[newtypeshadow] Masked Actors: An Uncommon Client
Title: An Uncommon Client
Author: newtypeshadow
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Original. From the same universe, and with the same narrator, as Masked Actors.
Pairing: m/m
Wordcount: 1,900
Warnings: sex, language.
I am entertaining my much-too-noble-to-be-entirely-common client when the loud pounding begins on my front door.
My client, who still will not give his name, tenses upon the bed.
I cover him with the blanket and put on a robe to go to the door. "Stay here," I tell him. Perhaps it is his prettiness that I like, when he is cleaned of road grime. Or perhaps it is my inkling that the pounding on the door is about him.
There are two city guards on my doorstep when I open it, adjusting my half-mask as I meet their harsh gazes. I am the picture of debauched innocence-and annoyed arrogance. "Tell me this is important," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "I'm entertaining a client." My pose is inviting, sensual; my foot keeping the door from opening fully is entirely the opposite.
"We're looking for a nobleman," the first guard says.
"Let me guess," I say, grinning. "Short, fat, and far too entitled to do anyone good." I shake my head. "I haven't entertained a nobleman in two days. I'm sorry I cannot help."
"Who are you entertaining now?"
"A pauper."
One of the guards looks suspicious.
"He can only pay half my fee," I say. "I don't think a nobleman would be in such dire straits and hire an actor. We're much too expensive-and gossipy."
The suspicious guard eyes his partner, then me. "If you're entertaining, why are you still masked?"
"Do you want to become my client, Guard?" I look him up and down, considering with my eyes what my mind has deemed uninteresting. "Because if you're curious about my face-"
"Shut up," the first guard says. "We're done here."
I close the door as they turn away, and walk back to the bedroom. My nameless client walks back with me-he was in the hallway, pants and boots half on, shirt in his hands. He is still half-hard.
I lock us into the bedroom and push him back to the bed. "Where were we?" I ask, amused. I remove my mask.
He lets me move him, lets me undress him once again. But this time, he kisses with abandon, touches me without fear. And when he fucks me, I can think of no one but him. He is all I want.
After, he moves with reluctance, some of the old fear, toward his clothes. I, too, get dressed-his time is up, and I must return to the theater. "You may stay, if you like," I tell him as I walk to the wash room and clean myself. "I can't imagine you have many options, with the guards patrolling the city."
He tries to hide his surprise, to act as if he doesn't understand my insinuation. "I won't impose upon you," he says, "and I don't need anyone's charity."
"Then cook me dinner and we'll call it even," I say, sliding into a tunic and bending to rifle through my trunk for a suitable set of trousers. I can feel his eyes on me, and I take longer than necessary to pull out the pair I wanted. I know my charms, and I will not play fair.
When I straighten, he flushes, looks guiltily away. I smile as I put on my trousers, my shoes, and find the half-mask I will wear for the evening.
"I expect to find you here when I return," I say, examining my hair in the mirror and pulling out a brush. I look well-fucked, and though this is entirely true, it is not for the world to know. "You may stay the night, if you wish. Perhaps by morning the search will move on."
I see his confusion in my mirror. His wariness. "What will this cost me, your charity? What do you gain by this?"
"Dinner," I say clearly, fixing my hair so that it knots and weaves and falls like a stylized crown of roses and thorns. I stand and face him, stepping deliberately too close for his comfort. "If it tastes good enough, I'll even let you fuck me before breakfast." I stand on my toes and kiss his cheek. As I walk out of the bedroom, tote bag in hand, I pause. "While I'm gone, perhaps you can come up with a story for me," I say. "And a name. It's disconcerting, not knowing what to call the man making you scream."
I do not look back when I leave the house.
*
When I return, he is still there.
Dinner is delicious. I eat half of it on his lap, and from his lips even the plainest food tastes divine.
The next morning, he says he must leave the city.
It does not surprise me. I have packed the money he gave me-half my fee, all he could afford-back into his pack. He does not know this. Perhaps honor will make him return it someday. I hope this is the case.
"How can I repay you for this?" he asks, standing fully dressed and packed to leave at my kitchen table.
I lean back in my chair, loose robe falling open at my chest. I like the way his eyes stray to my nipple, and how he licks his lips without realizing he has done so. "Call on me again sometime," I say. And, with a wink, "And bring the full fee with you."
He sniffs, disbelieving. "That's-that can't be all you want. Everyone wants something!"
"True," I say. "And that is what I want. Is it a price too high to pay?"
He puts his bag on the table and runs a hand through his hair, hood sliding down to his neck as he does so. Then he sits, looks at me, and says, "Why are you really doing this?"
I pause. "The truth, or the whole truth?"
"Both."
I grin, lean forward to match his position. "The truth is, when you came to the Guild Hall, I let you hire me because you had come in not as yourself, but as an actor seeking shelter. You played the common traveler well, but you didn't quite fit the part. You were a mystery. I took you home to see what else about you was not as you would have it seem."
"You knew I wasn't-" He stops himself.
I shrug. "It helps that I grew up where you claimed to come from. Your accent fooled everyone else-I was impressed."
"What if I'd been a murderer? I could have killed you and no one would know where to begin looking!"
"Professional hazard," I say. "Are you worried for me?"
He huffs, looks away. "The whole truth," he says after a moment. "You said that was the truth. What is the whole truth? Why have you done this for me?"
"I lied to the guards because you needed sanctuary, and I accepted you as a client knowing I might have to give it. I trust you will not tell them I did so without very good reason."
He snorts. "I would not betray someone who has helped me."
"I thought not." I lean back, considering. I do not want to tell him why I let him stay the night; why I woke him with my mouth around his cock. But if he asks, I know I will. Because part of me wants to tell him, even if it comes to nothing but hurt pride.
"Is that the whole truth?" he asks. "You helped because you saw I was in need?"
I look away. "I let you stay the night because you needed shelter, yes. But the whole truth is that in my line of work-" I stop. "I'm about to tell you a trade secret. I trust you will speak of it to no one." He nods, and I continue. "In my line of work-for men especially-it becomes necessary to find something attractive in even the clients who would otherwise cause you disgust. If you cannot, you must think of something or someone else, so that you can perform as you must for a job. I like to have sex, but it is rare that a bed partner hires me who I myself would choose to fuck." I look back at him, and his face is blank. I know my words have hurt him. "For you, though…" I chuckle. "For you, I did not have to look for something, or think of someone else. I would have chosen you," I admit, standing and bending over him. "You're beautiful." I stroke his face. "You are a good person." My thumb grazes his lips. And in his ear I whisper the whole truth: "And when you fucked me, I could think of no one and nothing but you."
His breath catches, and I kiss him softly. He grips my jaw and deepens the kiss until it is a ferocious, burning thing, and I am sitting in his lap and gripping him with my thighs, wanting, needing. He breaks the kiss and I gasp against his lips, grinning. "You will come call on me again?" I ask, stroking his hair.
"I will," he says, solemnity in his eyes, lips glistening and flushed. Then, with a smile, "I'll pay you, fee-and-a-half."
"Good." I try not to look too fond of him as I put his hood back over his hair and eyes, and pull us both to our feet. "Be well," I say as he takes his pack. I lead him to the door.
Before I can open it, he turns me and presses me against it; kisses me again.
It is a quick and desperate meeting, and soon it is not just a kiss.
When I reach for his laces, he bats my hands away and drops to his knees. Before I can think, he has spread my robe, and my cock is in his mouth.
He has less experience than I in this, but his cheeks hollow when he sucks me down, and his hands fondle my balls and play along the curve of my ass. I try to warn him when I am close, but he takes me deeper still, and hums. I scrabble at his shoulders and come in his mouth with a shout.
I slide to the floor when he lets me go. When I kiss him and taste myself, my spent cock twitches. I reach for his laces again, and have barely removed them when he comes in my hand, sucking desperately at my lips, my jaw, my shoulder.
I am not used to such abandon in myself, and perhaps later I will care. I may come to my senses, and wonder what I have done: in letting him in; in letting him go.
But he leaves before I have time to question my actions. I stand on shaky legs, and kiss his cheek as I open the door. "Go safely," I say.
"And you," he says.
He leaves without looking back. I lock the door behind him.
I will wait a long time for him, I fear, watching his back through the curtain. And though I fear the wait itself, I fear still more my willingness to go through with it, just so I might see him once again.
Author: newtypeshadow
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Original. From the same universe, and with the same narrator, as Masked Actors.
Pairing: m/m
Wordcount: 1,900
Warnings: sex, language.
I am entertaining my much-too-noble-to-be-entirely-common client when the loud pounding begins on my front door.
My client, who still will not give his name, tenses upon the bed.
I cover him with the blanket and put on a robe to go to the door. "Stay here," I tell him. Perhaps it is his prettiness that I like, when he is cleaned of road grime. Or perhaps it is my inkling that the pounding on the door is about him.
There are two city guards on my doorstep when I open it, adjusting my half-mask as I meet their harsh gazes. I am the picture of debauched innocence-and annoyed arrogance. "Tell me this is important," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "I'm entertaining a client." My pose is inviting, sensual; my foot keeping the door from opening fully is entirely the opposite.
"We're looking for a nobleman," the first guard says.
"Let me guess," I say, grinning. "Short, fat, and far too entitled to do anyone good." I shake my head. "I haven't entertained a nobleman in two days. I'm sorry I cannot help."
"Who are you entertaining now?"
"A pauper."
One of the guards looks suspicious.
"He can only pay half my fee," I say. "I don't think a nobleman would be in such dire straits and hire an actor. We're much too expensive-and gossipy."
The suspicious guard eyes his partner, then me. "If you're entertaining, why are you still masked?"
"Do you want to become my client, Guard?" I look him up and down, considering with my eyes what my mind has deemed uninteresting. "Because if you're curious about my face-"
"Shut up," the first guard says. "We're done here."
I close the door as they turn away, and walk back to the bedroom. My nameless client walks back with me-he was in the hallway, pants and boots half on, shirt in his hands. He is still half-hard.
I lock us into the bedroom and push him back to the bed. "Where were we?" I ask, amused. I remove my mask.
He lets me move him, lets me undress him once again. But this time, he kisses with abandon, touches me without fear. And when he fucks me, I can think of no one but him. He is all I want.
After, he moves with reluctance, some of the old fear, toward his clothes. I, too, get dressed-his time is up, and I must return to the theater. "You may stay, if you like," I tell him as I walk to the wash room and clean myself. "I can't imagine you have many options, with the guards patrolling the city."
He tries to hide his surprise, to act as if he doesn't understand my insinuation. "I won't impose upon you," he says, "and I don't need anyone's charity."
"Then cook me dinner and we'll call it even," I say, sliding into a tunic and bending to rifle through my trunk for a suitable set of trousers. I can feel his eyes on me, and I take longer than necessary to pull out the pair I wanted. I know my charms, and I will not play fair.
When I straighten, he flushes, looks guiltily away. I smile as I put on my trousers, my shoes, and find the half-mask I will wear for the evening.
"I expect to find you here when I return," I say, examining my hair in the mirror and pulling out a brush. I look well-fucked, and though this is entirely true, it is not for the world to know. "You may stay the night, if you wish. Perhaps by morning the search will move on."
I see his confusion in my mirror. His wariness. "What will this cost me, your charity? What do you gain by this?"
"Dinner," I say clearly, fixing my hair so that it knots and weaves and falls like a stylized crown of roses and thorns. I stand and face him, stepping deliberately too close for his comfort. "If it tastes good enough, I'll even let you fuck me before breakfast." I stand on my toes and kiss his cheek. As I walk out of the bedroom, tote bag in hand, I pause. "While I'm gone, perhaps you can come up with a story for me," I say. "And a name. It's disconcerting, not knowing what to call the man making you scream."
I do not look back when I leave the house.
*
When I return, he is still there.
Dinner is delicious. I eat half of it on his lap, and from his lips even the plainest food tastes divine.
The next morning, he says he must leave the city.
It does not surprise me. I have packed the money he gave me-half my fee, all he could afford-back into his pack. He does not know this. Perhaps honor will make him return it someday. I hope this is the case.
"How can I repay you for this?" he asks, standing fully dressed and packed to leave at my kitchen table.
I lean back in my chair, loose robe falling open at my chest. I like the way his eyes stray to my nipple, and how he licks his lips without realizing he has done so. "Call on me again sometime," I say. And, with a wink, "And bring the full fee with you."
He sniffs, disbelieving. "That's-that can't be all you want. Everyone wants something!"
"True," I say. "And that is what I want. Is it a price too high to pay?"
He puts his bag on the table and runs a hand through his hair, hood sliding down to his neck as he does so. Then he sits, looks at me, and says, "Why are you really doing this?"
I pause. "The truth, or the whole truth?"
"Both."
I grin, lean forward to match his position. "The truth is, when you came to the Guild Hall, I let you hire me because you had come in not as yourself, but as an actor seeking shelter. You played the common traveler well, but you didn't quite fit the part. You were a mystery. I took you home to see what else about you was not as you would have it seem."
"You knew I wasn't-" He stops himself.
I shrug. "It helps that I grew up where you claimed to come from. Your accent fooled everyone else-I was impressed."
"What if I'd been a murderer? I could have killed you and no one would know where to begin looking!"
"Professional hazard," I say. "Are you worried for me?"
He huffs, looks away. "The whole truth," he says after a moment. "You said that was the truth. What is the whole truth? Why have you done this for me?"
"I lied to the guards because you needed sanctuary, and I accepted you as a client knowing I might have to give it. I trust you will not tell them I did so without very good reason."
He snorts. "I would not betray someone who has helped me."
"I thought not." I lean back, considering. I do not want to tell him why I let him stay the night; why I woke him with my mouth around his cock. But if he asks, I know I will. Because part of me wants to tell him, even if it comes to nothing but hurt pride.
"Is that the whole truth?" he asks. "You helped because you saw I was in need?"
I look away. "I let you stay the night because you needed shelter, yes. But the whole truth is that in my line of work-" I stop. "I'm about to tell you a trade secret. I trust you will speak of it to no one." He nods, and I continue. "In my line of work-for men especially-it becomes necessary to find something attractive in even the clients who would otherwise cause you disgust. If you cannot, you must think of something or someone else, so that you can perform as you must for a job. I like to have sex, but it is rare that a bed partner hires me who I myself would choose to fuck." I look back at him, and his face is blank. I know my words have hurt him. "For you, though…" I chuckle. "For you, I did not have to look for something, or think of someone else. I would have chosen you," I admit, standing and bending over him. "You're beautiful." I stroke his face. "You are a good person." My thumb grazes his lips. And in his ear I whisper the whole truth: "And when you fucked me, I could think of no one and nothing but you."
His breath catches, and I kiss him softly. He grips my jaw and deepens the kiss until it is a ferocious, burning thing, and I am sitting in his lap and gripping him with my thighs, wanting, needing. He breaks the kiss and I gasp against his lips, grinning. "You will come call on me again?" I ask, stroking his hair.
"I will," he says, solemnity in his eyes, lips glistening and flushed. Then, with a smile, "I'll pay you, fee-and-a-half."
"Good." I try not to look too fond of him as I put his hood back over his hair and eyes, and pull us both to our feet. "Be well," I say as he takes his pack. I lead him to the door.
Before I can open it, he turns me and presses me against it; kisses me again.
It is a quick and desperate meeting, and soon it is not just a kiss.
When I reach for his laces, he bats my hands away and drops to his knees. Before I can think, he has spread my robe, and my cock is in his mouth.
He has less experience than I in this, but his cheeks hollow when he sucks me down, and his hands fondle my balls and play along the curve of my ass. I try to warn him when I am close, but he takes me deeper still, and hums. I scrabble at his shoulders and come in his mouth with a shout.
I slide to the floor when he lets me go. When I kiss him and taste myself, my spent cock twitches. I reach for his laces again, and have barely removed them when he comes in my hand, sucking desperately at my lips, my jaw, my shoulder.
I am not used to such abandon in myself, and perhaps later I will care. I may come to my senses, and wonder what I have done: in letting him in; in letting him go.
But he leaves before I have time to question my actions. I stand on shaky legs, and kiss his cheek as I open the door. "Go safely," I say.
"And you," he says.
He leaves without looking back. I lock the door behind him.
I will wait a long time for him, I fear, watching his back through the curtain. And though I fear the wait itself, I fear still more my willingness to go through with it, just so I might see him once again.