Chapter Text
Saint Denis was gruelling in summer. The stench of the marsh, emboldened by the sun, crept across the bayou and through the city streets. The canopies and balconies of creole townhouses trapped a blanket of hot air. Pestilence rode through the city’s slums.
Kieran had hoped to leave by now, but with every summer he spent in the awful place, his chances appeared bleaker. Four years since he became a man, three since he defected from the army, and two since he escaped the O’Driscolls and arrived here. Now, Kieran sat by the train yard, watching the steaming, screeching beasts pull in and out of the station. He watched with envy as workers, bone-tired and spluttering, filtered out of workhouses. The sun hung low, but the heat persisted. Slowly, he rose from the floor, bidding the horizon goodbye as turned towards the city.
The brothel where Kieran had been working only operated at night, which left the man with little to do during the day. Still, he was in no rush to get there for nightfall. As he approached its doors, the stench of the city waned and was replaced with a mix of camphor, vinegar, and lavender.
“Kieran. You’re back.” The madam who ran the brothel stated flatly, glancing up from her book.
”Always am, ma’am.” Kieran responded, equally apathetic.
“Go and get yourself cleaned up. Not a hair on your face, or anywhere else. Be quick.” She gestured towards the stairs leading out of the lobby. Kieran nodded dutifully. He had become accustomed to the rules of the whore house. Usually clients browse, but occasionally a client knows what they want beforehand. Judging from the madam’s tone and urgency, a client must want Kieran, or at least someone who vaguely matches his description.
The patter of heeled shoes and hushed whispers grew louder as he climbed the stairs. Ladies made up the majority of the brothel’s workforce. An infantile wail would occasionally sneak through the crack of a door, since some workers even had babies. Eventually Kieran reached the cramped room assigned to male workers, though he seldom saw any besides himself. The bed was made up as if it had never been used. Two large mirrors, rusted and fragmented, stood opposite the bed and atop a vanity. Tattered lace curtains framed the only window, and they gently blew as the street’s odor continued to waft in. Kieran began to shed his clothes, ignoring his many reflections. He washed and shaved using the water basin, careful not to nick his already scarred skin.
As the night progressed, the noise of debauchery grew underneath Kieran’s feet. Sounds of music, laughter, shrieks, and moans all blended together and made his head hurt. Waiting for clients was almost as bad as servicing them. Kieran browsed the contents of the vanity, curious if anything had changed since his last visit. In one draw was the grooming kit he shaved with. In another was makeup, which earned a slight grimace from the young man. In another was hair pomade, should the client forget to bring his own.
Suddenly, the floorboards outside shifted, and two boots cast their shadow underneath the door. The figure outside paused, and Kieran waited. He was familiar with the moment of half-hearted reconsideration, of preemptive regret, that clients often had before knocking - especially clients of his. The knock came, though, and Kieran called out meekly.
”You can come in, sir. The door’s not locked.”
The door opened, the man entered, and Kieran rushed to lock it behind him. Without uttering a word the client removed his jacket, which Kieran obediently took and hung on a peg, like a slave servicing his master. During the exchange, Kieran snuck a glance at the man’s face. It was robust and rugged, like a statue, framed with dirt blonde hair and despite the meagre light, Kieran could tell his eyes were blue. Kieran wondered why handsome men would resort to brothels. He figured it was because there was something seriously, incredibly wrong with them on the inside. There certainly must be if they’re asking for him.
The man stood silently and watched the whore. As promised, his hair was long and black, and his skin was a smooth milky white, almost pearlescent. Kieran felt the client’s stare and was suddenly acutely aware of his nakedness. Nerves crept over his body, which the man must’ve noticed.
”C’mon, no point being embarrassed or… or coy.” He scoffed, a mild slur in his voice, “It’s your job, ain’t it? Farmhands don’t get embarrassed shoveling shit, so why would you be embarrassed getting… getting… you know.” The man gestured wildly with his hand. The word seemed lodged in his throat.
”You’re right, sir. Sorry, sir.” Kieran atoned.
The man looked at the whore from under his brow, almost glaring, almost in disbelief of the things he had surely done. Looking away as if he were defeated, the client unbuckled his belt.
“Just lie down on the bed, please. On your stomach.” The man seemed exasperated. Kieran almost reminded him that, as the client, it was his decision to be here, and he could leave if he so pleased, but stopped before he earned himself a smack. Instead, he just did as he was told.
Two large, hardened hands began to massage his ass. It wasn’t a pleasant massage, it was painful, as if the man above him was trying to pull him apart.
”M’names Arthur…” The man, Arthur, mumbled.
”That’s a handsome name. Like King Arthur.” Kieran feigned a smile. Arthur just grunted in response. Suddenly, Kieran felt a large finger protrude his entrance. He instinctively gasped and lurched away, but the strong hand grabbed his waist and reeled him back in.
“Sorry sir-“ Kieran gasped, “There’s- um- There’s pomade in that drawer there, if you need it.”
Arthur stared down at Kieran, no discernible emotion on his face. His finger remained inside the man. With sick curiosity, he began to poke and twist the sensitive walls.
“Sir, it- it’ll feel a lot better for you if you use it.” Kieran repeated through winces of pain and a strained smile
”Are whores meant to speak this much?” Arthur grumbled. A second finger began prodding into Kieran, who tried to hide his moans of pain, but found them escaping from his mouth like hiccups. ”You not used to this kinda thing by now?”
Kieran wanted to sob “no,” but the little pride he had left prevented this. Thankfully, Arthur withdrew his fingers before even that shred of dignity was lost. When the larger man rose from the bed, it didn’t even occur to Kieran to stand up, to get dressed, to fight back, to leave. The side of his face sunk into the pillow as he mindlessly stared at the vanity. The oil lamp’s flame would often strike the mirror, causing fractals of light to dance on the dull table top. In this, Kieran found beauty and distraction.
After what could’ve been a few seconds or several minutes, Kieran’s trance was broken. Arthur had rejoined the bed and was now bent over the young man, caging him between his chest and arms. The acrid stench of liquor clung to the larger man’s breath, and at this intimate distance, Kieran could almost taste it.
Awkward and imprecise, Arthur reached behind Kieran and smeared something cool and slick on his hole. This would do little to dampen the agonisingly, maddeningly slow burn that followed. Kieran’s face contorted in pain and a familiar lump rose in his throat as the larger man entered. Arthur, unaware or unbothered by the trembling body beneath him, pressed inwards. He pushed down on Kieran’s back as he did so, sinking him deeper into the sheets, spreading his legs further to accommodate his girth. Arthur continued to press inwards until his entire cock was sheathed inside the whore. He paused a moment, basking in the tightness and warmth.
”You take it so good.” The breathy whisper was so quiet and so fast, it sounded like a sigh. Yet Kieran still heard it. Nausea and disgust and anger coiled in the pit of his abdomen, wound so tightly they threatened to burst. Arthur began moving, initially slow and sloppy, but soon setting a formidable pace. The ache began to transform into an equally revolting pleasure. A calloused hand grabbed a fistful of Kieran’s hair, almost scalping him with its grip. The man mewled in pain, but Arthur’s drunk, hungry thrusts didn’t slow.
”Come inside you…” Arthur slurred between grunts. The words then came tumbling from his mouth, loud and urgent; “‘M gonna come inside you.”
Arthur’s last thrusts felt like death throes. He grabbed Kieran’s hips and slammed him into the mattress so hard, so fiercely, he worried his neck would break. Bile stung Kieran’s throat as Arthur filled him with his seed. For a sobering moment, the room stopped spinning, and all that could be heard was the pants of the two men. Finally, Arthur withdrew. The other man whimpered at the sudden loss of fullness.
“I… paid the lady. At the front.” Arthur mumbled. Kieran felt like a prize pig. He couldn’t even be trusted with the changing of money, even though it was his flesh being marked and sold.
Pain bloomed through Kieran’s bones and brain as he shifted upright. He could no longer avoid his reflection. Tears ran down his cheeks, staining his skin like a miserable oil painting. His grey eyes were glassy and lifeless, like a discarded toy. His neck and shoulders were ruddy, marred with red blotches and faded bruises. Most disgustingly of all, his weeping prick stood half-hard in his lap. Arthur turned his back to both Kierans, fixing his pants as he shuffled towards the door.
“Do you live here?” He asked cautiously, his tone precipicing on genuine interest. Kieran shrugged.
“Sometimes, sir.”
“Why only sometimes?”
“I don’t like what I have to do here, sir.”
Arthur twitched. He had already known the answer, and Kieran knew this, too, which is perhaps why he said it in spite of clear instructions to flatter clients. The unavowed fact, so obvious yet so taboo, hung between the men like a miasmic fog. Arthur reached for his jacket and left, escaping the room’s heat.
Kieran stole one last glance at his fragmented reflection. Their eyes met before he ashamedly lowered his gaze, and he felt as if he had been caught staring at a stranger.