nutmeg #7: white collar
Author: Marika Kailaya
Title: Professional
'Verse: Nagekawashii; Lap Dog
Challenge: Nutmeg 7. white collar
Toppings/Extras: N/A
Wordcount: 982
Rating: R
A/N: obligatory R rating for child prostitution.
"It's just that I've never done this before," the man says, clasping his sweating palms together and holding them before his face like he's praying.
"Oh?" Ijirashii says politely, and subtly shifts his own hand to rest on the switchblade inside his bag. The firsties, as Mamry fondly calls them, tend to be the weird ones, the ones who want to tie you up. Something about buying a whore for the first time brings out the kink in people-they want to do everything they can't do with their partners, and they don't mind paying for it. Ijirashii is fine with that, but this guy's brought him to a pretty fancy hotel suite with a hot tub included, the best place Ijirashii's been since he left home, and something about the combination of a rich man, a prostitute, and the possibility of getting tied to a bed (Egyptian cotton sheets or not) and smacked around for an extra hundred and fifty bucks makes Ijirashii want to keep all his wits and weapons about him. He carries his own handcuffs these days; he can unlock them himself.
"Bought a prostitute, I mean," the man-Ricky was the name he gave Ijirashii, but it's probably not his real name-goes on, and then covers his mouth with his hands. "Is that what you get called? A prostitute?"
Ijirashii shrugs delicately. "You can call me whatever you want," he says.
"God, I can't imagine what my wife would say," Ricky carries on, heedless. He takes to pacing back and forth in front of the plush white sofa that Ijirashii has comfortably settled himself on. Ijirashii's not gonna complain at Ricky's hesitation; he's already been paid the basic fee, and if Ricky changes his mind and demands his money back, Ijirashii will scream rape and tell the security his real age. That'll be a laugh.
"We can call her and ask," Ijirashii suggests kindly. "I offer a discount for couples." He doesn't, actually, but that's only because the idea never occurred to him until now.
Ricky stops pacing and stares at Ijirashii with huge grey eyes. "Oh my god." He reaches up to his throat and loosens his red and blue striped tie. It's a truly ugly tie. It goes well with the red splotches developing on his neck.
Is Ijirashii's client getting hives?
"Are you quite all right?" Ijirashii asks him, standing up tentatively. "You, um, you look a bit ill."
Ricky backs away from him, bumping into the polished cherry wood table. This is a first for Ijirashii. "It's just, wow, this is so-this is so weird. I mean look at you. I'm not even gay, I just-"
"I'm reliably informed I look like a woman," Ijirashii says, smiling in what he thinks is a comforting way. This is true: Ijirashii is currently wearing a skirt, or at least he is wearing a scrap of leather that can be generously referred to as a skirt.
Ricky groans. "That isn't even what I-oh god. Do you even know-" He glances at the gold watch on his wrist. "Christ, I mean, I gotta be at work at five in the morning. It's already midnight."
"Oh?" Ijirashii sits back down on the couch. He resists the urge to take off his heels and dig his toes into the fluffy white carpeting. He craves luxury. "Suffering some work stress, then?"
Ricky gives a humorless laugh. "I manage a company," he says bitterly, and then he turns white as a sheet again. A-ha, Ijirashii thinks. Ricky isn't his real name. He doesn't want Ijirashii to know anything about him, because he is respectable. It occurs to Ijirashii for the first time that his own father probably paid for more than one whore. "Well," Ricky goes on, "I mean, it's probably not something you really understand, is it? You're not really a white collar guy or anything. Haha. You don't have anyone higher up than you."
Ijirashii considers this statement, and smiles up at Ricky. "Collaring's an extra twenty."
This is not the kind of humor Ricky expects, or apparently wants. Ijirashii sighs as Ricky, comically, jumps several inches off the floor. "Jesus in Heaven," Ricky mutters. "How old are you? You look so young. I mean-"
Ricky is not the kind of man, Ijirashii thinks, who wants to hear either his real age or an age younger than that. "Twenty-two," he lies smoothly, and is vaguely surprised when this, too, does not please Ricky.
"Christ!" Ricky yelps, fluttering his hands behind him at the pot of tea he'd had brought up (that had been an odd enough move, in Ijirashii's opinion), growing colder by the moment on the little table. "You're a baby!"
Ijirashii is fifteen. He carefully does not bristle at this remark.
"Look," Ricky says desperately, moving towards the door, backing away from Ijirashii like if he turns his back on him he'll suddenly find a dick in his ass (which is more or less what he paid for), "I'm awfully sorry about this. I think-I think you should probably leave."
Ijirashii gets up in a hurry. He doesn't think Ricky's the type to get angry, but people like it when you get the hell out when they say get the hell out. To his utter bewilderment, Ricky is pulling his black leather wallet from the pocket of his beige slacks and withdrawing another fifty dollars. He thrusts it at Ijirashii. "For a cab home-or-or wherever it is you live, and for the trouble," Ricky explains. The red splotches on his neck are fading as he gets ever closer to not having any sex at all with a prostitute.
Ijirashii takes the money before Ricky can change his mind and, truly baffled, leaves the hotel. With no effort at all, he's going to have something amazing for dinner tonight.
Title: Professional
'Verse: Nagekawashii; Lap Dog
Challenge: Nutmeg 7. white collar
Toppings/Extras: N/A
Wordcount: 982
Rating: R
A/N: obligatory R rating for child prostitution.
"It's just that I've never done this before," the man says, clasping his sweating palms together and holding them before his face like he's praying.
"Oh?" Ijirashii says politely, and subtly shifts his own hand to rest on the switchblade inside his bag. The firsties, as Mamry fondly calls them, tend to be the weird ones, the ones who want to tie you up. Something about buying a whore for the first time brings out the kink in people-they want to do everything they can't do with their partners, and they don't mind paying for it. Ijirashii is fine with that, but this guy's brought him to a pretty fancy hotel suite with a hot tub included, the best place Ijirashii's been since he left home, and something about the combination of a rich man, a prostitute, and the possibility of getting tied to a bed (Egyptian cotton sheets or not) and smacked around for an extra hundred and fifty bucks makes Ijirashii want to keep all his wits and weapons about him. He carries his own handcuffs these days; he can unlock them himself.
"Bought a prostitute, I mean," the man-Ricky was the name he gave Ijirashii, but it's probably not his real name-goes on, and then covers his mouth with his hands. "Is that what you get called? A prostitute?"
Ijirashii shrugs delicately. "You can call me whatever you want," he says.
"God, I can't imagine what my wife would say," Ricky carries on, heedless. He takes to pacing back and forth in front of the plush white sofa that Ijirashii has comfortably settled himself on. Ijirashii's not gonna complain at Ricky's hesitation; he's already been paid the basic fee, and if Ricky changes his mind and demands his money back, Ijirashii will scream rape and tell the security his real age. That'll be a laugh.
"We can call her and ask," Ijirashii suggests kindly. "I offer a discount for couples." He doesn't, actually, but that's only because the idea never occurred to him until now.
Ricky stops pacing and stares at Ijirashii with huge grey eyes. "Oh my god." He reaches up to his throat and loosens his red and blue striped tie. It's a truly ugly tie. It goes well with the red splotches developing on his neck.
Is Ijirashii's client getting hives?
"Are you quite all right?" Ijirashii asks him, standing up tentatively. "You, um, you look a bit ill."
Ricky backs away from him, bumping into the polished cherry wood table. This is a first for Ijirashii. "It's just, wow, this is so-this is so weird. I mean look at you. I'm not even gay, I just-"
"I'm reliably informed I look like a woman," Ijirashii says, smiling in what he thinks is a comforting way. This is true: Ijirashii is currently wearing a skirt, or at least he is wearing a scrap of leather that can be generously referred to as a skirt.
Ricky groans. "That isn't even what I-oh god. Do you even know-" He glances at the gold watch on his wrist. "Christ, I mean, I gotta be at work at five in the morning. It's already midnight."
"Oh?" Ijirashii sits back down on the couch. He resists the urge to take off his heels and dig his toes into the fluffy white carpeting. He craves luxury. "Suffering some work stress, then?"
Ricky gives a humorless laugh. "I manage a company," he says bitterly, and then he turns white as a sheet again. A-ha, Ijirashii thinks. Ricky isn't his real name. He doesn't want Ijirashii to know anything about him, because he is respectable. It occurs to Ijirashii for the first time that his own father probably paid for more than one whore. "Well," Ricky goes on, "I mean, it's probably not something you really understand, is it? You're not really a white collar guy or anything. Haha. You don't have anyone higher up than you."
Ijirashii considers this statement, and smiles up at Ricky. "Collaring's an extra twenty."
This is not the kind of humor Ricky expects, or apparently wants. Ijirashii sighs as Ricky, comically, jumps several inches off the floor. "Jesus in Heaven," Ricky mutters. "How old are you? You look so young. I mean-"
Ricky is not the kind of man, Ijirashii thinks, who wants to hear either his real age or an age younger than that. "Twenty-two," he lies smoothly, and is vaguely surprised when this, too, does not please Ricky.
"Christ!" Ricky yelps, fluttering his hands behind him at the pot of tea he'd had brought up (that had been an odd enough move, in Ijirashii's opinion), growing colder by the moment on the little table. "You're a baby!"
Ijirashii is fifteen. He carefully does not bristle at this remark.
"Look," Ricky says desperately, moving towards the door, backing away from Ijirashii like if he turns his back on him he'll suddenly find a dick in his ass (which is more or less what he paid for), "I'm awfully sorry about this. I think-I think you should probably leave."
Ijirashii gets up in a hurry. He doesn't think Ricky's the type to get angry, but people like it when you get the hell out when they say get the hell out. To his utter bewilderment, Ricky is pulling his black leather wallet from the pocket of his beige slacks and withdrawing another fifty dollars. He thrusts it at Ijirashii. "For a cab home-or-or wherever it is you live, and for the trouble," Ricky explains. The red splotches on his neck are fading as he gets ever closer to not having any sex at all with a prostitute.
Ijirashii takes the money before Ricky can change his mind and, truly baffled, leaves the hotel. With no effort at all, he's going to have something amazing for dinner tonight.