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Four

Sundale Inn was somewhat more posh than the usual standard of hotels where their sessions took place. The lobby had peach-tinted marble walls and a high ceiling that reminded Arthur of a cathedral he'd once visited back in his home country. He stared up at the crystal chandelier dangling above him and wondered who would pay for a room at such a classy place just to entertain a whore.

Gilbert, who always came with him, surveyed their surroundings. Then he turned to Arthur and smirked. "What d'you think? Stylish, eh?" Arthur looked away.

"Where's the customer?" he asked, getting right down to it.

"Said he'll be here by seven. We still got five minutes." Gilbert dropped into one of the reddish leather couches near the wall, picked up a magazine, and got comfortable. The receptionist, a small woman with black hair, gave them a suspicious look. Arthur watched her impassively.

After a moment, Gilbert glanced up at him sharply. "Cut it out. You're actin' like a freak. Why don't you just sit down and chill 'til he gets here?" It sounded like a suggestion. But after working under him for four years, and remembering what had happened earlier back at their apartment, Arthur knew better.

So he sat.

Three minutes ticked by in silence.

There was movement in his peripheral vision; Arthur looked up to see Gilbert checking his watch. "Any second now," the albino said in an undertone, then jerked his chin in the direction of the front desk. "Go check in. Reservation's under the last name 'Jones,' and tell her your bro's payin' for the room when he gets here."

"My brother?" Arthur echoed, unable to keep the disgust out of his tone.

Gilbert shrugged, his eyes glinting. "Hey, anything flies as long as it's believable. 'S not like we haven't used this setup before. Now get your ass over there and check in." His voice was still below normal volume, to prevent the woman at the desk from hearing their exchange.

"Couldn't you have said —"

"No." Gilbert's words had more bite to them now. A warning. "It's not your job to ask questions, Art. Go." He didn't use the nickname out of friendliness or camaraderie. He snapped it like a curse.

Holding his tongue, Arthur stood up and began to walk over to the front desk. The idea that he was checking into the hotel with a client that was, for the sake of appearances, his brother was revolting to him. He had five brothers — rather, he had three brothers back in England, along with a useless alcoholic of a father. His mother had divorced his father when he was around six, took the youngest Kirkland boy (who was not Arthur), and left for the States. She'd then apparently found someone else and got married again, having another son in the process. Hence Arthur having five brothers.

Arthur disliked her intensely. He'd often tried to figure out why she'd taken his younger brother — who he barely remembered — instead of him. Had she known she was leaving him in a hellhole when she walked out? Yes, she must have known, or she wouldn't have divorced his father in the first place.

The question was: had she cared?

Probably not, but at this point it was just pointless speculation. Arthur was in the States now, making his living as a whore. He didn't know where his mother and those two brothers were (whose names he didn't even know; he'd forgotten the older one's a long time ago, and he'd never learned the younger one's). He wasn't interested in finding them.

More than anything, he didn't want them to exist.

Because one could say that they were the reason he was so fucked up now.

"Hello, I'd like to check in. I'm waiting for my brother; he should be here shortly," Arthur said politely to the clerk. She gave him that look again, the look that said she didn't trust him one whit but didn't have any evidence against him.

"Do you have a reservation?" she asked stiffly.

"Yes. Under Jones."

Her acrylic nails clacked as she typed the name into her computer. "And how will you be paying?" It was undoubtedly a question she asked every guest staying there, but it sounded like a challenge to Arthur.

"My brother will pay when he gets here."

She sent him what was reasonably close to a glare. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to wait for his arrival. He needs to sign before I can give you the key — Oh! Is that him?" She visibly defrosted, and Arthur turned to see who she was looking at.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a light, even tan and a smile that glowed. His hair, which was the color of ripe corn, was brushed slightly over rimless glasses and one brilliant blue eye. A stray cowlick bobbed above his hairline, rather like an antenna, and as Arthur took in his handsome features, he could almost feel his knees weakening. Because holy Mother of God was the man attractive.

Was he the client Gilbert had said they were waiting for? Arthur almost didn't dare to hope. He shot a glance at Gilbert, who gave a brief, discreet nod before putting down the magazine and getting up to leave. Arthur took this to mean that the session tonight was going to be an all-nighter, which he didn't mind too much, since he didn't have a regular sleeping schedule anyway and the man he would be spending his time with was sex walking on legs (but in a good way; he was leagues above Arthur's vocation). The man, meanwhile, was fumbling through the pockets of his jeans and saying apologetically, "Give me a sec, my wallet's definitely around here somewhere." As Arthur and the receptionist continued to gawk at him, he finally fished it out of his back pocket. "Found it!"

Arthur waited as he paid for the room, and tried not to stare too much. He was obviously American — if his accent was anything to judge by — and his body was incredible. Even though he was wearing a brown bomber jacket over a T-shirt up top, the rounded muscles in his arms and chest were deliciously obvious. And the way his torso tapered down to a slim waist and strong legs that seemed to go on for forever . . . and that finely-shaped ass, curved to make the denim of his jeans cling just so . . . Arthur quickly composed himself before he could start drooling. He had to at least act like the man was his brother until they got up to their room, no matter how much he wanted to jump him then and there, onlookers be damned.

And he was jealous. Jealous of that beautiful body — the perfect model of what Gilbert had been trying to work Arthur into since the beginning of the beginning. Arthur wasn't naturally blessed with muscles or a broad, masculine bone structure. He used to be ridiculously lean, almost anorexic, and hours upon hours of working out had given him the body of a track runner instead of a football player: lithe, wiry, flexible, and undeniably appealing — but still slim, still verging on androgynous. The American's form, on the other hand, exuded manliness and testosterone. He had the body Arthur wanted in more ways than one.

Then, with a jolt, Arthur realized this was probably the most serious reaction a customer had ever gotten out of him without doing anything. Scratch that — it was the most serious reaction a customer had gotten out of him, period. But then again, he'd never had the pleasure of sleeping with someone akin to a god, either.

The man's cheery demeanor began to wear off as they got into the elevator together; he became more and more jittery, his gaze darting around and landing on everything except Arthur. Arthur thought it was rather endearing. He wondered how old he was — he seemed fairly young, probably only a college student at best — and whether it was his first time hiring a prostitute. If it was, well, then that would explain his behavior. Arthur assumed he himself would be playing a role of dominance tonight, whether he topped or not.

When they got to their room, the American seemed to have trouble fitting the card into its slot. Arthur let him juggle with it for about ten seconds, then took pity and eased it out of his hand. He swiped it, pushing open the door while the man looked on sheepishly.

Once the door was locked behind them, Arthur made straight for the bed. It was queen-sized, covered with a thick cream-and-violet duvet that complimented the ivory walls of the room. He sat down on it, fisting his hands in the soft comforter. He liked the atmosphere in the room; all regal and dainty and vanilla and so unfitting of what they were there to do. It was too good for someone in his line of work, for someone who was used to dingy motel rooms and old, cracked plaster walls and layers of dust. Once again, he wondered why the American had paid for such an obviously expensive room for their session.

He finally looked up, and noticed the other man still hovering by the door like he didn't know what to do. Yes, it must have been his first time doing this; somebody more seasoned would probably have grabbed Arthur by the hair and stuffed a cock in his mouth already.

"How do you want to do this?" Arthur asked, keeping his voice low and gentle. Coaxing. Seductive. "Do you have anything specific in mind, or shall I decide?"

The American flushed. Oh, he was so adorable, Arthur thought, amused. And innocent as a kitten pretending to be a full-fledged tom. "I-I don't . . . uh . . ."

"Would you like to top?"

"Yeah . . . if that's okay. I mean, I don't wanna do something if . . ." He raised his hands awkwardly. "If you don't want to." He dropped them again, looking distinctly out of place even though he was almost too beautiful to be human, standing in a room practically meant for royalty.

Arthur very nearly laughed out loud. This had to be the first time a client cared about what he wanted. Oh, the novelty of it. He said, "Don't concern yourself with me. I don't mind bottoming." He gestured at him in a come-hither motion, and the man obeyed, albeit rather cautiously. Arthur, distracted though he was by the other's body moving toward him, couldn't resist adding, "You can relax. I won't bite . . . unless you want me to."

"People request that?" The American wrinkled his brow. He was so unworldly, it was almost refreshing. Arthur was tired of being around dirty-minded, middle-aged businessmen all the time.

"Well, not biting specifically, but some do like it rougher." Why was he talking? That wasn't his job. Shutting himself up, he reached down and, grabbing the hem of his own shirt, tugged it over his head. His ribs weren't as pronounced as they used to be, but they still had Gilbert frowning and prodding at him every now and then as a reminder for Arthur to eat more — all for business's sake, of course. His client, however, didn't seem to mind; he was ogling Arthur shyly, his cheeks dusted an even brighter red than before.

Just to tease him, Arthur tossed his shirt aside, hiked his legs up onto the bed, and spread them as wide as they could comfortably go. He began tracing his fingers along his inseam, stopping just short of actually touching his groin, before running them back in the opposite direction. He let out a breathy little moan for effect. It came naturally, which caught him slightly off guard. He didn't usually get very aroused, especially since he did it on average two or three times a day, but — even though they hadn't properly started yet — this man already seemed to be a lot of firsts for him. He wasn't weary and old and apathetic like any of Arthur's other clients, for one.

Nor did he treat Arthur like a means to an end, for another.

He was watching Arthur with a different expression now. His gaze was still tentative, still hesitant, but something was beginning to surface in his prairie-sky eyes: lust, that familiar, ageless hunger that drove the body to sinful lengths. Lust, a beginning and an end that became Arthur's four years ago. Lust, which had ravished his body and mind that afternoon as he was bound to the bed, claiming and consuming him.

Arthur knew his thoughts were straying too far, which wasn't supposed to happen since whores weren't meant to think. So he regained concentration, grabbed the man by his wrists, and gently pulled him forward. He caught his sharp intake of breath, and relished it. The bomber jacket fell to the floor; Arthur gave another tug, and they spilled across the bed together.

The foreplay was so slow, so tender, so sickeningly sweet and exploratory that they might have been lovers instead of a prostitute and his client. In the past, Arthur was indifferent, mechanical, even though he made sure to put on a good show, and his customers were just as detached and thoughtless as he was. He tried to be like that with the American, but he felt his mask slipping as trembling hands skimmed over his chest, his navel, his hips. There was sincerity in the gentleness, so unfamiliar to Arthur that he almost didn't know what it was. He found himself reacting, his back arching and curving, his body catching aflame as the man's indescribably essential scent filled his nose. His hands grabbed fistfuls of fabric.

He was truly a whore.

They were grinding with a steady, focused rhythm that Arthur had started and now expertly maintained. He remembered his job and unhooked his grasp on the American's T-shirt to push it off, his fingers lingering on the newly-exposed stretch of skin on his chest, toned and firm with his pecs taut just below the surface. Now he was the one who was greedy and insatiable, as if he was nothing but an eager virgin having sex for the first time. It was an intoxicating feeling; up until then, he'd only felt it once and it was when Gilbert found him on the streets and fucked him against a wall in a dark alley, back when Arthur was so clueless and innocent he'd thought he was in love because he'd found somebody willing to touch him.

Lost in the faint memory, he almost didn't have the presence of mind to reel himself back in to take off the rest of their clothes, but he managed to wedge a hand between them. Using it as leverage, he pushed against the other man's sternum, softly forcing him up and off, and mourned the loss of heat as their lower halves moved apart. He wanted it back, wanted to touch. But he couldn't lose his head like this. It wasn't acceptable. Mentally, Arthur drew back, forcing everything back into objectivity.

The nervous look returned to the American's face, joined by something bordering on panic. He snatched his hands back as if he'd been burned — or as if he'd burned Arthur. "D-did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I'm so sor —"

Breathing controlled, Arthur said, "No, it's nothing like that. But we do have to get naked before we can go further, and I need some space for that." The American gave a small, embarrassed grin.

"Yeah, of course, I . . . yeah." He climbed backward onto his knees and kicked off his shoes, removing his socks soon after. Arthur followed suit. He placed a hand across the other man's large knuckles, though, when he moved to undo his jeans, which gave the other pause.

Quickly shimmying out of his own pants and underwear and discarding them, Arthur leaned forward, letting his spine curve at what he knew was a delectable angle, his bare ass raised coyly in the air. He put both hands on the American — one on each powerful thigh — and eased himself forward, looking up into those depthless pools of blue and whispering deliberately, "Let me." Then he took the zipper in his teeth, pulling it down, and tried not to remember the number of times Gilbert had forced him to do this, forced him to practice until his lips were torn and raw and bloody from being caught again and again in the tiny metal tines.

The material of the man's boxers felt damp, heavy, and his erection rubbed against Arthur's nose once the jeans were completely undone. Down here, he smelled hot, musky, excited. It made Arthur's own body stir, which he ignored for the moment as he began to mouth the covered dick in lewd, loose circles, eliciting the expected reaction from his client — a sharp exhale, tensing muscles, hands brushing up his shoulders on their way to grip his hair and press him closer.

But the American let go almost as soon as he'd touched him. Arthur flicked a glance upward, and saw the guilty, apologetic expression on the other's face. Wordlessly, to let the man know that it was okay for him to do what he wanted, he reached up and guided one of the hands back to his head, and felt the fingers curl against his scalp again. Satisfied, he tugged down the elastic band hindering his way, took a deep breath through his nostrils, and plunged the hard cock into his mouth.

His knees were aching from digging into the mattress, and his back creaked a bit, but it wasn't anything new. Arthur merely tuned out the discomfort like it was a conversation he didn't want to hear. He knew it wouldn't matter until his shoulder blades began hurting, and that usually took a good amount of time.

The man's pre-cum lay thickly on his tongue. Arthur didn't much like the taste of it; then again, it meant nothing to him. It wasn't his place to complain, and he had had much more than just the beginnings of pre-sperm in his mouth before, so he continued working his mouth up and down the length, shutting his eyes and letting his mind drift a little to distract himself. Worming his finger through a belt loop, he gave a pointed yank. The American caught on and clumsily shucked the jeans off while trying to keep Arthur in contact with his dick. The head of it rammed up into the back of Arthur's throat, making Arthur's eyes water in pain.

Throwing his pants and boxers aside, the young man began apologizing again as Arthur jerked back with a cough and a mild glare. They were both naked now, and as the other continued to ramble, Arthur took a few seconds to skim his scrutiny over his body. He almost shook his head in disbelief; he hadn't thought it would be possible to tan so evenly.

"Perhaps we should move on," he said, cutting off the senseless babble of words pouring from the American's mouth. Then he swore inside his head when he realized he'd forgotten to bring lubrication. An amateur's mistake, one that Arthur really shouldn't have made.

Well, he had no choice but to improvise. He'd learned over the years that spit worked at the start, but quickly became ineffective as it dried. He needed something that would be longer-lasting, something like hand lotion, which — he knew — most inns provided in skimpy sample bottles. Getting up, Arthur went to look for some in the bathroom. He spotted what he was searching for in a little woven basket next to the sink and returned to his client with his find, deftly twisting off the cap as he went and squeezing a dollop into his palm.

Arthur rubbed the lotion in his hand for a bit to warm it up, then spread it onto his fingers. He asked the other man (who had been watching attentively, biting his lip as if he'd realized that this was really going to happen and that he was truly going to fuck a prostitute), "Do you need a condom?" Gilbert usually showed him the blood test results beforehand, but he hadn't had time today because he'd been so intent on giving Arthur what he deserved, and Arthur had the impression that his client wouldn't lie about it anyway.

He received a blink and a "No . . . I'm clean" in reply.

"Good, that makes matters simpler, then." Arthur placed the lotion bottle on the nightstand and climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself so that he was on all fours, his ass on full display. He looked back at the man, whose gaze was pinned to the curve of Arthur's backside and the delicate pucker of his hole. "Would you like to prepare me, or would you prefer to watch me do it myself?"

"Um . . ." Arthur saw that he was at a loss.

"Why don't you watch for now? You can always try it later tonight, if you want to," he offered. Looking relieved, the American nodded, and sat back on his haunches to watch as Arthur prodded at his own entrance and slipped two slick fingers past the ring of muscle.

A shudder raced down his spine, and he let his head fall forward to rest on his forearm. He forced himself to remember that this wasn't about his own pleasure, and instead of probing for his prostate like he did when he masturbated, he swirled his fingers around in a circular motion, coating his inner walls with lotion. He made sure to smear plenty on the outside too, around his anus, to reduce unwanted friction later. After adding another finger, his movements became rougher; he focused on loosing himself up for penetration and hissed softly into the pillow when his fingernail accidentally scraped against his prostate.

Finally, he was satisfied that he had been stretched enough. Raising himself back up, Arthur turned around, grabbed the lotion, and tipped more into his hand. This he massaged onto his client's cock, before he bent over again and said quietly, "I'm ready. You can put it in." He braced himself and closed his eyes as he felt the American push in hesitantly. The angle felt awkward, so Arthur widened his legs and adjusted his hips a little — which made the man behind him make a desperate sort of sound and begin moving inside him in short, eager thrusts.

And, somehow, he managed to slam into Arthur's prostate with each movement.

Drowning in the sensation, Arthur made a mental note of his exact position, and filed it away in his mind for future reference before allowing the pleasure to wash out everything else. He was only faintly aware of the whimpers and moans that escaped him, and didn't even care when the lotion turned out to be more sticky than smooth and caused his opening to burn almost as soon as they began.

At some point, Arthur was on his back, and he felt the American's whisper brush against his ear as their bodies molded together, "What's your name?"

Arthur breathed in response, mainly to humor him a bit, "It's not important . . . tell me yours . . ."

"But that's not fair —" The American gasped when Arthur simultaneously bit him on the throat and rolled his nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Dammit — it's — Alfred —"

"Alfred," repeated Arthur, testing it out. It was a round, wholesome word, surprisingly saccharine, like candy melting in his mouth. "Alfred."

This proved to be both of their undoing. Alfred's breathing reached a crescendo, and he practically flattened Arthur against the bed as he threw the last of his strength into his climax, pulling out just in time for his release to splash all over Arthur's abdomen. Absorbed as he was in the other man's pleasure, Arthur wasn't used to getting off himself during his sessions — and found, to his surprise, that the sperm painting his stomach was not all Alfred's. He couldn't remember the last time he'd come while playing the role of a whore. It felt . . . unexpectedly good.

They lay in silence, catching their breath. As he waited for Alfred's refractory period to pass, Arthur rolled away from under him, and absently tugged the covers over his upper body, taking no notice of the cum now crusting on his skin. "Alfred," he said, feeling strangely pensive. Alfred shifted.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing is fair."

Puzzlement now. "What?" said Alfred. Arthur felt the mattress dip as he sat up behind him. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Closing his eyes, Arthur left it at that.