him soundly as soon as we’re finished playing and to tell him how much I like it.
“No permanent damage.”
I frown. “Who do you think I am? It is not in my habits to give what I borrowed back broken.”
He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. “Alright, then.”
I grip my wallet in my pocket with shaky hands, extracting a few notes from it and flaunting them in his face. He takes them, pretends to count, takes one more for good measure and stuffs them into his trousers pocket.
“Deal.”
I sneer, knowing that he barely left me enough money to pay for the hotel and grab his arm, marching him towards the crude light of one of them. He hisses as my fingers dig into his skin harshly but follows without protesting.
I bought him, after all. He is mine for the hour.
I throw a few bills at the man sat behind the greasy counter and he plucks a key from the wall behind him, pushing it in front of me without raising his eyes from the pornographic comic he is reading.
“Have fun.”