This is the first of three installments in the story Porcelain Rose. It is a Kurtofsky and for this chapter, the only warnings are language. There are minor spoilers from season two of the show, but it focuses mainly on what is occurring at the time the story takes place.
Also, The Blooming Rose is a brothel used in Dragon Age II. I do not own it, but the name seemed fitting.
That being said, please enjoy this first installment!
Dave strode into the little brothel like he owned the place. Hell, with the money he planned to spend there tonight, he might as well have. It was an admittedly quaint little place, although elegant. There were a few patrons seated, their boys on their laps, arms curled around necks like property. Well, they were, for the night anyways. Still, grandeur and rose-tinted glass aside, it was still plain to see that it was no more and no less than its most crude name; the Blooming Rose was a whorehouse.
It was an interesting name, he thought, considering the clientele and the boys themselves. If he was trying to psychoanalyze it, the name would probably come down to the term 'deflowering' and how every single one of the boys looked like the most innocent of virgins. They were all small in frame, eyes large and doe-like, and looked as though they should still be learning civics in high school, not peddling their bodies for money. Psychoanalysis aside, the real reason for the naming of the brothel was probably far more simple than that. The owner, more than likely, thought the name sounded pretty, pretty enough for people to be drawn in and pay good money to fuck their brains out into some twink.
Bash it as he may, though, that was the exact reason Dave was there. He wanted to get his rocks off, and he wanted someone small and vulnerable to do it with. And the boys at the Blooming Rose were just his type.
He had been to gay brothels all over the United States, and some in Europe, for that matter. Although high-class wasn't exactly his first priority in most things, it was definitely one of the more important qualities he looked for in that particular domain. Besides, he had money to blow with his job as a psychiatrist (ironic, considering he had so many problems himself).
Rather than staying in one place to conduct his business, Dave chose to base his clientele all over the United States, and, on some choice occasions, Europe. And nothing compared to slamming your cock into some thin, little slut after a grueling day of helping someone work through their problems, when you can't even begin to sift through your own.
"What's your pleasure?" asked a suspicious-looking man as Dave walked farther in. Stopping, he looked the man over, taking in his appearance. He had one streak of gray through his deep chocolate hair and dark eyes that sparkled in the lighting of the room.
Adjusting his tie, Dave replied, "I want your best, and by that, I mean the prettiest. I want him to know what he's doing, though. I don't have time to teach some tramp. And I want him with a little... spice. Think you can do that?" His order was rather specific for a whorehouse, and the man quirked his eyebrow. He rubbed his fingers together, showing that such a specific demand would cost extra, and Dave pulled out a thick roll of fifties and hundreds, placing it in the shifty man's hand as a reply. One nod was exchanged.
"I think we have just what you're looking for. We will have one of our employees take you to a private room which you may occupy for as long as you desire. Your...order will be up with you shortly."
"Send some scotch up with the whore."
"Of course," the man said with a curt grin.
And with that, the psychiatrist was lead upstairs by one of the employees of the club. It was an exquisite room with king sized, four-poster bed in the middle. It was adorned in a soft, white duvet and at least a dozen pillows. There was a high-backed chair in the corner, a bucket of ice resting on the table just next to it. The lights were on a wheel to adjust brightness, and Dave twirled it around, the room darkening so there was only a dull glow. As he ventured farther into the room, he saw a rosewood-trimmed sofa with small pillows. Through a small room was bathroom, complete with a clawed, porcelain bathtub and large mirrors paneling the walls. There was a closet just to his left, slightly ajar, and he expected there to be several costumes along with a chest of some sort that contained various sex toys and bindings.
After he found the room to his liking, Dave took off his suit coat and laid it down on the back of the chair. Kicking off his shoes, he began loosening his tie before he heard a soft knock on the door. "Come in," he said, and he heard the door opening and closing behind him. "What's your name?"
There was a moment of silence, the only sound being someone setting a tray down on a small table. And then came the voice that nearly made Dave's heart stop. It had been years since he had heard that sweet, high voice, and his reaction was the same as it was in high school. One little uttering of "Porcelain," was just enough to make his palms slick with sweat and his heart start to pound.
Yet another moment of silence passed, and it seemed like ages before Dave accumulated enough courage that he could turn around. There was a soft clink and the sound of liquid splashing into the bottom of a glass.
And then it happened. He caught sight of Kurt for a moment, and his head was bowed as he poured some scotch into a short glass and then plucked an ice cube from a small, steel bowl he had brought up with him as well. Kurt's eyes turned up towards him slowly, starting to hold out a glass to him when his eyes flicked over his face. In that instant, in a flash of obvious fear, Kurt dropped the glass from his hand and backed towards the door. Dave wasn't sure if he should approach him, but then came Kurt's soft whimper that warned him to stay back, and so he did.
Why was he here? Well, of course he knew why he was here, but... Of all the people that could have come to this place, it had to be him. It had to be David Karofsky, asking for someone who looked so specifically like him. Of course. It was just Kurt's luck, wasn't it?
He must look like an idiot. Standing in a tight shirt that hung just off his shoulder, pants that were nearly too tight even by his standards, and a pair of knee-high boots. He looked like a fucking prostitute, which...that's what he was. Granted, he often preferred the flowery name of 'courtesan', but how much rose-tinted lipstick could you apply to this career choice to make it any less despicable, any less attractive?
Granted, it had never been a choice for him, or at least not one that had been made by him. Maybe he should have never left Blaine, and he wouldn't be in this disaster, but that was water under the bridge by this point. Especially now that the boy who had stolen his first kiss was standing just a few feet from him, staring at him in disbelief. Then again, if anyone he knew in high school was working as a prostitute, Santana Lopez included, he would probably have a similar look of shock on his face.
"What are you doing here?" he asked finally, his voice warbling a little as he spoke. His arms were snaked around his waist, crossed over his stomach, and his head was still bowed a little though he could see Dave if he tilted his gaze up a little.
There was silence for a moment before the other man's voice came a little more even, a slight chuckle in his voice. "Y'know...I was gonna ask you the same thing, Hummel." The response, the sharp edge of humor in his voice, it all put Kurt in a foul mood. He unfolded his arms, pushing himself from the door and looking up at the boy who had made his first few years of high school Hell.
"Oh, what an intuitive question, Karofsky. I'm really impressed. Did you dig that gem of a response out of the closet you hid in all through high school?" he retorted, voice now holding a dangerous edge to it. He almost regretted saying it, noticing as Dave's expression dropped slightly at the mention of high school. But he had no remorse, not really; he was far too embarrassed trying to defend his last scrap of honor.
"Yeah? Well, at least I'm not fuckin' dudes for money. That's really fuckin' pathetic, Fancy."
"Not near as pathetic as having to pay just so you can get laid."
The harsh exchange of words ended the moment Kurt so something crack in Dave's face. The angry boy who couldn't properly put the 'ing' suffix on the end of the word faded away, and what stood in his wake was the same boy who had managed to choke out an apology in the hallway before Kurt went into French class. "...Karofsky?" he asked, his tone softened considerably as the anger melted away from him.
Silence settled on the room as Kurt looked up at the larger man, just now noticing his dark designer suit coat on the chair and his loose plum tie. His shoulders were more slumped, and the smaller boy watched intently as his hand raked through his slightly longer hair. He had thinned only slightly since high school and he looked far better than Kurt's memory or his humiliation-induced rage could see. For the first time, it occurred to Kurt that Karofsky must have been more than just successful after he left McKinley, unlike him. His mouth grew dry at the thought; Karofsky, who he had always thought was this idiot jock, had made a comfortable living while Kurt, with dreams of Broadway or Vogue, had ended up selling his body.
"Look," came the larger boy's deep voice, jarring Kurt from his thoughts, bringing him back to the reality of the situation. "I bought you for the night, and I'm not gonna sit here with you, talkin' about who's more pathetic than who. It doesn't really matter, 'cause we're both pretty fucking sad. Now, I didn't ask for you, specifically, but you're what I got. And I guess you do kinda fit my criteria, so here's how this is gonna work. I'm gonna fuck you senseless, get my money's worth, and you're gonna do your job. That's it. All it is is business. I'll treat you like I've treated the others, and you treat me like all those other guys you let poke you in the ass. Simple."
Kurt's mouth formed into a curt smile, tilting his head in agreement to the proposition that the other man had made. It had been vain for him to think, for even the slightest of moments, that Karofsky might have developed some sort of conscience after high school along with his career. He should have known better, considering the place that they were in. The Blooming Rose. A whorehouse. Karofsky wasn't all too different from the scared, closeted boy he had known throughout his high school career. Instead of showering him in cold slush now, he was showering him in his filthy money. But money earned by doing what? Kurt didn't dare ask. That was hardly his place as a whore.
The courtesan straightened up, a smile painted on his lips as he laid a hand delicately on Karofsky's shoulder, his fingers tracing down the broad bone, over the toned muscles. He watched the taller boy's eyes soften a little, then felt a large hand cupping his supple waist, a thumb gently caressing over the skin there.
Leaning up, in a voice as delicate as rose petals fluttering to the ground, Kurt whispered, "What is your pleasure, sir?"