warnings: slash, first person, present tense narrative, language, prostitution, chest waxing, the word 'fisting' used generously, faux boundary-baiting tailored for the fanfiction guidelines.

a/n but really though, why not?

Expect A Lot From This Story – Kill Your Friends

Can we talk about anal fisting? I've never had a problem with going above and beyond the idea of 'normal'. You don't get exiled from the Wizarding London at the age of seventeen by toeing the line. Or whatever the proper cliché expression is. No, you do that by living on the extremest side of things.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Anal fisting.

I feel a pang of regret every time I have to bypass that particular check box on my list of services. Then the feeling melts into a misguided dream in which I have a twat.

There's this girl, she's called Tessa and she's one of my few friends in the agency. When she'd finally stretched herself enough to fit her tiny fist in there she called me and we had a bit of a celebration.

It didn't take long to discover that the real battle isn't getting the hand in, rather, it's in getting the thing back out. No one bothers to mention the black hole suction going on up there but I'd like to change that. Consider this an official warning.

Forgive me for getting side tracked, but maybe that's the first thing you should know about what I do. You come to me with rumours that you've picked up on the streets and misconceptions fed to you by Hollywood. The reality of it all is a bit different.

Not all the girls have vaginas the size of a hallway but having a bit of stretch to it isn't at all a bad thing.

For a male, though, it's not so straightforward. I figure the people who can tick the 'yes' box under anal fisting either have a much higher pain tolerance than myself or are descendant from train tunnels.

Hello and good morning. My name is Draco Malfoy and I'm a rent boy.


'Knock, knock, knock'

Actually it isn't so much a knocking sound as it is an eardrum splitting clanging noise. Acrylic nails on a metallic door.

Enter Astoria Greengrass. Resident best friend and faithful alarm clock. We used to be engaged but then I became a whore.

Isn't that always how it goes?

"Draco, for fucks sake, let me in!" she screams. She now makes up for our broken engagement by showing up to my flat in the wee hours of the morning. Used to bring coffee and assorted pastries, doesn't anymore. The harpy.

I can tell you how this exchange is going to pan out before I even extricate myself from the sheets.

First, I'll eventually manage to crawl to the door. Upon opening said door the conversation will go as follows:

Me: "What the hell do you want?" I'll ask, all bleary eyed and vulnerable.

Her: "To save your lazy arse," she'll say, ever the classy aristocrat.

Perhaps she'll lift a hand to slap the back of my head, maybe shoot a stinging hex at me. Then she'll make herself right at home on my sofa, flicking her wand around like she's Glinda the Good Witch.

Me: "Who do you think you are, Glinda the Good Fucking Witch?"

Her: "Who?"

She doesn't watch Muggle telly much. The way she has with cleaning spells though, I never complain. Next I'll make coffee with the really expensive imported beans a client gave me last time she was in town. She will have one cup and I'll drink the other seven. Idle chit chat, the latest gossip from the pureblood community until we finally get to the point of her visit.

Her: "Are you working tonight?" She used to be shy about asking, fidgeting about, eyes on the floor. Now she doesn't care. Glares, even.

Me: Without batting an eye I'll answer, "Of course." Her perfect nonchalant mask will slip just a little and my heart will break just the tiniest bit.

Awkward silence will ensue. I'll make breakfast. Eggs on toast if I'm hungry, cappuccino and a chocolate biscuit if I'm not. She won't eat anything in case my occupation is communicable though food.

Eventually the tension will get to be too much. She will announce that she has work in a few minutes. A quick wave, air kisses and the crack of Disapparation.

It's the same every morning, me pretending that one day she'll be okay with what I do and her pretending that one day I'll stop doing it. It's just a little game we play. What can I say, I'm a sucker for routine.

Armed with this knowledge, I pull myself out of bed and drag my feet to the door. Before I can even get a word in to start our daily dialogue, she forces the door the rest of the way open and hugs me. No announcement of intentions, just wraps her arms around my shoulders like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Good morning, Draco darling," she chirps.

It should be said that I do not use the word 'chirps' lightly. I hate forced diversity even when it comes to language but she honestly chirped. Sounded like a bloody song bird, all happy and cheerful.

How hateful.

"Astoria," I say, apprehensive but willing to fall into our normal routine just the same.

"Your mother requests your presence at Malfoy Manor for afternoon tea the saturday after next." She perches herself on my kitchen counter, wand nowhere in sight but instead clutching a polystyrene cup. Camomile tea, I'd guess, going by the scent.

Well. This is different.

You see, I can count the number of times I have been invited to the Manor since my mother was informed of my occupation on one hand. Mostly because I've only been invited back once. My father passed and Miss Manners would never allow the son to miss the reading of the will.

Moving out of the Manor, she could handle. Leaving Wizarding London, that was fine. Integrating myself into the Muggle world, she understood. Fucking for money, however, she simply could not cope.

Not that I'm offended by this, I understand. But I'm sure you can see why this out of the blue invitation might have. Thrown me.

"Excuse me?" I say, still fully convinced that this is a dream.

"If that time doesn't work she will owl you with three other possible dates." She crosses her legs and brushes imaginary lint away from her hemline. She always look impeccable, all sweet smiles, blonde ringlets and blue eyes. It almost makes me wish I'd stuck it out with her, made a go of the whole marriage thing.

Almost.

Because she has a way with persuasion, I turn around and busy myself with making coffee. There is no way in hell I'll ever go back, no matter what she says. Absolutely not.

"What are you doing?" she asks. I'm assuming she asks because the stupid coffee machine isn't cooperating, choosing instead to make a terrible mess of things. I can't get the filter to fit and the coffee grounds are spilling everywhere. Defeated by an appliance, I give up and push it into the sink.

"I'm going to take a shower," I announce. She huffs and mumbles something about being in the front room.

The scent of her perfume lingers in the air after she's gone. Cashmere and a soft hint of lilies. That's really all it takes, she's already won.

"Aster," I call into the other room. "Let me get my diary, I'm sure saturday after next will be fine."

As expected, she comes bounding back into the kitchen and hugs me. Again. She has her little nose buried into the crock of my neck for a minute before pulling back.

"Draco. Darling," she says, going from ecstatic to punishing in two point five. "You reek of sweat and alcohol. Couldn't you have showered first?"


Astoria is a lovely girl but she's my horrid habit, the one part of the Wizarding world that I can't give up. After I told her that I was a whore I was sure she would never speak to me again but not two weeks later she was back at my flat like nothing had changed.

Two months ago, almost to the day.

That morning I woke up to an incessant buzzing noise permeating my REM state.

At first I was sure it was a byproduct of the pounding between my temples. I rolled over and pulled the duvet over my head in an effort to ignore it. I'd had three appointments the day before and had another that evening, I needed my beauty sleep.

The buzzing persisted. Terrified that it was a client or god forbid, my agent, I flung the sheets off and dashed to the door, tripping over stray laundry and askew furnishings.

There she was, perfectly framed in the intercom screen.

"Did you need something?" I asked into the speaker.

"Let me in." I glanced around the flat. After an incall the night before there were condom wrappers, butt plugs and a red satin corset strewn around for the world to see.

Well, that wasn't good.

"Er, right. I'll buzz you up," I said before running off, hiding the things I could, begging that she wouldn't notice the things I couldn't. Shoving the last few wrappers into the pocket of my robe, I unlocked the deadbolt and left the door open for her.

"Draco. I've missed you," she said by way of greeting.

"Astoria. Would you like coffee, tea?" Between the two of us, I wasn't sure who was more nervous.

"No, thank you." She smiled. Manners beat nerves every time. Worried eyes flitted around and, as if balancing on a tightrope, she ventured further into the room.

"Right." I nodded and followed her, trying my best to heard her into one of the less incriminating areas of the flat. "So, what brings you to my humble abode? Surely it wasn't because you missed little old me."

"Must you?" she asked, I could only assume in reference to my general sarcastic nature. I shrugged and ushered her to the sofa, taking a seat next to her. "I just wanted to check on you. Talk about a few things." She looked so serious, like when Hubble left Katie.

'She was the only one who believed in him, she followed him to California. How could he do that to her.' That kind of serious.

"I'll make some coffee then, shall I?" Her hand clamped down on my thigh, manicured fingernails digging into my skin.

"No. We need to talk, Draco. Is it because of your father? The Dark Lord?"

"No, Astoria. God, no."

"Then why?" Hurt and distrust bled through her tone. In telling her the truth I figured there were only a few possible outcomes:

She chucks me instantly

She doesn't chuck me but the friendship becomes dysfunctional as a result of one of us being a whore

She's okay with it and offers to join in, ends up making better money than I do

She's okay with it and things continue as normal.

Obviously these range from probable to 'no way' to 'really, no fucking way' and the last seemingly impossible. Ah, well. In for a Knut in for a Galleon, as they say.

"I enjoy what I do, Aster," Moisture built up in the inside corners of her eyes."You know I like sex," I said carefully. Her head jerked up and down. Yes she did, no she didn't want to vocalise her acknowledgement. Endearing, another quality commonly attached to her name.

"Finding a decent job in London is next to impossible. This pays better than a temp job or office position."

"If it's about money, you could come help me run the store," she reasoned.

Quick history lesson: Not long after we separated she opened a fashion boutique, a wedding fashion boutique. I didn't think my poor heart could take the irony of working in such a place with my ex fiance.

"Working there would hardly cover my rent, let alone my other expenses," I explained.

"Snob," she retorted. "Are prostitutes even allowed to be snobs?" I shrugged. It was practically a job requirement at this level, but I didn't think that would help the situation.

"Sometimes it isn't about having a reason to do something. It's about not have a good reason not to do it."

After several minutes spent bickering about how ironclad my logic was (or wasn't, as was her position) we got to the actual importance of her visit.

"Are you being safe?" she asked. "You're practically a vector for disease, the job you do, the number of people you see. No on is safe these days, you know but surely you know that some are more at risk than others. It's important to take all the necessary precautions." She trailed off, eyes catching on the pair of knickers hanging off the back corner of the couch.

"Well, that's very kind of you." I said, drawing her attention away from the offending sight (there was just no way to explain away that one). "With everything available these days, vaccinations, free clinics, there really is no need to worry."

"But sometimes that isn't enough," she insisted. "Maybe a trip to St. Mungos-"

"Please, Astoria, relax," I cut her off, "I've already gotten my flu shot."

But that was then, this is now. And now I have two working girls sitting in my kitchen. Tessa and a friend of hers called Angel. Honestly, the tacky names these days.

They've been here for hours, flipping through shiny porn magazines and drinking my good champagne. I've been studiously avoiding them, waxing my chest and organising my underwear drawer.

"Blake," Tessa calls. She, like many people in Muggle London, knows me only by a false name. "Get your scrawny white arse out here!" I call back that I'm busy, coaxing wax residue off with baby oil. That isn't something to be interrupted. "I'll do it for you," she reasons.

I walk out and hand her the flannel. She paws at my chest while Angel explains her predicament.

"See," she says, holding out the magazine for my perusal. "Is it just me or can all the girls in these magazines do it." I flip through the pages and nod, but who even knows what she's talking about. Seems about as bright as a mountain troll.

Exponentially prettier though, in a plastic kind of way.

"Angel is very into fisting these days," Tessa explains. And they say anal is the new black.

"According to all the manuals, if you just keep at it, it will just happen." She sighs wistfully. Our profession is very strange at times. "But it's not exactly romantic, is it? Digging away at my fluffy bits with oiled up fingers for hours on end. My boyfriend would never put it up with that."

She says this and they both turn to stare at me.

Three guesses as to how the rest of my afternoon is spent.

I wash my hands several dozen times after they leave. Partly because I find womanly juices slightly revolting and partly because tomorrow I will be expected to come into physical contact with both my female best friend and my mother. I'm nothing if not polite.


Afternoon tea at one, last minute session at six. It will be a tight fit, but I'm sure I can manage. I've always excelled at dressing in layers. Black boxer briefs, designer jeans, tailored shirt, Versace leather jacket.

Over that I've managed to pull on dress robes in a lovely shade of green. I can't remember where they came from but they look expensive, silver piping and emerald accents. It isn't a particularly comfortable fit but it could always be worse.

My foray into S&M, for instance. By comparison, this is much better.

Astoria is already here, has been for over two hours. One of which she spent griping about my lack of Floo service the other spent exploring my closet. God help me.

"What's this for?" she asks, holding up a set of beads.

I glance up and cringe. "Er, nothing. Put it down, please."

As much as it pains me, I'll have to do my makeup now. Astoria will poke fun and oh, the disdainful looks my mother will give me, but there really is no other option. I'm rubbish at applying mascara in a moving vehicle. Groaning, I make my way into the bathroom.

My cosmetics sit on a shelf of their own. Pencils, powders, creams, moisturisers. If a client was willing to settle for mediocre looks and half-arsed skill with a makeup brush they would stick it out with their spouses, wouldn't they? They are paying for absolute perfection. Nothing too over the top, I am still male after all. But perfect. Porcelain.

By the time I finish Astoria has wondered out of the bedroom. I find her sitting on the floor of my living room with the contents of my bag dumped out before her. Owlish eyes peer up at me. I chew at my lip and do my best to avoid her gaze.

"Draco, what is this?" she asks, a ball gag dangling between her thumb and forefinger.

"Um, that's not important." She continues to pick at the various items taking up residence on my floor. The questions on the tip of her tongue don't go away so I figure I might as well explain.

"Lube and condoms, standard tools of the trade."

"What's the difference," she asks, gesturing to the red wrappers and black.

"Latex and polyurethane. Some people have allergies." She nods. "Spare underwear, boxers and briefs, depending upon the taste of the client. Sewing kit for stray thread or tears, chapstick and lipgloss."

"Gloss?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Men like glossy lips, doesn't take a genius to figure out why." I shrug and add, "Women prefer chapstick." Like that makes it any better. "Compact and mascara for touchups, men and women's deodorant, professionals never let the client leave smelling of the opposite sex."

"Professional?" she interrupts with a snort.

"Yes, professional. I'm educated and have good breeding so I'm expensive. A high class escort. The agency finds my clients and get forty precent of anything I make, excluding tips and travel expenses." It's extremely awkward, explaining it to her. My job has always been an elephant in the room, strictly off limits.

She nods again and I continue. "Tissues, moist towelettes, spoon."

"Why a spoon?"

"You never know when you'll need one." I shrug off the question because it's easier that way. "Then keys bankcard and mobile," I finish.

"And this?" she questions, holding up a pair of tiny metal objects.

"Um, nipple clamps," I murmur, snatching them away from her and shoving them back into the bag.

Sometimes I feel for female prostitutes. According to all the fashion magazines, small handbags are in this season. But you try fitting all of that in a Fendi baguette. For males, no matter the season, the bigger the bag (manpurse, what have you) the less blatantly homosexual. Before I can explain this to her she stands, hand covering her mouth, and runs off the the loo.

That could have gone better.


By the time she's done emptying the contents of her stomach into my toilet we're running late. Lovely, I hate being late. Every time I'm late for an appointment I have to call the agency. They ring the client to let them know. It lowers my pay from the client and raises the cut I give to the agency. It's a fairly unpleasant experience to say the least.

"Are you sure the anti apparition wards will allow me entrance?" I ask, fidgeting as we make our way to our apparition point.

"Yes, Draco," Astoria says, clearly still miffed about earlier. I don't know why, it's not as if I forced her to look in the bag. As I'm about to vocalise my objection to her attitude, she stops short and disappears with a crack. Showoff.

I Disapparate after her.


"Draco, darling," my mother calls as we make our way onto the west side patio.

"Mother," I greet. She and Astoria exchange air kisses. If I was feeling a bit braver I might mention the sexually transmitted diseases that can be exchanged through oral contact. But I don't, for fear that one of them would point out that I would know. And who knows, maybe my occupation has slipped my mothers mind. One can only hope.

Also, I'm a Slytherin. What do you expect?

My mind is digging through the backlog of pureblood etiquette that I haven't quite managed to forget and as far as I can remember we are not allowed to dine outside. Does that extend to afternoon tea, as well? I couldn't tell you so I just stand next to Astoria and wait for someone to tell me.

After years spent in the company of Muggles the tingle of the warming charm seems more potent, painful almost. Or maybe that's just the ten layers of clothing I have on, either way.

Time drags by and I consider the prospects of house-elf bowling or hanging myself, just to pass the time. Survival instinct wins out in the end.

"Can I have one of the elves take your bag for you, Draco?" my mother asks.

"Oh, you wouldn't want to put the poor dears through that, Narcissa," Astoria quips.

"No. Thank you, Mother. But I'd rather like to hang on to this," I say and cling to the shoulder strap a little tighter. I have a feeling that the rest of the afternoon will differ only slightly from that exchange.

Mother leads us inside to the west wing sun room. Tea service is already set up, teeming with arduous warming charms.

As we sit they embark on a conversation about some handbag and rampant consumerism.

"It's not enough for us to just want a purse anymore, is it?" Astoria says, shaking her head. "We have to lust after it, feel sexual satisfaction from the purchase."

My mother chuckles and mentions something about Astoria's gourmet coffee intake. Oh, the hypocrisy.

Personally, I've never equated lust to handbags. But I'm male, maybe I'm missing something. I do like shopping though. Relationships are unstable. An affair with your wardrobe, though. That's forever. Or at least until the media deems your clothing 'last season' and the cycle starts all over.

After a while I decide it might be best to pay attention to the conversation mostly because I hear someone say, "And what do you think about that, Draco?"

As a high class escort part of what you're paying for is my skill as a conversationalist. I've discussed all manner of topics from Nietzsche and Goethe to Florentine architecture. All of my skills in this area dissipate as soon as I'm invited into their conversation.

"Excuse me?" I manage.

"Astoria and I were just discussing the possibility of your business extending into our world." Actually, I'm very impressed. She managed to make 'your business' sound not like an insult but a legitimate venture while at the same time wrapping the words in invisible air quotes. And they wonder where I get it.

"I don't think so, Mother. It's a lovely idea but I'm really quite busy with the clients I have now and the agency might have some trouble with the idea." Firm but vague, to the point without being offensive. And that's why I'm expensive.

"On a trail basis, then. One night, fifteen hundred Galleons." It doesn't matter the experience I have expecting the unexpected, I can't keep the disbelief off my face.

"Are you my pimp now, Mother?"

"Of course not," she scoffs.

"I've done some digging into your enterprise and you seem to specialise in exactly what it is the girl in question is looking for."

"And what is that?" I ask, dreading the answer. There are quite a few things that I specialise in. The idea that my mother has 'done some digging around' in anything is terrifying.

"A boyfriend for hire. The daughter of a friend of a friend is a chronic workaholic," Astoria supplies. "She has to attend a wedding and would like to take a boyfriend to show off to the family."

"She doesn't have time to find one on such short notice and that's where you and your specific talents come in to play," my mother finishes.

Is it just me or is she playing the role of pimp down to the letter? Finding clients, setting up dates without my knowledge, bullying me into doing it. Sounds like a pimp to me. It brings back such pleasant memories.

"And who is this prospective client?" I ask slash spit. (An aside, spitting is rude. But forcing grown adults back into the caustic world of their childhood is also rude. I feel justly warranted.)

"Her name is Emeline Zeigler. She occupies a minor position in the Ministry and works far more than the position demands. Half blood, but what can you do?" Her lip curls slightly in mock disdain. Even after everything that's happened it's comforting that some things never change.

"What will the evening entail? Schmoozing with all manner Ministry folk and a quick shag in the coat closet?" Since that's usually what the Boyfriend Experience consists of and I figure the Wizarding version can't be so different.

"A proper francophone wedding, actually. As for the, ahem, shagging portion of the evening, I'll leave it up to the client to work out the specifics of where and how." Sometimes, I really do love my mother.

"When?" I ask, choosing to ignore the coy smile both she and Astoria were wearing. Evil, the both of them.

"The last weekend of the month." I don't know why people can't just give a date, they have to be all vague about it. I don't want to have to solve a logic puzzle every time I have an appointment. The thirtieth of this month, is that so much to ask?

I pull my diary out of my bag and check to make sure I don't have anything outstanding appointments. I don't. I was planning to take the weekend off. Spa day, expensive espresso and a night out dancing. Maybe shag someone without charging, if the moment leant itself. As I jot down her name, all visions of sex, no strings attached, shatter.

C'est la vie.

"Who is the lucky bride?" I ask some time later. We'd reached the small talk portion of the afternoon. Another fifteen minutes before I can excuse myself and listening to them discuss handbags and dresses is getting deathly dull.

Mother busies herself with the sugar dish and Astoria looks everywhere but at me. Finally, my mother clears her throat to answer.

"Gabrielle Delacour."